Our Young Man

by Edmund White

  That night neither of them could sleep from the pain behind their earlobes. The man had said the tattoos would scab over in a day, and the whole thing had taken less than an hour. It was the last burst of warm weather and they strolled over to a café on MacDougal that was open all night. As they were coming home, they ran into Pierre-Georges, who was with one of his older tough guys.

  “Thanks for calling to say you were back,” Pierre-Georges said snidely, after the cursory introductions in which he mentioned only Guy’s and Kevin’s names.

  “So where are you coming from?” Kevin asked brightly. “Boots & Saddle, or, as we say, Bras & Girdle?”

  “Ha-ha,” Pierre-Georges said as words, not a laugh; he was clearly irritated. The overweight trick, pockmarked and reeking of beer, put his arm around Pierre-Georges’s waist as if Pierre-Georges might go off with his friends—or maybe to steady himself. “We were at Ty’s, if you must know.” Then to Guy: “What’s with the stubble? The long hair? The bandage?”

  “I just got back today. As you suggested, I’m trying for a new image. Stubble—something hypermasculine. Pietro Whatsit in Milano was all stubble in the Armani défilé and all the photographers went crazy over him.”

  “You might have consulted me before you took such a drastic step—and the bandage?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I nicked myself. Je me suis blessé en rasant.”

  “You were shaving behind your ear? Both of you?” because he’d registered that Kevin had a bandage in the same place. “You don’t shave at all, I suspect,” he said to Kevin as a reproach.

  The trick looked startled by the few words Guy had said in French. New Yorkers were used to Spanish, at least the Puerto Rican kind, which sounded normal if substandard to them, rapid-fire and familiar, especially when English words were constantly dropped in. French, however, startled New Yorkers. It was a serious grown-up language, and New Yorkers suspected Parisians considered themselves their equals if not their superiors. Pierre-Georges didn’t want to lose his trick, who just as easily might have lurched off into the night, heading back to the bar for a second strike, though Ty’s had looked pretty much fished out.

  “They’re tattoos,” Guy said. “Tiny ones behind the ear.”

  “Chic,” Pierre-Georges whispered with awe instead of exploding. “Come along,” he said to the trick; he obviously didn’t know his name. Pierre-Georges lurched forward for air-kisses on both of Guy’s cheeks.

  When they were out of earshot, Kevin said, “He’s weird.”

  “You mean rude? Don’t imagine he ever approves of my boyfriends. French, Spanish, American—he’s rude to all of them.”

  Kevin found being one of many was troubling, not reassuring as Guy had probably intended. “Does he have any other clients?”

  “Two. Both French. But since everyone knows me and likes me, he doesn’t book them often. Poor guys.”

  “How does he survive?”

  “He’s signed some very lucrative contracts for me, and my commercials keep bringing in big residuals for months. And remember a manager gets a bigger slice of the pie than an agent.”

  “So you’re really his cash cow. Is that why he’s so possessive? Or is he in love with you?”

  “You saw the kind of brute he goes for. No, let’s just say he’s my Chris, not in love but jealous anyway.”

  They were sitting on their stoop, speaking in low voices, watching these huge behemoth American cars lurch by. (There was a stop sign on their corner.) A tall, prissy young man strode by, belting out show tunes to himself at midnight. Oh, he was wearing earphones, Guy noticed, and probably had no idea how loud he was singing. It was an old one, “New York, New York, it’s a wonderful town, the Bronx is up and the Battery’s down.” The man’s voice was operatic, his diction was as fruity as an old diva’s, and his pitch was wobbly. Guy thought, These absurd showbiz queens are as much a part of New York street life as sirens, steam from manholes, or ghostly Asian deliverymen ferrying chop-suey-to-go on unlit bikes going the wrong way.

  The next morning Guy and Kevin pulled off their bandages and Guy applied antibiotic cream to their tattoos. Lucie came by for coffee.

  “I like your new look,” she said to Guy. “Stubble, jeans, and a wife-beater.”

  “Is that what you call a débardeur?”

  “Yes, or a Guinea T-shirt.”

  “That’s a riot,” Guy said. “A wife-beater.”

  “And you, sweetheart?” she said to Kevin. “Is it true you’re going to try modeling?”

  “No, Pierre-Georges said I was too short and not virile enough and not a perfect size-forty.”

  Lucie said, “I guess compared to the thugs he goes for, big smelly guys with guts. So what are you going to do?”

  Guy listened attentively to Kevin’s answer. So often the unspoken etiquette of the couple forbade direct questions and clear answers and an outsider’s chance inquiry was more likely to flush out plans than any discussion (or silence) between lovers.

  “I’m going to get my B.A. in poli-sci at Columbia and then a master’s at Georgetown or wherever and take the civil service exam and hopefully become a career diplomat. Chris wants to go back to Ely and take over Dad’s business and become an outfitter, though he’ll have to wait, because Dad’s just forty-five now.”

  Five years older than me, Guy thought.

  “A diplomat, huh?” Lucie said.

  “Yeah,” Kevin said. “I’ve always wanted to travel. And I’ve always liked history and politics. And I’m polite and diplomatic, people say.”

  “You’d be a very handsome ambassador.”

  “Thanks, but ambassadors are used car salesmen who made big contributions to the party coffers. I want to be a cultural attaché or something—that’s why you two guys have to teach me French! Let’s speak French at least one hour a day. Well, after I’ve had a semester. Right now it’d be useless. You’ll see, I’m good at languages, at least we were stars at Norwegian camp back in Minnesota.” Kevin realized instantly he’d said “we” and hoped that Guy wouldn’t be jealous or even notice.

  When they were alone, Kevin said, “That Lucie is so sweet. Finally a friend of yours I can reach out to.”

  “You would have liked Fred, too. Very down-to-earth.” Guy was proud of that expression, “down-to-earth.” Americans used it all the time, though he wasn’t quite sure what it meant—terre-à-terre?

  “What kind of movies did he make?”

  Guy stumbled over the unfamiliar word: “Blaxploitation.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “What? I think it was kind of him to make movies for Africans. Well, let’s not argue. So you want to be a diplomat?”

  “My adviser at Colombia thinks I’d make a good one.”

  “But wouldn’t that take you far away—to Peru?”

  “It’ll be years from now,” Kevin said, smiling, “if ever. Maybe you’ll be … tired of modeling and can come with me.”

  “Tired or fired or retired.”

  “I want to support you, for once. It’ll be my turn. I’ll try to get us a French-speaking country.”

  “The Côte d’Ivoire? They have nice beaches. I was there once for a swimsuit commercial.”

  “I want to see your reel sometime!”

  “We’ll get it from Pierre-Georges. He keeps it up-to-date.”

  And so the charms of their lives, their futures, were changed in a casual conversation led by a third person. Would he and Kevin stay together? How many years? Guy felt he should provide for his old age, but he was hooked on the present. With any luck he’d die ten years from now or twenty and leave a beautiful corpse. He had his two houses and his apartment in Paris. Some models were making exercise films or even getting into the business as agents. Others were buying real estate unless all their money was going up their noses. Guy had heard of one Bruce Weber star who’d bought a prewar apartment near Borough Hall and rented it out to visiting models, male and female, four units, cheaper than a midtown hotel, and they co
uld share the kitchen, and no ordinary person was around to complain about the sound of hair dryers blowing all day or the sound of the phone ringing off the hook. Not too convenient for Manhattan clubbing, but usually there was a limo someone had sent for one of the girls.

  Guy didn’t like the idea of moving to Peru. That sounded lonely. Bad for the skin. And by then he’d be too old to learn another language. Everyone said Spanish was easy if you knew French. But “fear” was miedo in Spanish and peur in French, a wave was ola not vague—nothing like! And what would they make of two adult men living together in South America, one of them the American cultural attaché?

  “All we have is the present,” Guy said, settling into one of his favorite themes, one he’d worked out already back in Clermont-Ferrand. “There is no past and no future, only the present.” He’d argued that position with one of the priests at school, who was torn because he was besotted with Guy but of course wanted him to think of his ultimate reward in heaven.

  “That’s interesting.” Kevin said, bored.

  Guy was sorry that Kevin didn’t argue with him. Most people did, at least other models did. “No future? You’ve got to be kidding! What about my next job in Saint-Tropez?” they’d say indignantly, and then he’d take them to a higher if paradoxical level. But Kevin didn’t like to philosophize. All he wanted to do when they were together was chitchat or have sex. He wasn’t very intellectual. Or maybe it was just American practicality, whereas the French like to soar on the wings of speculation.

  Guy loved the feeling he got when he was tiptoeing into the cobwebs of the stratosphere. He’d smile benignly at his own familiarity with these difficult subjects, his calm, mature mastery of these paradoxes. He didn’t want to be down-to-earth all the time. Being earthbound didn’t do much for him.

  Kevin turned off the minute Guy got that contented smile on his face and launched into one of his idiotic rants, what he considered philosophizing. Kevin had studied real philosophy at Columbia and had received an A on his term paper about the difference between ideology and ideas. (Ideology was a false view promoted by the ruling class in order to hoodwink the proletariat.) He was sickened by Guy’s rambling on about time, and wondered how much longer he’d be able to stomach it.

  Three days later Guy took the bus to see Andrés. This time he told Kevin where he was going and Kevin said, “I admire you for that. You’re a very loyal person.”

  Guy agreed. He was very loyal. He still sent his mother a thousand dollars a month, which wasn’t so much, given the downgrading of the dollar, but it was something. It allowed her to live correctly, now that she had a car in good running order and all paid for. She owned her home. And she got a welfare check from the government. She’d had to hide the allowance she got from Guy in order to qualify for the government stipend. He mailed a money order to his brother, who handed her the cash. So far they hadn’t been caught. From time to time Lucie helped Guy fill a big box of shawls, sweaters, dresses—everything she could pick up in his mother’s size after a collection was shown. His mother complained that the clothes were too stylish or flashy or daring for their neighborhood, and he was certain she was still shopping in her old raincoat and paisley scarf she’d bought from the Arabs in the market in the shadow of the cathedral.

  Guy had been loyal to Fred, more than anyone else had, and he would have stayed on good terms with the baron if he hadn’t been exiled. He was fidel to Andrés and took the long, boring bus ride out there every week. He’d even become friendly with one of the other “wives,” a delicate young black woman who bathed herself in a sweet candied perfume she said was invented by Elizabeth Taylor. She really smelled like cotton candy. Yes, he was a loyal friend—he’d stuck with Pierre-Georges even though bigger agents had tried to lure him away. Of course, he knew Pierre-Georges was watching out for him 24/7, and he doubted another agent could wrangle him bigger contracts. Guy had been around too long; everyone knew what he was worth.

  “What if Andrés notices the tattoo? Won’t you have some explaining to do?” Kevin asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Oh, he won’t. He’s pretty—how do you say? Narcisse?”

  “Narcissistic. That’s a tough one.” Kevin thought it advisable to comment on the word rather than the character flaw.

  “He never notices anything,” Guy said.

  Of course, he did, and to make sure he did, as soon as they were seated opposite each other in the visiting room, Guy pushed his hair back and flipped his earlobe forward. “See what I did for you? Just as I promised.”

  Andrés, rather than being delighted, looked around nervously at the guard, the same handsome thick one as before, who was studying them carefully. He strode over to them and pulled back his ear; the tattoo of the number eight was bigger than Guy’s and harder to distinguish on black skin. And then he grabbed Andrés, wrenched his head around, and revealed his tattoo, the same number eight. At that point he grunted and walked away, back to the other guard he’d been chatting with.

  “That wasn’t cool,” Andrés said to Guy.

  “You got the tattoo to please your new love or master or whatever he is, and to cover yourself around me you convinced me to do it, too—for you. You pretended—” And Guy couldn’t help but laugh when he realized he’d played the same trick on Kevin. Guy thought that he and Andrés were both wily, always plotting, and Kevin and the black man were typical Yankee dopes. “What’s your lover’s name, anyway?”

  “Lester,” Andrés said in a surly tone. “He’s not my lover.” He lowered his eyes and said in a small voice, “He’s my protector. You’re my lover.”

  “Did you choose him to be your protector? Or did he choose you as his protégé?”

  Andrés exploded, “You don’t know what it’s like to live in here all day, every day. I need someone to protect me.”

  Guy could see that Andrés had been working out hard. His arms and shoulders looked twice as big as before. How dangerous really was this junior high of a prison? Knowing that he’d duped Kevin in the same way Andrés had duped him made Guy forgive him, though with an edge of exasperation. He hoped Lester wouldn’t punish Andrés—beat him or put him in solitary. Lester might have hit Andrés now if it weren’t for the surveillance cameras and so many witnesses from the outside world. “I’m sorry—I had no idea.”

  So unexpected was Guy’s apology that Andrés broke into a sweet boyish smile: That sweetness had almost been extinguished in this new tough, hardened Andrés here in prison where anger seemed to be the default mode, but Guy’s kindness called to the boy hidden within, who slowly emerged from the darkest cave of Andrés’s heart, where the child had been declared dead. He wasn’t dead, just weakened and frightened. “I should be the one begging your forgiveness,” Andrés said softly.

  “Let’s forget the whole thing.”

  They smiled long and hard at each other, shook hands warmly, and Andrés even got tears in his eyes. Guy wondered what Andrés would do with this sweet-feeling child at the entrance of the cave now that the tide was rushing in around his knees.

  What Andrés had done, apparently, was start a major fight between the Puerto Rican gang to which he belonged and the black gang—with the result he was put in lockdown and his sentence was increased by two years. The next time Guy saw him, he still had a bump on his head and a black eye and his lip was torn. He was still indignant, and plagued Guy with a long “he said, I said” narrative Guy couldn’t follow. Then he simmered down and looked morose, probably at the prospect of the addition to his sentence. He talked about his new interest in the Catholic Church and his pious reading of the lives of the saints: “Those were some far-out cats,” Andrés exclaimed with his torn-lipped smile.

  Then, on a new, obviously rehearsed confidential note, Andrés said, with care and solemnity, “I have a great favor to ask of you.”

  “Anything,” Guy said, hoping it wasn’t for a metal file in a cake.

  “My sister, the one who moved from Bogotá to Murcia, has been diagn
osed with cancer. Her husband vanished years ago. She’s been raising her son, Vicente, all on her own. He’s fifteen now. She can’t take care of him anymore, she’s too sick and poor. You remember my sister Concepción?”

  “Poor girl. I had no idea. Does she write you in prison?”

  “All the time. Anyway, Vicente is staying with a distant cousin in Lackawanna. She, that cousin, we call her King Kong because she’s so black, is married to an Arab, I think he’s a terrorist but he says he’s in air-conditioning repair, anyway he’s fed up with Vicente, not because he’s a bad boy but because he’s poor, Mohammed isn’t earning anything, they’re on welfare, and they can’t get an allowance for Vicente, he’s an illegal, he overstayed his three-month tourist visa.”

  “We only have five more minutes. What do you want me to do—send them a check?”

  “No, I want you to take Vicente in.”

  Guy immediately wondered what Kevin would think. Then he thought about what the boy would mean to his own life. Guy liked crazy, unforeseen twists in fate, maybe because his life had become so predictable, so narrow—regular jaunts to Europe, an hour three times a week at the gym, life’s long diet and only occasional prudent lapses, sex with Kevin, visits to Andrés, every two weeks a phone call to his mother, strategy sessions with Pierre-Georges. (“She said you were rude to her,” Pierre-Georges said of a stylist from Saks. “She also said the suit was wearing you rather than you were wearing the suit.”

  “Whatever that means,” Guy muttered. “And she was the rude one, stabbing me with pins, trying to smooth out a cheap shirt that was born wrinkled.”) Life had become confining and routine; even their Saturday night drug vacations dancing at the Roxy were always the same, with MDA, cocaine, and grass, staggering home at dawn with grins on their famous faces. At least Guy’s would be famous if it weren’t so generic—now even his trademark jug ears would soon be invisible under wings of dark hair covering them, carefully arranged in “un brushing.”