A Winter in Rome

by Francis Gideon

  I took a picture of the nearly-full corkboard two weeks after Alan had turned thirty-five. He sent me back a response within moments.

  This, he wrote. This Craig. This is all I could have ever wanted. Thank you.

  For a time after that, the distance between us wasn't so far.

  *~*~*

  When Alan and I had fallen in love, I was barely twenty-one, and he had just turned thirty-one. He was my art professor in an introductory line-drawing class. I had never taken an art class before in my life, but this one started late in the afternoon on Fridays. I figured it would be a nice break from what I had been used to and a good way to end my week. The first class, Alan walked in fifteen minutes late and smelling like smoke.

  "I'm sorry," he stumbled through an apology as he ran his hand through his dark brown hair. He wore a black blazer, tight black pants, and a button down black top with a—you guessed it—black belt. He coughed like a smoker, and his hands trembled when he set down his briefcase as if he needed another cigarette. When he turned to face us, he looked very tired. "You know, usually, every first class I teach in art, I preface it with a speech about the artist as a genius and how bullshit that concept is. Artists are not geniuses. Artists are people who have gotten to where they are today by sitting in chairs like you are right now and getting ready to work. They show up on time and work late into the night. But now I feel like a hypocrite."

  Alan sighed as he sat down on the edge of his desk. Some people in the class shifted, coughed, and laughed under their breath. "I show up late and I look like a stereotype. So I'm just going to tell you that yesterday was my birthday, and a group of friends here—including the famous Rebecca Black, whose class you should also take if you get the chance—took me out to celebrate. And because I'm thirty-one now, Becca thought it would be funny to squeeze me into my old clothing that I used to wear when I was a skinny kid studying art. I don't quite know why…" Alan said, looking down at himself, genuinely perplexed. "But here I am. I slept on her floor and I feel as if I have fallen back into time by at least seven years. I'm uncomfortable, and I'm sorry. Let me just teach you how to draw, okay? Pretend I don't look like this. I'm Alan, by the way. The class says Professor Winters—or Doctor Winters—but please, call me Alan."

  He turned towards the board without waiting for a response. I had to suppress my awe for him. He was a mess—completely and utterly—but as soon as he began to write and lecture, a different side of him came out. He was professional, approachable, and he interacted with the class well. A few people asked questions, some doodled in the margins, and though I felt as if the class was completely beyond my skill, I stayed because of him. I wanted to see what he looked like without being hung-over.

  The next week, now sober, Alan was still pretty disorganized, but a quiet precision came over his gaze in the classroom. He looked out when we had free drawing time, and seemed to assess every student with a mere glance. I never felt as if I was being judged, though. He just knew what people were thinking a lot of the time, and often gave them individual help based on his assessments. He explained once, during a live drawing session, that he had studied body language for years as an artist. I figured that was how he often knew when the students were bored and it was time to move on. Or, when I kept lingering after class, that he knew it meant I wanted to talk to him, but I was too nervous to say anything.

  "You're… Craig, right? Craig Hanna?"

  I nodded. "I'm not an art major."

  "That's fine. I'm glad you're here. Do you want to stay and ask for help? Go to my office? I know we have an assignment due soon, but don't worry. Those things shouldn't make you nervous. Grades are just the currency we give out here; what's really important to me is that you're drawing something."

  "Thanks," I said. We walked quietly to his office, a large room at the end of the corridor that looked out on the perpetually-snowy side of the building. He sat down at his desk and extended a hand towards one of the seats in front.

  "What can I help you with?"

  "I…I was just wondering about that speech you usually give in each one of your classes at the beginning."

  He rolled his eyes slightly and then looked down at his desk. "Oh, God. I was a mess last week. I'm so sorry."

  "It's fine," I said with a laugh. "It's actually nice to know that profs can fuck up sometimes, too. Or not fuck up, but like… have fun? That everything isn't so serious. I get really overwhelmed when things are serious all the time."

  He tilted his head at me. I was being cross-examined, but I knew it wouldn't hurt. He wasn't assessing to judge; even the most terrible drawing students had done in his classes weren't judged. In Alan's mind, art was never complete. We were all just moving through a long process, one where the course-based academic system made us stop arbitrarily before the real work was done. "Explain more what you mean, Craig. Or can you—do you have time to explain?"

  I didn't, but I stayed anyway. I tried to explain to him why, even though I liked being in university, it frustrated me so much. "I'm smart. Or everyone has told me as much since I was young. But I'm not good at anything. I feel as if I'm just skimming by with knowledge."

  "That's because knowledge isn't actually produced—not in the way capitalism wants you to think. It's not an assembly line of learning. Just because I have a degree doesn't mean I'm done learning. Never. But I'm supposed to sit in front of a class and act like I'm the expert. Like I'm some wonderful and flawless artist. No—not at all. So the speech I usually give is just about that. The myth of the genius, the one creator, and how nothing ever happens that way. Genius does not arise; it is made through years and years of practice, and so often it does feel like you're skimming the surface before you suddenly plunge underneath. You're never done, though."

  "Doesn't that get tiring?"

  "Only if you're obsessed with the end. If you can enjoy the process, well, it gets a little easier."

  I nodded. So much of what he said was supposed to make me feel better, and in some ways, it did. But I was getting headaches every night from thinking and rethinking how I had lived my life up until then. Alan's class had seemed like the most painless on my agenda. Now my mind was swirling as the sun set behind his window.

  As Alan continued to talk, he leaned back in his chair and his blazer fell open. He wore a maroon-coloured shirt underneath, one that matched the back coverings of old books behind him. His pants were nicer than the black ones before; he was dressed as a professor this time around, not as a skinny kid in his twenties. I thought back to him in his tight pants again and my face suddenly flushed. He had looked good then, I thought. He had looked like someone at a club who would make me pause as I suddenly felt desire. But a desire, I realized, I had only felt for women in tight clothing in the past. Inside Alan's office, my stomach twisted into knots and words escaped me.

  "You okay, Craig?" he asked, leaning forward.

  "Yes, fine. I just think I'm late for my next class."

  Alan laughed. "Oh, I completely understand. Can I walk you there?"

  "Yes," I said, mostly because I knew nothing else to say.

  Our departure from one another had been a small wave—but unlike the silent nods or grunts I was used to getting from the male friends I had, Alan's goodbyes were always punctuated with words. "Take care," "nice seeing you,", or "until next week,". Small words, but they were something. I felt, for a while in his class, as if I had been waking up from a long sleep and was forced to talk again. At first my throat was dry, then, after some practice, I began to understand what to do and say. My headaches about life and the frustration of school soon went away.

  I had never been with a man before; never dealt with these feelings for anyone but a girl in high school and two other women in the years I took off before going to university, but I didn't want to turn away. I knew, with time and practice, I would eventually figure myself out. It didn't even occur to me that Alan could possibly like guys, too, or want me back.

  I kept seeing
him during his office hours, just to hang out and talk. I also really needed help in art class, since it became clear that I couldn't draw worth a damn. During my first few weeks, I had been shocked at how much math actually went into art. It wasn't just showing up and splattering stuff on the page. There was time and effort—and equations and grids—in order to finally get good at something. Alan was willing to help, to show me shortcuts on how to complete assignments, and always assure me that it didn't matter if it was bad—all that mattered was that it was there. I appreciated his advice, and I knew that part of him wanted me to succeed, and really, so did I. I had gone from getting As in high school, working for a couple years at easy jobs, to suddenly struggling in academia. It would have helped the image I had of myself as a smart, competent kid if I could succeed. But none of that seemed to matter when I was in his office. Eventually, we just went to see each other, to sit and talk about things, and the art faded into the background.

  One day, he came in with an angry demeanour and shaky fingers. He had been smoking, which usually meant something was wrong.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, fine. Sorry. I need to be more professional. That's what all my teacher evaluations always say, anyway."

  "Well, I'm not evaluating you right now. What's up?"

  He sat down, undid his jacket, as he often did, and sighed. I smelled stale cigarettes from across the room. "A model cancelled. We will have nothing to draw in class today."

  "Ah. Surely, we can draw something else?"

  "I'm not putting a bowl of fruit there, for the love of God. There are too many bad fruit paintings in existence. If we're going to entertain painting exercises like this, then I at least want some fun, you know? People! People are fun."

  I laughed and then, summoning whatever courage I had, joked. "I'll do it—may as well, right? I have no other discernible talents."

  We had flirted in the past. Nothing serious—at least, nothing that I thought was serious. Alan liked to pretend, he liked to joke around about art school and his best friend Rebecca. Playing was a part of learning for him. But as his face dropped and the room became eerily quiet, I realized that I had said something that wasn't a joke. It suddenly became real for both of us—that we wanted to see one another that way—and now, I didn't know how to take it back. I didn't know if I wanted to, even if Alan's face bloomed red.

  "As nice as that is… I think I may just cancel class. Give people Friday off."

  "Oh. That's good of you."

  "Yeah, I should catch up on work, anyway."

  His body was stiff, awkward. It was time for me to leave. When we said our goodbyes, it was in silence. I had finally stunned him into not speaking, and it broke my heart at that moment.

  The next time I saw Alan, I had confirmation of what I now knew: Alan was gay. As I walked from the library where I had been trying to research a history paper, I saw Alan and another man in the parking lot. They stood by a red Camaro car, their eyes narrowed at one another. The man with Alan was a few inches taller than Alan's 5'10" frame, and bigger. He spoke way too loud, and from the way Alan's body lingered close to him, I knew they had been together. Though, as they continued to argue, I wasn't sure for how long.

  I tried to walk by and ignore the display like other people were doing. My car was across the lot, nowhere near them. But as soon as I stepped past a tree and into the sunlight, Alan saw me. Our eyes met and I felt the same blush move through me from before. Alan's eyes softened, as if I had placed a hand on his shoulder and told him it was okay. We knew one another so well in that moment, and even as his boyfriend continued to yell, all he saw was me.

  "You don't even care anymore. When the fuck was the last time I saw you? Never. You're always here, always marking papers. When you do come back, you talk about shit I can't understand, shit I don't care about, shit that doesn't matter."

  Alan sighed, as if he had known this was coming. His eyes moved away from mine. "Then leave."

  "What?"

  "Leave if you don't like it. If what I'm talking about doesn't make sense, find someone who does."

  I waited, my hands balled into fists. There was no explaining, no begging, no excuses. His boyfriend ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head. He shuffled into the Camaro and drove away, muffler too loud. Alan's back relaxed, as if he had been carrying a load he could finally drop. I walked up to him slowly.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  "Yeah, I'm fine."

  "Okay," I said. "I could give you a ride, if you need one."

  Alan met my eyes and we blushed again. He smiled though; something I hadn't seen in a long time.

  "No, I actually live close by. Well, close to the bus stop. I can walk. I think I'll actually enjoy it, especially after... Oh, my God. That should have happened months ago." Alan ran both of his hands through his hair, suddenly relieved. His briefcase fell to the ground and neither one of us bothered to pick it up.

  "Okay," I said, after I felt the moment had passed. "I'll see you in class."

  "Right," he said suddenly, as if he had forgotten that part. He waved as I headed to my car. "See you then."

  When I missed class that week because of the flu, I woke up from a six-hour afternoon nap to an email from him.

  I'm sorry, it read. You caught me at a weird moment last week. I realized I should have taken you up on your offer of a ride. I just get mixed up sometimes of who I'm supposed to be. Professor Winters or Alan or just someone who needs help. Are you okay, by the way? You rarely miss class. I've attached your homework. Just so you know.

  I could image the subtle smirk at the end of the line. I wrote him back a thank-you email—but left it at that. After class the next week, he waited for me by the doorway. Without another word, he followed me to my car and I gave him a ride. He gave directions as he played with my radio, then adamantly demanded I get better music options.

  "The radio station here sucks."

  "They sometimes play good songs. This is your building?"

  He nodded and I pulled into visitor's parking. A sign that read TWO HOUR LIMIT stared back at me, and I thought it was cruel to limit visiting hours to such a short frame of time. Our art classes on Friday were longer. I turned off my car and waited.

  "Come inside," he insisted. "I have lots of art supplies. You're missing something you'll need for next week."

  We both knew it was a lie. I could tell from the way his voice hitched at the end, the careful way he caught my gaze in the mirror. But I felt my heart beat and knew it didn't matter. Practice, I reminded myself. There was no such thing as genius and Alan was a person. We just needed to find a place where we could be together, practice, and see what happened.

  As we went upstairs, Alan held all the doors for me and talked really fast about the building's history, the artist-in-residency program the university did, and how maybe I should start thinking about what I could do with this degree.

  "Not that I'll be your professor for more classes…" he said, trailing off. The thought seemed to upset him, so he moved faster to his door. "And here we are."

  There was art all over his walls. Prints of things I recognized, then originals of what he had done. He had talked to the class before about his own art shows, his dissertation process, and the work he had done in order to get where he was. I felt the way a person must when they finally step off a plane or boat and see the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty. The monuments become more than the stories we're told about them, but something we're finally allowed to witness.

  Next to the art was a lot of blank space, too, as if he was saving up the wall for something important. Light came in from his balcony, where he had old deck chairs set up and an ashtray between them. I could tell by the way he cringed that he thought the display was tacky. But he kept them for some reason—and two of them—as if he and maybe his professor friend Rebecca would sit on the ledge and drink as they graded papers and smoked too much. His kitchen was small, half-empty, and his living room was cover
ed in books. It was a messy place, but it was his.

  "So, this is it," he said. He took off his coat and then took mine. "Come into the art space; that's where the supplies I want to show you are."

  He led the way, taking out a long pencil with numbers and letters on the side, and I pretended to follow along. He kept digging through supplies, talking faster and faster, before I leaned forward and let our fingers touched. He paused then, gaze towards me, as if checking for the tenth time that this was true. That this was what I wanted.

  "Go on," I said. "You were in the middle of a story."

  "I… I forgot," he said, eyes still on me.

  So I finally kissed him. Our lips graced softly, before I took a step forward. He backed up more, grabbing my hands to pull us both towards the wall. I opened my mouth, hot breath and sudden excitement overwhelming me. If he had come any closer, if he pressed our bodies together, my heart would have burst out of my chest and run all over the apartment, ruining the blank canvases. Instead, he merely grabbed my face. His hand moved down my chin as his tongue licked into my mouth. He groaned as he grabbed me, rough, and then rougher. I gasped, and he moaned. He felt as if he'd never let me go. I kissed him faster, harder, but then pulled away so I could catch my breath.