Natalia swallowed the last bite of her meal. A Caesar salad with grilled salmon, her favorite, which she only ate after they were done with a competition. “You know my husband supports me. I don’t know if you know what that means. He pays the mortgage. My health insurance is through his employer. He pays for a helper at home, to go to the supermarket and prepare our food and keep the house clean. When my car needs servicing he takes care of it. When we talked about getting married, we discussed all this. I told him I would be a terrible wife. He said I was the only wife for him. He asked if I ever wanted to have children. I said that I did. He asked if I would continue to dance after I had children. I said, not like this. So you see, it's temporary. There will be a time when I’ve had enough, and I’ll stop. You and I already talked about this. My body won’t tolerate it forever. You men can dance much longer than we can. In general,” she added, because they both knew of women who continued dancing into their sixties and beyond. But this sport was also entertainment, and even other dancers could be hard on older women. When the age started to show, when the size four (or two) no longer flattered, it was very common for a leader to look for a younger, fresher partner. Natalia was twelve years younger than Dmitri, and he knew her mental clock was counting down.
He also heard what she wasn’t saying. At forty-six, he was in the back half of his career. There would come a time when he either couldn’t dance at the same level, or chose to step away. And maybe it wasn’t reasonable, maybe it wasn’t even rational, to think he should wait until that time before fully committing to a relationship. What if Patrick gave up on him? Would Dmitri look back and think losing the man was an acceptable outcome? It was impossible. “Thank you,” he said after a few minutes of silent consideration. “I will write to him.”
“You write better than you talk.”
He almost laughed. He knew it was true. Talking in professional contexts wasn’t a challenge. Saying personal things out loud, especially emotional things: nearly unthinkable. The first twenty years of his life had trained him to be silent. It was better to say nothing than to risk saying the wrong thing. “Thank you,” he said again. “I will leave you now.”
“Take the dinner cart with you, please. I’ll see you back at the studio. Good night.”
“Good night.” He shrugged back into his jacket, wheeled the cart out, and let the room door close softly behind him. Back in his own room, he thought about how to do this. He didn’t own a laptop computer to carry with him. What he needed to say wasn’t best said in a series of texts. He might, he decided, do this as an actual letter, something that Patrick could hold in his hand. He would use the hotel stationery. If he wasn’t satisfied with what he wrote tonight, he could correct it on the flight home, or after arrival. He set a mental deadline to complete and mail the letter within two days. They had a tentatively-scheduled rendezvous the following weekend. He wanted Patrick to have these words before then.
Patrick rarely received personal mail at the office. When he did, it was something like a birthday card. The plain white envelope with a handwritten address was a surprise. The ‘D. Vasko’ in the upper-left corner was astonishing. Patrick was almost afraid to open it. What if this was a kind (if formal) way of saying it was time to call an end to their affair? He hadn’t seen the man for more than two weeks. Had been looking forward to the next weekend, when as far as he knew they had a date. Their usual kind of date: dinner at one or the other apartment, with a little conversation (including a few affectionate words) followed by as much sex as Patrick could get before Dmitri fell asleep, or had to leave. What if this was ‘let’s not bother’?
He left it on the desk while he went to get a cup of coffee that he didn’t really need. Then he procrastinated for a while, returning calls and emails. There was nothing urgent. No real excuse to avoid dealing with this. He had to read it eventually. “Get it over with,” he said out loud. He closed his office door, then opened the envelope.
My dear Patrick,
I missed you more than usual this time. I regretted coming away without having seen you for so many days. There is much, in fact, that I regret.
By the time we became lovers you knew how difficult I would be. I hope you know that I don’t intend to be difficult. It is the nature of this profession, this sport. The hours are long, the work is hard, and even though I always want to see you, sometimes it isn’t possible. Or I see you, but I’m no good to you because of distraction, or fatigue.
I have so little to offer you, beyond myself. You say that is enough for you. Or at least, you can survive on it. But could we do better? I need your advice. How could we do better? What can I do for you, or allow you to do for me, that will make you feel as valued as you are?
Because if we could find each other at all, and love each other, there must be a way to make this better. Better for you, specifically, because you deserve so much more. You deserve the most constant, open, extravagant expressions of love. I am no good at that. You’ve forgiven that, so many times.
Tell me, my dear love, how I can best make you feel loved. You understand all the caveats and constraints. Please also understand that your presence in my life is a gift exceeding any I have experienced, or even imagined. I do not ask anything of you, beyond yourself, in my arms.
Dmitri
Patrick set the letter down and gave himself a few minutes to get over reading it. He’d never received a letter like that in his life. Even the other men he’d said ‘I love you’ to rarely gave him more than a flirty (or dirty) note, generally scrawled on a business card or a cocktail napkin. That is an honest-to-God love letter, he thought. He was so glad Dmitri sent it this way. Patrick would never throw that away, even if somewhere down the line they did fall apart. And surely, if this man who never asked for anything was asking what Patrick wanted, he really cared. The ‘I love you’ meant something, even if he hardly ever said it, and almost never in English.
Patrick’s history did not support fantasies about ‘forever.’ Too many people had come and gone in his life, and he’d seen far too many imploding (or exploding) affairs among his friends. He would have put up with the status quo indefinitely. To be told he didn’t have to was, he decided, wonderful. It was almost confusing. What could he ask for? What would make his life better, without being a burden for Dmitri? What would make Dmitri’s life better, and also be something he could accept on these terms?
He thought about it for the rest of the day, while emptying his in-box and clearing his message log. He wanted to acknowledge that letter. He also wanted to answer it. There wasn’t time to mail something and be sure Dmitri would see it before their date. So a two-part operation it must be. After getting home, he sent a text: Hi Dmitri got your letter. Thanks so much. I love you. More to come. See you Saturday. Then he sat down on the couch with a glass of wine and a notebook, scribbling some ideas.
Dmitri was going to Patrick’s place this time. After getting that text he’d sent a reply to confirm, feeling relieved that at least the subject had been opened. Now Patrick knew how Dmitri felt. Knew the ‘I love you,’ though seldom and awkwardly expressed, was sincere. Maybe Patrick had no more idea than Dmitri did of what was possible. They hadn’t spent a great deal of time discussing previous affairs, or how theirs might compare. Or anything else, in fact.
He brought a gift, a small silly thing. He had no idea if Patrick wanted something like this. It was an impulse: he will know I was thinking of him. Maybe that would be enough. He walked up the stairs and knocked on Patrick’s door.
It swung open seconds later. Patrick said, “Hi. Good to see you,” and stood back. Dmitri entered; Patrick closed and locked the door; he led the way to the living room. Dmitri followed, wondering if and when he should say something.
Then he saw that Patrick had a bottle of champagne waiting on the coffee table, and a red rose in a narrow crystal vase. He was swamped with love, a physical sensation. “I brought you something.”
“Oh you did! On top of that letter?
I have to tell you, I’ve been thinking about framing it.” Patrick was smiling as he opened the bottle. “What’s your schedule tomorrow?”
That was code for ‘when do you have to leave.’ Dmitri was glad he could say, this time, “Is clear.” Patrick’s startled expression was gratifying. “Till Monday morning.”
“Wow. That’s fantastic. I’d love to take you out somewhere tomorrow, then. Sit down, honey. Let’s relax for a few minutes, I had a busy day.”
“Did you work?” Dmitri still meant to give Patrick his small gift, but there was no hurry. He set down his overnight bag by the couch. They sat, drank some wine, kissed. Talked about the past couple weeks’ work. It was a less-busy time of year for Patrick, more-busy for Dmitri. He and Natalia were going to Arizona soon for a session with their coach, and had heavy schedules with their students. In late November they would go to Ohio for the biggest ballroom competition of the year. “Last weekend was Seattle.”
“I haven’t been there for years. How was the weather?”
“Cold.” It was a good opening. “You would have kept me warm.”
“Mmm, yes I would.” Patrick leaned over for another kiss. Ran his hand through Dmitri’s hair, thought what did you bring me, and drew back only enough to see the smile in the other man’s eyes.
Dmitri could see it was time. He reached down and unzipped the side pocket of his bag. “Is silly,” he warned.
“I don’t care.” Dmitri handed him a snow globe. It fit on the palm of his hand. Inside was a tiny model of the Space Needle. Patrick thought why am I getting choked up over a fucking snow globe, blinked hard, swallowed, and said, “I’ve always wanted one of these.”
Dmitri knew that wasn’t literally true. He knew exactly what Patrick meant. “We will talk more,” he promised. “After dinner. After I make love to you. Is good?”
“Is perfect. But I have something for you to read first.” Patrick set the snow globe on the table next to the bud vase. He’d almost brought his letter in here, but he felt kind of anxious about it, which was stupid since Dmitri got the ball rolling with his. He went to get it, from the follow-up box on his kitchen counter. Then he returned to the living room and handed it to his lover. Refilled their glasses, sat back, and waited.
Dmitri swallowed another mouthful of champagne, set down his glass, then unfolded the letter.
My dear Dmitri,
Thank you for your letter. I’ve never received a letter like that and I’m feeling a little challenged because I’ve never written one like that either. I doubt I’ll do as well as you did.
It’s hard to imagine what could be better, at least without completely changing the way you make your living. I don’t want you to do that. You are a dancer. It is what it is. If you were any other kind of athlete we would have the same issues, except with most other sports you’d have sponsors, or an organization that helped support you, and you’d win actual money when you win. That’s my only complaint about ballroom, frankly. I represent quite a few athletes and they all have expenses like yours. The difference is they get paid when they compete.
Anyway that is neither here nor there because this is about us, not about making ballroom competition a paying proposition without spending fifty hours a week giving private lessons. You invited me to tell you what I want, so here goes.
I want to take you out to dinner once in a while. I want to take you to the symphony, or the theater, or a damned movie once in a while. I want to spend more nights together. When I’m going with you to an event I want to book your airline ticket, so we can go together to the airport and sit together on the flight. I want to book massages at the hotels, so you don’t get so worn out.
We’re not going to change our ways very much at this point, I know. We’re not going to be like the young guys strolling down the boulevard with their arms around each other, kissing in front of the whole world, not giving a shit. I wish we could be like that.
But when it’s you and me, I want to love you. You’ve let me love you all along. I believe you love me, and you love me like nobody else ever has. I don’t know what happens next or what else there might be for us. Let’s proceed on the assumption that there is an ‘us.’
Patrick
Dmitri folded the letter, laid it beside his glass, and pulled Patrick into his arms.
March 2005
Being admittedly and confirmedly in love did not solve every conundrum. They still had a lot to learn about each other, and how to be together. Patrick was both surprised and gratified to find Dmitri receptive to social invitations. It was as if he simply hadn’t known that kind of thing could be part of a relationship. The realization was humbling. Patrick had his own issues with how to be an out gay man. But at least when he was with someone before, they had a common frame of reference. In the months leading up to his birthday, he was able to spend multiple evenings per week with his lover. He might be disappointed that every evening together didn’t end in bed, but only (well, mostly) because of what being in bed with Dmitri was like.
There were a few friends Patrick could talk to about this kind of thing. He wondered if Dmitri had someone, suspected that he didn’t, and reminded himself that the other man was well-accustomed to the limitations of their circumstances. It really was different for men twenty (or ten) years younger. Dmitri didn’t even have any family in the United States, except some cousins who were distant in every sense.
Patrick, on the other hand, had a huge extended family. Most of them were nearby, and most of them accepted him. A birthday dinner with his brother’s family was a tradition. This time, Patrick wanted Dmitri to come along. He knew George and Yana wouldn’t mind. Ruzanna and her brother Suren had been asking, for months, when they were finally going to meet Patrick’s mystery man.
He chose an evening when they were out in public, because they were always circumspect about how they interacted in public, and if Dmitri was disinclined to accept the invitation his disinclination would feel less personal. Less of a rejection. Patrick knew exactly why he still almost expected rejection, knew it had nothing to do with Dmitri, couldn’t change it. Some moments were called ‘formative’ for a reason.
It was a Wednesday; they’d been to see a play at the Geffen; they were having a drink at a Westwood watering hole, before getting in their two separate cars to return to their two separate apartments. Patrick slid the change of subject into a discussion of the night’s performances. “I usually go to my brother’s house for dinner on my birthday. He and his wife are threatening something big this year since it’s my fiftieth. I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
Dmitri was still for a moment. He knew when the birthday was, because Patrick was not the kind of man who pretended he didn’t care. He’d given Patrick a card the previous year. He also knew about the family dinner. A year ago, he hadn’t expected an invitation. This year, he’d wondered. Now the invitation was here, and it took a few seconds to realize that he was moved by it. “I would be very pleased to come with you.”
“Oh! Really? Terrific! My niece and her brother have been badgering me to meet you ever since they found out I was seeing someone.”
That made Dmitri smile. He leaned back in his seat, wishing they were at home so they could touch. Then he thought, but we can. This wasn’t the ballroom, or Patrick’s office. They had the right. He lifted a hand and set it on the back of Patrick’s shoulder. “Have they before?”
Patrick understood what he meant, but it took a second to process because of that hand. Why is that so close to freaking me out. It felt transgressive. At the same time, it was what he always wanted. “No. The last time I was halfway serious with someone they were too young.” There were a couple of layers to that, which he only realized after the words were out of his mouth. First the admission that it had been a long time, which Dmitri already knew. Then the admission that he was at least halfway serious, which Dmitri also knew. Patrick leaned toward him and spoke very low. “In case I’ve been unclear at any point
in the past two years, I am completely serious about you.” He felt Dmitri’s hand, sliding across his shoulders as he moved in. Any further and it would be half a hug.
My dear love. “I know.” The late hour, the next morning’s early lesson, the two cars, the two apartments: all were highly unsatisfactory in that moment. Dmitri shifted subtly, enough so that his fingers could brush through Patrick’s hair before he lifted his hand away and reached for his water glass. “I as well.”
Patrick seriously wanted to lunge at the man. There was literally no reason he couldn’t, except for all those years of reminding himself not to do things like that. “One of these years I’m going to stop giving a shit what the general public thinks.” He could tell Dmitri wanted to laugh. “I’ll text you the details, okay? Now I suppose you have to get back.”
Dmitri sighed. “Yes.” Patrick signaled for their check, and before long they were walking over to the parking garage. Taking the stairs up, out of habit. Preparing to part on the landing at the level where Patrick was parked. No-one was around. Dmitri caught his lover’s hand, pulled him in for a kiss. It was meant to be quick, but it got away from him. He touched Patrick’s face when they eventually separated. “Je t’aime, mon beau.”
“Je t’aime aussi, mon brave.” The stairwell was deserted; Patrick took advantage of that to get one more kiss. Then he took a step back, sketched a wave, and watched Dmitri go up the next flight. As he walked away toward his car, he said out loud, “We are five years into a new century and I am about to be fifty years old. This is starting to piss me off.”
“Everything all right, sir?”
Patrick turned around; it was a security guard. “Hi. Yes, I’m fine, I was talking to myself. Here’s my car. Have a nice night.”
“You too, sir.”
Patrick got into the car and managed to drive all the way down and out of the garage before he started laughing. Old dog, new tricks, whatever.
Change Partners (The L.A. Stories) Page 3
