Now and Yesterday

by Stephen Greco

  Will took one of the strips from Luz—the one she had been looking at, with Danville Tan.

  “Excuse me,” he said, summoning the saleslady. “Does this come in both flat and semigloss?”

  “All of these come in flat, semigloss, and high gloss,” said the saleslady, stepping over.

  Will gave the saleslady the dimensions of the room and she calculated the amount of paint needed, as well as the price.

  “Eight gallons? That’s insane,” said Will.

  “I think you’re going to need two coats,” said the saleslady.

  “I could get to Paris for that kind of money.”

  “This is a premium product, sir. Now, I can show you some other choices. . . .”

  “No, no thanks,” interrupted Will. “We want the best—’cause we’re, you know, us.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sometimes after a long day crammed with work and socializing, Peter would come home, sit quietly in his darkened living room, and listen to music on his iPhone. This was the extension of an older habit, of flopping down on the daybed and watching TV or listening to music on the stereo, in an effort to decompress—though somehow the intimacy of listening by way of the phone and a pair of earbuds, combined with sitting up, helped make the experience more of what Peter was looking for: a reconnection with his deepest thoughts and feelings, which had become distant during the day.

  Thus, after a day of serving clients by looking at the world and interpreting its signs, this late-night listening habit was more a journey of the soul than research into entertainment culture. It made sense to him that listening, in the current age of looking and being looked at, would afford a pathway to the self as direct as any he had followed since college, a practice as serious, and successful, as anything spiritual he had ever tried, like yoga and meditation. So around midnight, after settling into one of his pair of oversized armchairs, dressed, as he did that winter, in sweatpants and a hoodie with the hood up, with a vodka he kept on the little Alvar Aalto table next to him, he would flip through his library of tunes and enter a meditative zone that allowed him to see how precariously yet deliciously he lived on the border between incompleteness and completeness: how his current state of constant longing for a boyfriend mordantly chafed the satisfaction he felt—or was it simply relief?—at having come this far in life without having gone broke or completely compromised his values. Often, a scented candle was involved. That winter, after a favorite Diptyque Cyprès burned out, Peter tried a Belle Fleur candle that Jonathan gave him, Kyara Clove, which he didn’t like at first: too heavy with spice and leather, too strenuously opulent in a cliché, so-called Oriental way. But then he decided that Kyara Clove was complex and valid, and used the candle a lot. He’d sit there, feeling the room’s scent and shadows, listening and thinking, and sometimes he’d fall asleep, and at four or five o’clock find himself still in the chair, and then get up and go to bed.

  His thoughts during these sessions were sometimes about the past, though never about regret. There were surprisingly few thoughts about Harold, which was ironic, since the man had died not five feet away from where Peter sat. Instead, the main thrust was about the future—how where he came from was leading to where he was going. Where he could go was still thrilling to Peter: to discover a new city or violin sonata, or revisit a favorite city or violin sonata and now see more in it; to feel the sun again at the end of winter or a chill late in summer, and find the sensation in these feelings even greater than before. Also, to find the next lover and possibly a sensational love—which were possibilities that for a long time seemed a betrayal of Harold, despite Harold’s explicit approval of them, expressed one day in the hospital, not long before coming home for the last time.

  “Peter, I want you to find another boyfriend, after I am gone,” he said.

  “Now, that’s ridiculous,” said Peter, as he continued removing dead flowers from an arrangement that someone had brought to the hospital room. Performing care partner duties helped him get through the ordeal of slowly losing the man who meant everything to him.

  “I mean it,” said Harold. “And I want you to remember I said so. You’re gonna need somebody to go dancing with, and I want you to keep dancing.”

  “We don’t need to talk about this now,” said Peter. In fact, Harold was a month away from dipping under eighty pounds, two away from dementia, and three from his final, labored breath. Why was Harold talking about dancing, anyway? The last time they had danced together was at a friend’s house, the previous winter; Harold had already lost some weight, mysteriously, and everyone said it looked good on him, with the unspoken hope that the compliment would function as a talisman.

  “Still, I’m saying it now, while I still can,” said Harold. Then he faked a cough and made an extravagantly frail-looking Traviata gesture.

  “Oh, brav-o,” said Peter, clapping slowly.

  So where was the next boyfriend? wondered Peter. Why was he taking so long to arrive? How near was he? What was he doing right now? These thoughts were recurring incessantly, especially at night, when he was alone. Unlike a lot of nostalgic literature that Jonathan and his crowd took as gospel, Peter’s late-night contemplations expressed a desire not to recapture an old dance but simply to keep dancing. The future had always been golden for Peter, especially since his youth had not been particularly golden, which meant he’d never had anywhere to go but up. He’d often thought himself lucky never to have been particularly cute. He knew that defining one’s self by youthful beauty and trading on such things was a trap he’d have been too weak or stupid to avoid. Cuteness then would have meant dealing with fading cuteness now, a drama few can sidestep, if that is their lot. No, his bond with the future was unblocked even by nostalgia, and his chief thoughts now that the present was so golden were about savoring the glow by sharing it with someone. That seemed the best way to use the gifts he’d been allowed at his age—not simply the dark hair and flat stomach, but old age itself and the taste to go on dancing. It was some kind of eternal dance, he realized, that he’d consecrated his whole life to, after emancipation from a fairly inert upbringing in the ’50s and ’60s, and then immersion, upon arrival in Ithaca in the early ’70s, in something called “the movement,” which went far beyond politics, to the body itself and the fullness of its moments. His life was still the most beautiful dance floor, not glimpsed from sidelines patrolled by memory, through bursts of sparkle and clouds of mist, but experienced right at the center, the deathless anthem soaring, faces of God dazzling, day after day after day. How could anyone experience the repletion of such a thing, in mere time, alone?

  Why wasn’t Tyler it? Why hadn’t Nick worked out? Where was the man, yet unknown, perhaps, but still so palpable during those late-night séances, whom Peter could almost reach out and touch, and see smiling at him; the man with whom he could go on discovering life, not just a companion for picnic suppers on rolling lawns in the Berkshires during summer and black-tie premieres in town during the winter, but a fellow shooting star with whom to race to the end of the universe and back? Answers were easy—Nick opted out of that approach to life, and Tyler, though seductive, was still faking it—but answers told nothing. Music, on the other hand, told everything. That’s where Mr. Right was appearing, for the moment, in all his theoretical, wacky-‘n’-wonderful, love-hate/right-wrong /inevitable-impossible glory. (He’s out there somewhere, maybe just around the corner . . . !) That winter, for when theoretical Mr. Right was making him happy, Peter had Sondheim’s “Remember?” quintet, from the original London cast recording of A Little Night Music, and Cole Porter’s “You’re the Top,” by Jean Turner with Stan Kenton, on Anything Goes: Capitol Sings Cole Porter to listen to; he had Trisha Yearwood’s “Hearts in Armor” and Patsy Cline’s “She’s Got You,” for when Mr. Right was making him sad; and he had things like Milton Nascimento’s “Dancing,” Bill Laswell’s “Ethiopia/Lower Ground,” and Serdar Ortaç’s “Kabahat” for when he wanted to celebrate simply living on the sam
e planet as his theoretical guy. Depending on how deep the hole went on a given night (Maybe he’s not out there . . . !), there was also Gilberto Gil’s “Réquiem Pra Mãe Menininha Do Gan-tois,” Trey Songz’s “Can’t Help But Wait,” and Gergiev’s reading of Rachmaninoff’s Second Symphony. Alanis Morissette’s “Uninvited” or “Another Winter in a Summer Town,” from Grey Gardens, generally meant that things had gotten too deep (We all deserve happiness, don’t we . . . ?). And if it came to slow movements from Beethoven string quartets or vocal music by Poulenc and di Lasso, the following morning would definitely bring a kind of spiritual hangover, quite apart from the vodka.

  Yet listening this way helped Peter achieve a sense of sheer tenderness and vulnerability that eluded him during the workday. It functioned as a kind of purification, or preparation for something. It kept him primed and clean for love or whatever. And that winter he decided he would be happy even with a little whatever.

  A week later, Peter hosted another party at his house. Again, it was drinks and hors d’oeuvres for forty. Will was there, too, only this time as a guest—a guest whose familiarity with the kitchen and desire to be helpful by opening wine led several people to ask Peter discreetly if he had snagged a new boyfriend. Will had come alone, though Peter had explicitly said he might bring someone, and he stuck around after the rest of the gang had left, to help Peter clean up. When they were done, Will asked if Peter wanted to smoke a joint with him. Surprised and delighted, Peter said yes, so they grabbed their coats and some matches and an ashtray, poured two vodkas, and stepped into the garden.

  It wasn’t too cold outside—and anyway, the chill made a nice change from three hours of indoors. They sat at a wrought-iron table near the black post lamp that switched on during nighttime hours, the light from which seemed to tint the entire garden in mi-croshades of mousy sepia.

  “I can’t wait until spring,” said Peter, as they lit up. “During the day you can smell it coming.”

  “Mm-hmm,” said Will, taking a puff.

  “You can’t imagine how lush and wonderful it gets back here,” said Peter. “The leaves make all this noise; the city sounds filter through them. . . .”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Right now, you can’t even see, back here. That planter is brick red,” said Peter, pointing. “The siding is green.” He paused and there was silence. “What is your coat, blue?”

  “Sort of a dusty, dark blue.”

  “The colors are hidden, in full view.”

  “Interesting.”

  The garden, as usual, was quiet. They passed the joint back and forth, relighting when they had to, and started on the vodkas. Unlike the front of the house, a simple brick Federalist façade that was kept as originally built, in compliance with the city’s landmark preservation laws, the back of the house showed a bit of fun, with tastefully designed windows, porches, and balustrades that were anything but original, on both Peter’s level, the parlor floor, and those of his landlady, the second and third floors.

  “Did you and your partner used to have parties out here?” asked Will.

  “Not really,” said Peter. “When we moved in, the porch and back door weren’t even there. She put that in a few years ago. There used to be a weird fifties picture window there. To get to the garden, you had to go through the hallway inside, downstairs, out that door.” Peter pointed to the garden door, which gave onto a small sunken patio paved with brick.

  “But I have been using the garden a lot recently,” continued Peter. “Last summer we had tons of parties out here—well, four or five.”

  “Yeah?” said Will.

  “And she never comes down here, except to garden. And the people who live on the garden level are never in town. So I like to tell people I live alone in a private house with my live-in gardener.”

  “Nice.”

  More silence. At a relaxed pace they took hits of the joint, savored sips of vodka. Peter noticed that Will squinted appealingly when he inhaled.

  “One year, the people who live there,” said Peter, indicating the three-story former garage building that abutted the small carriage house on the other side of the fence at the back of the garden, “decided to put a giant HVAC machine right behind this fence, to cool their entire building.”

  “Hmm,” said Will, taking a peek at the spot, over his shoulder.

  “It was as big as a motherfucking Buick and sounded like a plane taking off. Seriously—constant noise! Forget the birds; we couldn’t even hear ourselves talking back here. We were not happy. He and his wife live on the top floor—see the terrace?—and he has a theatrical prop business on the first and second floors. Anyway, we complained nicely, my landlady and I, and they were like, ‘Who says the backyard has to be so damned quiet?’ Which pissed me off, right? Then I got all the people on this block, all these gardens, to sign a letter—and these are all rich white people here, who own these houses. Still nothing. Then I got the city involved. Hello! They sent inspectors, noise consultants. And then one day a huge crane comes and plucks the unit up and takes it away.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. They relocated the thing on the roof, in a sort of padded shell. And I gather it was hugely expensive for them to reinforce the roof, which is why they tried to put it down here in the first place.”

  Will was looking at Peter in a way that Peter couldn’t diagnose.

  “I have this thing about quality of life,” said Peter. “I’m sort of a crank that way.”

  “I think it’s awesome,” said Will.

  He asked about some of the people he’d met at the party. Peter explained who was gay and who wasn’t, who was in a relationship and who wasn’t.

  “The white-haired guy?” said Will.

  “Straight,” said Peter.

  “Really?”

  “I know.”

  “But those boots . . . !”

  “He’s a trend forecaster. What can I say?”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Uh, only when he steals from the right people.”

  Will laughed.

  “You were funny tonight,” said Peter.

  “I was?” said Will.

  “People were in stitches over that stroller mom stuff.”

  “Did it sound too mean?”

  “It certainly did.”

  “Oh, good.”

  They laughed. The joint was gone and they’d finished their vodkas. The night suddenly felt colder.

  “Thank you, fresh air,” said Peter.

  “Brrrr,” said Will.

  “Go in?”

  “Sure.”

  Inside, before Peter even had a chance to ask whether Will would have another drink, Will, at the freezer, was asking if he should pour them both another vodka. His comfort in his kitchen thrilled Peter. Drinks in hand, they installed themselves in the oversized armchairs, which faced each other.

  “You know, I was sitting here just the other night, thinking about you,” said Peter.

  “You were?” said Will. “Thinking good things?”

  “I would say so, yeah.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I grasp the immensity of you,” said Peter. “And that’s not usually a place I find myself in, with people.”

  “You mean—you grasp other people’s immensity more easily than you do mine?” said Will.

  Peter mimed dry amusement with half a grin.

  “Other people are not so immense,” he said with deliberate slyness. “Dope.”

  “Funny, I don’t feel immense. In fact, working at the magazine makes me feel really, really small. Everybody there has such a big idea about themselves.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “I’ve done two interviews. I think people like my ideas. Sometimes it’s hell. You know.”

  “But the egos?”

  “Exactly—the egos.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Peter. “Print will be over shortly and then you can do something better.”

&n
bsp; Will appeared to take the remark as a witticism, but Peter instantly saw how foolish it was.

  “I’m sorry,” said Peter. “That was a stupid thing to say and not true. It’s a good magazine.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Will, getting out of the chair and heading toward the bathroom. As he passed Peter, he gave the older man’s hair an affectionate tousle.

  Holy shit, thought Peter. Is this really going where I think it may be going? Now that intimacy might be a real possibility, it seemed scarier than before.

  When Will returned, they began speaking of Jonathan. And as they sat, and Will crossed his legs man-style, ankle to knee, Peter noticed what he hadn’t been able to see all night, while Will was standing or out in the garden: that he was wearing low-cut white athletic socks with his sneakers, which revealed a few inches of muscular ankle and lower leg, between the top of the sock and the hem of his jeans. Talk about hidden in full view! He looked sturdy, thick, but what of the rest of him? As hairless as the leg? As they spoke, part of Peter’s brain began executing some kind of 3-D modeling or mental cloning program, to determine the form of Will’s other body parts—feet, ass, lower back, armpits, chest—from the parts Peter could actually observe.

  “So he’s doing OK?” said Will.

  “Sorry, what?” said Peter.

  “He’s responding to the treatment?”

  “Yes, yes. I mean, it’s hard on his body. He’s pretty weak, lost a little weight. But he’s working. That’s the main thing.”

  “Good.”

  “He’s working on a new film.”

  “About Connor Frankel . . .”

  “Yes—oh, right, he was there that night. Anyway, he and I keep talking about traveling somewhere exotic together, a big getaway, but he’s so focused on getting this film done. As he should be.”

  Peter was about to launch into a thought about work being the ultimate therapy, and the way Jonathan was approaching this film—basically, talking on camera until he died—then he thought better of it.