The Quirk (5 page)

“No, not really. He’s just a guy I’ve seen around. Why? Who is he?”

“Oh, nobody in particular. Just, as you say, a guy one sees around. His name is François Leclerc.
Il est comme ca. Tu en connais d’autres?
”

Rod knew the expression and understood the question. “No. I didn’t know anything about him.” He felt that the stranger, François Leclerc, had somehow taken advantage of him by making him appear to be on friendly terms with queers.

“There’s no reason why you should. He’s no concern of ours. To the right.” They passed through narrow side streets, turning frequent corners so that Rod lost track of where he was. He had been doing very nicely on the well-lit boulevard, but here on less-certain footing, he stumbled frequently and once or twice was almost carried away by wild lurches. Patrice was at his side offering tactful assistance. Rod was grateful for the way he did it. He was efficient without making a big thing of it, not making him feel a fool. They came out into a wider street that looked familiar to him. In another few moments they stopped in front of massive double doors, the kind of doors that, to Rod, gave the city an impenetrable and hermetic look. Patrice touched a button, and the door swung open an inch with a magical click. Patrice leaned against it and let them in. He pushed another button. Lights came on, and he leaned against the door again to close it. They were locked in a fortress. He called “Valmer” as they passed the concierge’s loge and then crossed a courtyard and passed through a smaller ordinary doorway. Lights went out behind them, and they were briefly plunged into darkness. Rod swayed and reached out for support and immediately found his guardian angel’s helpful arm. Lights came on in a decrepit stairwell. They mounted a flight of stairs. Patrice had just inserted a key in a lock when the lights went out again.

“
C’est toujours comme ca.
” Patrice’s voice seemed to ripple with laughter in the dark. “Don’t move. Do you need me? Here I am.”

Rod found a shoulder to put an arm around, and for a moment he felt the boy’s slight body against him as they advanced a few steps. He heard a door close behind them. Then a lamp came on, and they separated. Rod found himself in a large room, sparingly furnished with what looked like good old pieces. As Patrice moved about turning on lights, Rod’s eye was drawn to a big skylight that took up almost all the upper part of one wall. Pipes writhed around handsome moldings. It was the sort of room, which in the innocence of his arrival, he had hoped to find for himself. Now that he had learned the facts of Paris housing, he knew that it was a treasure of inestimable value. He dropped his coat on a chair near the door and moved around the end of a sofa that was placed in front of an elegant marble fireplace with a real log fire laid in it. He became aware that the room was pleasantly warm without it.

“This is your place?” he asked with envious admiration as Patrice approached. His new friend had removed his cloak and beret and looked very dapper in a stylish suit.

“Yes. I was lucky. A friend helped me get it. Please sit down. I will get you a drink. I don’t have the things you Americans drink. Scotch? Vodka? I will give you something special that you won’t get anywhere else.”

Rod sat on the sofa while his host went off to the end of the room. Patrice returned with a bottle and two small glasses. He filled them and handed one to Rod and looked down at him with a smile full of mischief. “You’ve been very obedient. I must arrange for the heavens to give you a special reward.”

Rod laughed. “You’re crazy. What am I doing here? I don’t even know where I am.”

“The rue de Verneuil. Your hotel is only a few blocks away.”

“I guess it is. I’d better be thinking about getting back there soon. Why were you so anxious for me to come for a drink? I mean, I like it here, and you’re a nice kid and all that, but nobody’s ever asked me to his place since I’ve been here. I mean, none of the kids I know. I seem to have dumped my girl.”

“You were bored with that place. So was I. We wanted to talk comfortably. Isn’t that it? Cheers.” He sat–perched–on a chair beside the fireplace and lifted his glass.

Rod took a swallow of his drink. The liquor was dry but fruity. It tasted strong but went down easily. “Wow,” he said. “What is it?”

The boy laughed. “I don’t know. My grandmother makes it. It’s a great secret. If she tells nobody before she dies, we’ll never know. Tell me about your painting. I don’t mean the kind of pictures you paint. That would be stupid. About what it means to you.”

“You’re interested in painting?”

“Very much. Recently I’ve been learning about you Americans. You have some very good painters now. Isn’t that so?”

“I think so.” He thought of the dismissive references to American painting earlier in the evening and was delighted with his guardian angel. “Which ones do you like?” Patrice named names. Rod was impressed. In the soft light and with the mischievousness overlaid by lively interest, the beauty he had detected in the boy’s face was more pronounced. He wasn’t a comic oddity, although the ventriloquist’s dummy made brief reappearances, but a guy with sense and taste and considerable knowledge. Rod finished his drink without being aware of it, and his glass was refilled while they moved into a wide-ranging discussion. Rod found himself talking more freely than he ever had about his own goals and the difficulties he had overcome in order to risk trying to attain them. He went on drinking, always finding more in his glass, but he felt he was speaking easily, even eloquently, with only occasional lapses when he tripped over a word or failed to find the one he was searching for. He eventually realized that his bladder was bursting with all he had drunk, and he interrupted a point he wanted to make to rid himself of this distraction.

“I better take a leak,” he said. “Where do I go?”

“
Faire pi-pi?
” Patrice inquired. “I’ll show you.”

Rod rose and for a moment thought he was going to go right on over onto his face. Patrice was at his side offering support. He shook his head slightly and put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Goodness. I wonder what’s
in
that stuff.”

Patrice laughed. “I think it is well that we don’t know.” He put an arm lightly around Rod’s waist, and they moved together toward the end of the room while Rod pursued his thought.

“The point is, I’d love to be rich and famous and successful and all the rest, if it would just happen without my doing anything about it. Aside from my work, I mean. You know–without having to sell my soul. That’s the problem in the States. It seems easier here. Maybe no. There’s always Buffet. I guess it’s up to the individual.” His voice trailed off.

Patrice stopped in front of a door in a sort of corridor that seemed to be almost part of a kitchen and dropped his arm. “In there. You OK?”

“Sure. Fine.” He have the boy’s shoulder a little pat and entered a room the size of a closet where an antiquated toilet was installed, French fashion, in solitary grandeur. His thoughts drifted, and his. eyes closed while he was relieving himself. He had to give himself a shake to wake himself up when he was finished. He made an effort to steer a straight course back to the sofa. Patrice had resumed his seat and looked up alertly as he approached. Rod dropped down and stretched out slightly with one leg up on the edge of the sofa and pulled off his tie and opened his collar. His eyelids felt very heavy. He had meant to leave when he was on his feet, but he was comfortable now, the bottle wasn’t empty, and he was enjoying himself.

“Am I boring you?” he asked.

Patrice looked at him with lively eyes, bright with humor. “Far from it. You have no idea.”

“I like talking to you. I wonder. I told you about losing the girl I was engaged to. I wonder if artists should expect to be alone.” He saw that Patrice was speaking, but the words didn’t seem to come through to him, and his eyes closed. “It’s just that–” he began, wondering what was coming next. He’d intended to say something but didn’t quite know what, and then he didn’t know anything at all.

Patrice gazed with wonder at the big unconscious fish he had pulled out of the St.-Germain-des-Prés pond. Eventually he would have to throw him back, but he wanted to keep him as long as he could. At least for tonight, even if nothing happened. He heard Gérard’s cynical laughter, but he didn’t care. Sex was only part of it. He saw that Rod’s wisdom and maturity were all in his eyes. Now that they were closed, he looked meltingly young and defenseless. Patrice asked nothing more than to take care of him. From the moment he had first seen him several days ago, he had practically been following him and finding out all he could about him. A real
coup de foudre.
Lightning had struck. The guardian-angel bit had been an inspiration of the moment, and he had been amazed at its success. He would remember it for the future, although the future didn’t interest him much for the time being. He found the present too exciting and too unpredictable. What was he going to do with his prize now?

So far he had done everything right, and he wanted to keep it that way. He could leave him where he was, but the heat had already gone out in the building. In a little while it would be so cold that all the covers in the world wouldn’t prevent him from waking up. The alternative was to get him into his bed, but lifting him also risked waking him.

Patrice rose and move lightly to the sofa and leaned over the sleeping figure, listening to his deep breathing. He longed to stroke the dark shaggy hair, kiss the deep-set eyes, run a finger over the strange male beauty of his lips, but he had no intention of losing everything for the sake of such secondary joys. The more untroubled his sleep, the better. He cautiously lifted Rod’s other leg onto the sofa. Rod stirred and made muttering sounds and moved his hands down protectively over his crotch. You’re quite safe,
chéri,
Patrice thought, with a smile that had no mischief in it. For tonight, I’m your little old maiden aunt.

Patrice straightened and decided to risk trying to get Rod to bed. Naked preferably, but that remained to be seen. He started for the door and stopped. He didn’t want him to wake up and escape while he was gone. He went back to the sofa and looked at Rod’s shoes. They were the sort Americans called “loafers,” easy to remove. He removed them and carried them down the long corridor that led to the bedroom. He turned on a lamp at the head of the big bed on the side he expected to occupy. He pulled the covers back. The sheets were clean. He hoped his guest would find them irresistible. He undressed and hung everything neatly in the armoire above Rod’s shoes. He pulled on a voluminous woolen dressing gown that turned his body into a shapeless bundle. Dozens, more likely hundreds, of boys had found pleasure with, it so he wasn’t shy about it. But he had no idea what to expect of his sleeping prize. All the talk about girls. At first his knowing François had seemed significant, but apparently it wasn’t.

Patrice hurried back along the corridor and adopted a more cautions pace as he entered the living room. He tiptoed the last few feet to the end of the sofa. Rod’s breathing was so heavy, with a little gurgle of a snore in it, that he dared put a hand out and touch his hair. His heart accelerated uncomfortably, and he dropped his hand to his side and quickly stepped back. He went to the bathroom that was also the kitchen and without taking a real bath washed himself thoroughly in all the places that mattered. He scented himself with restraint and combed his hair into an artful arrangement of waves over his forehead and made a face at himself in the mirror. “Here we go,” he told himself jauntily to give himself courage.

He returned to his sleeping American and, stomach churning with excitement, looked down at him for a moment to steady himself. Now. He leaned over and slowly lifted an arm. There was no reaction. He crouched down to the task and braced himself and put the arm over his shoulder and worked his own arm around Rod’s back and lifted. He came up surprisingly easily. He slumped against him but hugged his shoulders as if he knew what he was doing. He seemed to be able to stay on his feet Patrice took a careful step, and Rod moved with him. He got a firmer grip around Rod’s slim waist and took another step. Rod was lighter than he had expected. He got him out of the living room and headed down the corridor without mishap. It was thrilling to feel the body in motion against him. As they entered the bedroom, Rod stumbled and muttered something. A name? Jeannine? When they reached the bed Rod straightened and pushed himself free and spoke clearly and distinctly.

“Bed,” he said. His jacket fell from him onto the floor. He dropped forward and stretched himself out on his back and drew a deep sighing breath as all of his muscles seemed to go slack.

Patrice looked down at the peaceful figure with triumph. He had done it. He had landed his prize in his bed. It had been so easy that he didn’t feel he had pushed his luck yet. He leaned over and with quick fingers unbuttoned Rod’s shirt. The cuffs were fastened with gold cuff links, and it took him a moment to discover how they worked. He perched on the edge of the bed and carefully lifted Rod’s shoulders. Rod’s head fell forward and lolled against his own. Patrice slipped his hands inside Rod’s shirt and up along his ribs and over his broad back and for a spine-tingling moment allowed himself to hold the naked torso close against him. The shirt slipped from Rod’s shoulders, and Patrice disengaged the arms and laid him gently back on the pillow and gloated over him. It was the most beautiful body he had ever seen. All the muscles were long and sleek and lightly developed, an athlete’s body–but an athlete who had engaged in sports that required speed and finesse. He thought of the swift symmetry of gazelles and antelopes and thoroughbred horses. The sparse hair on the chest was scattered along the lower edge of his pectoral muscles and gave them added definition. It wasn’t curly but lay flat against the skin like delicate fur. There was a faint ripple of muscle above the deep hollow of abdomen that plunged down into his trousers. The ultimate goal. He hoped it wouldn’t be too small. He couldn’t deny that he liked big boys. He edged down the side of the bed and took a quick breath and began to unbutton the fly, commanding his hand to move briskly without a suggestion of a caress.