His brother said of course Dmitri was welcome to join them. His sister-in-law asked if he had any dietary restrictions. Patrick said, “Aside from having to watch his weight, no. Serve whatever you want, everything you make is great, just don’t get your feelings hurt when he doesn’t take second helpings of everything, okay?” It would be only the six of them. It was usually five. Yana routinely made enough food for ten.
He was picking Dmitri up this time, which was a thing that didn’t happen often. Usually if they were going out, they met somewhere. The drive from Culver City to Glendale felt very long. Patrick put on some music, because he didn’t want to spend the whole drive jabbering about bullshit to cover up his nerves.
Dmitri could tell he was nervous. From everything he’d heard, this sub-set of Patrick’s family was accepting. Of him, at least. Patrick must be nervous that they would like Dmitri. It was a reasonable concern: Dmitri wasn’t the most social person, and his previous experience with the families of lovers could be counted in minutes. All he knew about these people was that the brother, George, was a trauma surgeon; his wife was a real-estate agent; the niece meant to get an MBA and follow Patrick into financial services; the teenage nephew intended to be a doctor like his father. Plus, of course, he knew that Patrick’s mother would not be there. Was never there. She was in the sub-set of family that did not accept Patrick.
That alone would have inclined Dmitri to feel warmly toward George. It was a difficult position to be in, but he had refused to reject his brother. And if all else failed, there was ballroom: Ruzanna still danced. Patrick still went to the competitions. There was little danger that Dmitri would talk too much about it, but at least he was likely to talk enough.
When they parked and got out of the car, Dmitri stood and surveyed the house for a moment. It was big, well-kept, with a pleasant shady yard. Patrick came to stand beside him. “I forget what an impression it makes the first time. Nice, isn’t it?”
Dmitri made a sound of assent. Then he turned to gaze at his lover. “Would you buy a house like this?” He wasn’t sure why he asked.
Patrick wasn’t sure either. He could have bought a condo any time in the last fifteen years, had nearly done so a few years back. He did want a house, he realized. It was a symbol of permanence, and everything in his life except his profession had been temporary. “I’d like to,” he said. “But not in Glendale.” It got a smile from Dmitri. Patrick gave him a kiss. “Let’s go in.”
June 2005
This summer, a lot more people were seeing ballroom dancing. A TV show from the UK had been adapted for the U.S. market as ‘Dancing with the Stars.’ Dmitri hadn’t said so, but Patrick knew he was hoping the series would drive business to ballroom instructors. The studio where he taught certainly planned to take advantage of it. One of the professional dancers working on the show had been a teacher there. The show had a strong debut, and with any luck it would stay strong. Dmitri needed extra business right now, because Natalia was pregnant. They would dance together for the last time at the Desert Classic in Palm Springs.
Patrick knew Dmitri could find another partner fairly easily. There were always more women seeking partners, and his reputation was good. He and Natalia hadn’t been champions, but they were consistent performers. Until a new partnership got rolling, though, Patrick was hoping to get a little more of Dmitri’s time. If they both weren’t living in such small places, he might even have suggested it was a good time to move in together.
Then he got a tip from one of his real-estate clients about a house going up for sale in West Hollywood. He wasn’t at all sure it was the right time to make this move, but then there probably never was a right time in Los Angeles. The market was always going up. He was fifty. If he was ever going to have his own place, the time was now.
And maybe it wouldn’t be only his own. For the past two years, he and Dmitri had been lovers. You couldn’t exactly call it ‘dating’ because they still didn’t go out very often, and both of them were so conditioned to discretion that they didn’t really act like lovers. There were no public embraces, no witnessed kisses, not even hand-holding. A few touches, here and there, which were disproportionately impactful. Patrick had been out to his family, friends and colleagues since he was twenty-one, but being an out gay man had not been a thing that was acceptable to the mainstream for very long. He’d lost a lot of his high school and college friends over it, not to mention people from the church, not to mention his family. He’d trained himself to behave in a way that straight people found comfortable.
Dmitri, of course, had even stronger reasons not to risk giving offense. His very profession was a matter of derision in some circles. Male dancers were all assumed to be gay by non-dancers. Those people had no idea what a grueling athletic discipline it actually was. It was a niche sport if ever there was one, and a sport involving sequins. Patrick still didn’t really care about ballroom, beyond the fact that it was Dmitri’s world. Nonetheless, he found it strongly annoying that people didn’t appreciate the courage required to take the floor. He didn’t say that to Dmitri, mostly because he embarrassed him enough as it was, saying all those complimentary things. Calling him sexy, strong, graceful, incredible. Beautiful.
Patrick wanted more of him. If this house had promise, maybe Dmitri could be persuaded. He had not, Patrick realized, said ‘no’ very often.
He went to see the house before it was officially on the market. It didn’t have much in the way of style, but it was on a deep lot. Two stories, plenty of square footage, a garage built within living memory. Walking distance from Patrick’s office. That was worth about a quarter of a million dollars right there. The realtor let him wander around, let him think. After rambling over the whole place, Patrick tracked the guy down and said, “What’s under this carpet?”
The realtor snapped to attention. “Hardwood, according to the owner.”
“All the way through?”
“Except the kitchen and the bathrooms.”
Patrick made an impatient movement, because that was obvious. Only a complete idiot laid ceramic tile over hardwood, and there was no level change. He took another lap around the place. Size was fine, location was great, the proposed listing price was acceptable. He knew he could afford it, even on his own. He’d been saving for this for twenty-five years. But would Dmitri like it? He tried to see it through his lover’s eyes, and had to concede that he just didn’t know. They’d only brushed against the subject of possibly living together. Never truly discussed it, even though it would save them both money. What will he think when I ask him, Patrick wondered. Because it was when, not if. And this house was close enough to perfect. “I want to put in an offer.”
Dmitri closed the door behind Patrick. “Is good to see you.”
“Is good to see you too. Kiss me. Mmm, thanks. I’m glad you were free tonight. There’s something I want to tell you, and then something I want to ask you.”
He is nervous, Dmitri thought with surprise. It wasn’t a state he’d seen Patrick in many times. Only once before, in fact, when he brought Dmitri to dinner with his brother’s family. If it had been only the ‘want to tell you,’ he might have thought Patrick meant to say it was time to call an end to their affair. He was well aware that he was an unsatisfactory partner in many ways. But there was the ‘want to ask you,’ which could mean a number of things. “We will eat first,” he said. He knew it sounded like an order. He also knew Patrick would understand that it wasn’t. Somehow the man never misunderstood, even when Dmitri was at his most taciturn.
“Yes.” Patrick followed Dmitri into the kitchen. They were both decent cooks. Given the difficulty in finding hours when they were both free that coincided with normal mealtimes, that was a good thing. Patrick’s routines had been thoroughly disrupted. At first it was amusing. He’d always thought he’d get sick of it eventually, and say catch up with me when you can, you know when I’m available. But he’d never stopped chasing Dmitri, and at this point it seemed likely he
never would. There was no law that said a man had to eat dinner at the same time every night, anyway.
Tonight it was beef stroganoff, with green peas on the side and a strong red wine in their glasses. Patrick didn’t try to make conversation while they ate. This was sufficiently unusual that Dmitri began to feel uneasy. He drained his glass, added a bit more wine, offered more to Patrick. Set the wine bottle down, told himself not to be a coward, and said, “What is it, my love.”
Patrick looked up, startled. Dmitri was growing more demonstrative all the time, but it was still a surprise when he spoke that way. “I love you,” he said. “I put in an offer on a house. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
Dmitri was conscious of a swamping flood of relief. “I was afraid you had grown tired of this.” He knew Patrick would grasp the all-encompassing meaning of ‘this.’ He laid a hand on the table, palm up. Patrick put his in it. Dmitri said the words that were so hard to say in English. “I love you. Where is the house?”
“In West Hollywood. Walking distance from my office.”
“And you wanted to ask?”
“If you would live there with me.” Patrick’s fingers tightened on Dmitri’s, as if afraid he would pull away. “It’s huge. It’s got hardwood floors, once the carpet comes out. Is that too far from where you teach?”
Dmitri would have said it wasn’t even if the place was in Pasadena. He shook his head. “Je t’aime toujours. I would live there with you. When will you know?”
Patrick was managing his breath. He almost couldn’t believe this conversation was going this way. He’d been prepared for a flat No. Or, if not truly prepared, at least halfway expecting. “Soon. Really? You’ll live with me?”
“Yes.” It was starting to sink in. Patrick wanted Dmitri with him all the time, in his home. Wanted to make a home with him. He would never have asked. What if, all this time, Patrick had been waiting for him to ask? He stood up, pulling Patrick out of his chair and into his arms. “Yes.” After a minute or two of simply holding each other, he said, “I will be terrible to live with.”
“Well, it can’t possibly be worse than not living with you,” Patrick pointed out. “Let’s throw this stuff in the sink. We can clean it up later.”
“No, I will. Patrick. Mon cheri.” The taste of wine was strong in Patrick’s mouth, his hair was lush in Dmitri’s hands, his body was warm and desirous and everything Dmitri ever wanted. “Cheri amour.” Somehow they were through the living room, it wasn’t very many steps, and into the bedroom. Dmitri undressed his lover, mouth following his hands, then pushed him gently onto the bed. Patrick lay there waiting, eyes dark and warm in the faint light from a streetlamp outside. Dmitri stripped, put one knee on the bed, leaned down for another kiss. “How shall I love you?”
“Suit yourself, honey. Anything you do right now is going to work for me.”
One more kiss, both of them smiling. Dmitri started kissing his way down Patrick’s body.
Chapter 3
Two weeks later, Patrick’s offer was accepted. A month after that, the loan closed. Immediately after that, a crew went in to strip out the carpets, remediate the floors, and paint the walls. As soon as that was done, Patrick moved into the house. The bits of furniture that were plenty for a one-bedroom apartment were laughably few for a three-bedroom house. Then it was Dmitri’s turn, and suddenly the place was furnished. The third bedroom was empty for now, which suited them both since it would make a perfect home office for Patrick. Dmitri suggested using the den as a practice studio. Patrick counteroffered. “Use the living room instead, it’s bigger. The den is right off the dining room. When we have people over it’ll be nice to keep the traffic all right there with the kitchen and the powder room.”
Having people over was something Dmitri hadn’t even considered. He had friends (though not as many as Patrick) but they were all in the dance world. They saw each other constantly at events. It was more convenient that way, since few of them lived close together. He said all that, because he was making an effort to verbalize. Then he said, “I will like meeting your friends.”
“My other friends,” Patrick said, because Dmitri was first and best. “Now get in my bed.”
Living together was something neither of them had ever done, not as adults. Patrick had lived in the dorm in college. He told Dmitri all about it. About his first boyfriend, about deciding – in 1976 – to come out to his family. About what happened next: the family rupture, the long silence. Living, ever since, on an outer orbit. Then he asked Dmitri about coming to America.
They never had discussed it before. It was such a big subject, and in many ways irrelevant. They were both here; they were together; why waste any of their limited, precious time on things that were long past. But Dmitri understood this had become important. They were lovers now and they were committed, even if neither of them had said so in those exact words. So he made some preparations for a quiet night at home (it was always a thrill, almost a surprise, to think of it that way), and after dinner he told the story.
“My father was a soldier,” he began, glass in hand. “Then an engineer, with the state oil company. Later, an apparatchik.” He glanced over to see if Patrick understood the term. It was not much in use anymore. “He was a negotiator. He traveled. When I was ten years old, I was sent to the state ballet school in Kiev. I was considered to have some talent.”
Patrick said softly, “What was that like,” instead of making the predictable statement about Dmitri’s talent.
“We were all lonely. Confused, away from our families, always tired. Always hungry. We,” he thought about how to say this, “we fed on each other. Even the boys who preferred girls. We were all desperate for touch. And yet all competing with each other. There were only so many places. Those of us who were not principal material might join a corps, or we might be sent to teach in some provincial school. We were all afraid.” It seemed important to say that. Having one’s education managed and paid for by the state sounded like a luxury here in the U.S., where a good education cost many thousands of after-tax dollars. “There was a moment requiring decision, after four years.”
“So you were fourteen.”
Dmitri nodded. “My father was to be sent to New York. He had connections, he pulled strings. My family knew what my future would be like as a dancer.”
“Did he know you were gay?” As far as he knew, Patrick’s long-absent father didn’t suspect. They were in touch only by mail, and neither of them ever mentioned their sex lives.
“Mmm.” Dmitri had never known for sure. They never discussed such things. He performed a gesture that seemed to satisfy his lover. “He brought me with him. We lived with a distant cousin whose parents came to America after the war.” Meaning World War II. Patrick understood. “I was put into school, I had to learn English. And a dance school. They taught ballet, jazz, tap, and ballroom.”
“Ah. And you found your people?” Patrick was smiling now.
Dmitri was too, in his minimalist way. He nodded. “All through high school. My father and I, we never spoke of what would happen when I was eighteen. He still traveled. I never went with him. He was there when I had my birthday, and I thought we would have to speak. I thought I would have to go back. Even though I missed my mother and sister, I didn’t want to go back.”
Patrick gave it a minute. “And then what happened.”
Dmitri sighed. “My father was killed. He was at a liquor store in the neighborhood, buying wine for the family. There was a robbery. There was a gun.”
“Oh, fucking Jesus, Dmitri.” Patrick set down his glass and moved closer. Dmitri wrapped an arm over his shoulders and kissed his cheek. They were quiet for another minute.
“The family, they helped me apply for residency. The dance studio, they helped. It was not quite defection, but something like it. I needed sponsors. The press was involved, because of who my father was. Everyone asked, what would happen if you went back. I said, I would have to serve in the military. I mi
ght have to bear arms against America. I don’t want to. I want to be an American.” Even after so many years, to say these things was upsetting. He took a few deep breaths, grateful for Patrick’s warmth. Drank the rest of his wine, set down the empty glass, turned his lover’s face for a kiss. I love you. Why it was still hard to say, he didn’t know. “I did not see my mother and sister again until Christmas of nineteen ninety-one.” After Ukraine left the USSR.
“God. No wonder.” Dmitri made a querying noise. “No wonder ballroom became your family. At least I still had George.”
“Your brother is a good man.”
“Yes, he is. I think your father was, too.” That was, Patrick thought, enough said. He went for another kiss, trying to communicate I am your family now.
Both of them might have expected that living together would mean they could talk more. Sleep together, eat together, make love whenever they were both home and both felt like it. It appeared that both of them found their constant proximity thoroughly stimulating. They made love in every room of the house, even (with a little ingenuity) the powder room. In the morning, in the evening, in the middle of the night. Dmitri suspected they were both so ravenous now because they’d both gone so many years without having anyone. Or at least, anyone important. “There was never anyone as important as you,” he told Patrick a few weeks in. They were naked at the time, in the hallway that led past the stairs to the back door, and he was trying to decide if he would have Patrick on the stairs or if they should go to the den. Or the dining room. Or outside.
Patrick said something that might not have been a sentence. He was very distracted. They were both aroused, Dmitri had one arm around him from behind, and he was steering Patrick toward the back door. “Honey?”
Dmitri flipped down the switch that controlled the outdoor lights, and opened the door. Walked out with Patrick into the dark. They could hear traffic, and the fountain up against the garden wall. The late-summer air was mild. “Mon amour.” He still had his arm around Patrick. Stroked the other hand through his hair, down his neck, down his body. “Je te veux.”
Change Partners (The L.A. Stories) Page 4
