The Millionaire of Love

by David Leddick

  Nevis knew he would have to take a taxi for two hours through the mountains and the night to Plakias. He’d called the Heraklion Tourist Bureau from Paris earlier in the week and was told a price of 10,000 drachmas would be usual for the trip.

  He was having the feeling that the closer he came to Radomir, the more he was receding from him. The sensation, with the fatigue of the trip, was that of operating on two channels. Channel One was the trip to Crete to see a friend who was working in a hotel in a small seashore village. Channel Two was the mythic channel, and on this channel there was a voyage to find someone who perhaps didn’t really exist. Nevis, while on this channel, began to wonder if he had hallucinated Radomir’s entire existence and was wandering off aimlessly into the Cretan night looking for a fiction deep within himself.

  The Sunday before he had left for Crete he had crossed the Tuileries Gardens to visit the Pavillon de Flore at the Louvre. He’d passed a statue of Theseus struggling with the Minotaur. The Minotaur had a beautifully muscled male body; only the bull’s head made it a monster. Theseus’s own beautiful body was thrusting the Minotaur to the ground. Sensuality, if not sexuality, wove the two beautiful bodies together more than their struggle. The Pavillon de Flore was closed because of “a situation beyond their control” the small sign said in English. They offered their apologies.

  Was he pursuing a beautiful mythic monster, he wondered? He got into the taxi in the windy, rainy night. Once underway he scrupulously turned off the myth channel, Channel Two.

  Radomir had written him from Germany several months after the Christmas holiday, with the suggestion that he come to the Loire Valley and renovate Nevis’s house there. At Christmas time Nevis had talked about renovating, and tentatively planned to get it done the following summer. In his letter Radomir said that he had renovated his family’s home in Ohio with his father and felt he was skilled to do this work, and offered to do it for only room and board.

  Nevis called his friend in Germany to see if he thought Radomir was capable of all the wallpaper stripping, replastering, painting, and woodwork scraping that would be necessary, and if he was really serious in his offer.

  The friend said, “He’s very capable. He’s done a lot of things for me here. He could come next week. I’ll be done with him then.” Nevis thought, Once a cunt, always a cunt, and wrote Radomir that he could come. He offered to pay him modestly in addition to the room and board. And he told him that perhaps living alone in an old house in a small French town might be more isolating and less amusing than he anticipated. And that any time he felt he wanted to call it quits, he should feel free to say so and not feel any qualms about walking out on the project.

  An acquaintance from Germany dropped Radomir off at the house in the Loire Valley on a weekend. Nevis and Radomir went to buy supplies together. He let him drive the old Peugeot that was kept in the country, and on Sunday evening Radomir took him to catch his train at Blois. Radomir seemed very confident about the project. Nevis himself had rarely stayed alone in the rambling seventeenth-century stone house and felt misgivings. He called several evenings during the week to check, and Radomir always seemed cheerful and bustling. He had a particular manner of answering the telephone with an upnote on his “hello” which made the caller feel he was delighted to be speaking to him, even if he didn’t know who was calling.

  Nevis decided to go down to the country the following weekend to keep Radomir company. He wasn’t sure his sang-froid wasn’t covering up some trepidation. He had discovered that Radomir was only twenty-two, although he looked and acted several years older than that.

  As Nevis came into the train station at Blois, Radomir was waiting by the outer door. He was wearing his big-shouldered leather jacket, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, and he was scowling. Oh, God, thought Nevis. Oh, God. Oh, God. And he knew he would only be able to keep the brakes on. There was no question of stopping and getting out of this situation. “Heartbreak, here I come,” he sang mentally.

  Nevis took to going to the country most weekends to keep Radomir company. One Saturday morning Radomir said at the breakfast table, “I dreamed about you last night. I dreamed I was looking all though the house for you. I went upstairs and I went through the attic, which in my dream was a dangerous place. I could have been attacked there. I couldn’t find you anywhere. And then I went into Amanda’s room, the tower room, and when I looked out the window I saw you down below, coming back from the village with croissants and things for breakfast. And I was so relieved. I knew you hadn’t really gone.”

  Nevis felt something pull up on the handbrake in his heart. The telling of the dream was so guileless. And it certainly needed no interpretation.

  He got up and went behind Radomir and started massaging his shoulders and neck. He told Radomir that it was a touching dream, but he didn’t say how much. Radomir sagged into his chair and said, “You can give me a massage any time.” Nevis felt another defensive piece move inside himself. He felt on thin ice. As he stood there with his hands massaging Radomir’s strong neck and shoulders his American friend Fritz, who lived down the street, walked into the house unannounced and gave them a reflective look. Nevis knew better than to spring away from Radomir, seated before him. Looking at Fritz he said, “When I’m done here, you’re next.”

  The cab raced through the wet night of Crete. From the map Nevis knew the coast road was excellent and the taxi could make good time. He felt the sea off to the side of the winding, rising, sinking road, but the night was black. He could see nothing. The driver offered Nevis a cigarette. He was glad to take it.

  ~2~

  The First Night on Crete

  The cab turned at random through the gloomy, yellow-lit streets of Rethymnon, the only major town on the way to the south coast of Crete. Then they turned uphill. In the mountain town branches littered the road. Nevis peered though the car windows at the trees still tossing in the high winds.

  Entering a village beyond Rethymnon, the taxi stopped in front of a restaurant. Inside well-dressed Greeks reveled in the final stages of their dinners. At a large table near the entrance the driver joined a group of men. It’s midnight, thought Nevis. How do I explain to this man I’m in a hurry? That someone is waiting? The driver pointed to a chair and, gesturing to the remnants of dinner on the table, said, “You want?”

  “A tea?” Nevis asked. The owner went behind a counter while the driver put bits of shish kebab and fragments of fish from the other men’s platters directly into his mouth.

  Pouring himself a large glass of red wine he again said to Nevis, “You want?” The owner slipped a large glass of tea in front of Nevis so he could shake his head and smile. The driver said, “I drink this. No coffee. Never coffee. This keeps me awake.” Oh, great, thought Nevis, knowing the route wound through mountains, along cliffs, and through gorges.

  Young Greek men were wandering through the village streets under the grape vines as they left the taverns. The night wind still moved gustily and felt damp as they took the road again.

  At regular intervals the driver turned off onto side roads. Nevis had considered renting a car if necessary and now realized how impossible it would have been to find his way. He mulled, not seriously, about being robbed and abandoned on the highway as the road wound on and on. The only other traffic was an occasional taxi heading in the opposite direction. One stopped and backed up to chat with his driver. His occupants, a couple, peered curiously at Nevis, who tried to look mysterious and distinguished. My God, he thought. How much weirder could it get than to be stopped beside another taxi in the dead of night deep in a gorge in the mountains of Crete? They had been descending through narrow looming gorges for some time. Nevis vaguely remembered reading about them in a guidebook.

  Suddenly rushing out between blowing green fields, the driver said, “Plakias just three kilometers.” Nevis dug into his bag and squeezed eyedrops into his eyes and combed his hair. Down a hill toward a suddenly appearing shore they plunged, and at the
first large, white building under a street light the driver stopped. He seemed confused. Beyond the building more street lights glimmered along the curve of the bay.

  “Is this the hotel?” Nevis asked.

  “Don’t know,” the driver said.

  A small sign read HYDRANTHOS BEACH on the building, which was part of a complex that reached back toward the hills. Inside harsh overhead lights fell over a table of four people. A man stood and approached Nevis as he entered the door. “Is this the Hydranthos Beach Hotel?” Nevis asked. The man seemed numb. He was short and faintly oriental looking. He didn’t answer. “Does Radomir Pulkanovic work here?” Nevis asked, trying not to sound hysterical.

  “Radomir, Radomir. Yes. He work here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Maybe in town with friends. Maybe asleep. You want room?”

  “Yes,” said Nevis. “Do you have my reservation?” “Reservation” seemed to be stretching the man’s vocabulary. He reached behind the counter at one side and handed Nevis a key.

  “Number Five,” he said. “Upstairs.” The other three people at the table watched Nevis carefully. Two ugly German women tourists, Nevis thought, and Greek guys trying to get laid. This is some place.

  He climbed a marble stair in a small entryway beyond the restaurant and went down the bleak hall that leads to third-rate hotel rooms everywhere. The equally bleak room stared back at him. He looked out the window at a semifinished building across the street under the street light. I’ve got to find him, he thought and went out into the night.

  The restaurant was attached to a larger complex of buildings, revealing themselves to be somewhat stylish with a pool and flower-filled balconies. A larger lobby showed beyond the pool. This is the real hotel, thought Nevis. I’ve been euchered. An older man was washing the lobby floor and a bartender stood behind the bar counting receipts.

  “Is Radomir Pulkanovic here?” asked Nevis. The older man stared and muttered, “No, no.” The bartender said, “Radomir? That American guy that works at the taverna? No, he’s in town.”

  Nevis walked back out into the tossing night air and headed around the taverna toward the distant lights. There were smaller hotels, a bridge, then more tavernas with terraces, all facing a street that ran along the water’s edge. A few people loitered inside each one. Nevis could easily see none were Radomir. Curious, he thought. He knew I was coming. Will he be here, joking around with his friends, just to show me he doesn’t really care? Just to make the voyage into the labyrinth ever harder?

  A toylike disco popped up, unreal looking as the stormy winds blew and waves crashed in the darkness. Young itinerants lounged on the steps, looking nonchalant, bored, available. It was hard to define the new international manner. They made having no money and nothing to do look interesting.

  Nevis forced himself to go into the disco and peer about. When he was sure Radomir wasn’t the guy in the back with his arm hung around the neck of a frizzy blonde at the end of the bar, he left.

  Walking back through the wind and crash under the pools of light along the quay, Nevis thought of trying to find Radomir’s room and canceled the idea. He went back up the empty marble stairs and when he put on the light in the equally barren room he thought, This is the true bottom. This may not even be the right town. Or the right hotel. He knew it was, and somewhere, probably close by, Radomir lay sleeping.

  In the night the nearby waves continued pounding. The motorbikes of the homeward-bound discothequers roared under the window at regular intervals. Each time one stopped and pulsated below, Nevis got up and opened the blind to see if it was Radomir, returning with his girlfriend on the pillion. Radomir had told Nevis on the phone that he went to a nude beach, so Nevis imagined he might have a motorbike to do so. Then Nevis came to believe that the partially finished motel-type building across the way was where the staff lived. And that he was going to see Radomir going there each time he heard a motorbike stop. Again with girlfriend in tow. As he lay there his heart pounded painfully. He removed the rock-hard pillow from under his head and tried to control his breathing in order to slow down his heartbeat. It was really hurting as it thudded on and on against his ribcage. Through the hysteria he could observe his mind constructing scenarios with some interest.

  Nevis thought of Radomir traveling through Italy with the couple from California with whom he had left Paris. He’s probably sleeping with her, he thought. They were hugging each other rather intensely in the street after we all had dinner together in Pigalle. Nevis didn’t like her because she exposed a wide expanse of her gums when she smiled. And was very serious about ecology. They’re probably catching quick ones in a youth hostel double-decker while her husband is out shopping for vegetables and wine in plastic containers.

  They’re probably all three getting it on together. Beside a campfire among the Etruscan ruins somewhere. He knew this was rather farfetched, but the male of the couple looked like one of those sort of sexy guys who don’t know anything, until suddenly you find them throwing back your covers in the middle of the night in someone’s cold guest room.

  No, he thought, Radomir’s probably fucking his way through a long string of German and Scandinavian backpackers. All with frizzy hair and half-formed features.

  ~3~

  The First Day on Crete

  When Nevis woke up in his room at the Hydranthos Beach Hotel it was eight o’clock. He knew Radomir went on duty at eight. Somewhere inside him a voice said hysterically, “Is he there? Is he there? Is he there?” Another voice said, “You are not going downstairs until nine o’clock. Under any circumstances.” He laid on the hard bed and stared at the ceiling, the sun leaking through the shutters for ten minutes. Then he got up and cranked up the rolling shutter. Below in the early light a woman jogged by in shorts. And a trio of very young American girls came down the road and curved around in front of the hotel. These are the kinds of little girls he sees every day. Who think he’s very sexy. Who all have crushes on him the few days or weeks they’re here. What am I doing? Nevis thought. He laid down on the bed again until eight-thirty and then slowly went through the process of showering, shaving, dressing. As he left the room he looked in the mirror. Not too bad for a superannuated old fool who got two hours sleep last night, he thought, and went down the dim hall and echoing marble steps.

  As he came into the dining room where the proprietor had given him the key the previous night he looked about. Several tables were occupied. No waiters were apparent anywhere. He braced himself for the final shock: “He left this morning early.” “He never worked here.” “We don’t know where he is.” “We never heard of him.” All the possibilities rattled like hail through his brain. And he turned to the counter full of shish kebab and baklava to look into the kitchen to see Radomir standing sideways in the shadows looking at him. Radomir said, “You’re up early.” Nevis thought, I don’t remember his eyes being so very, very gray. Then said, “I got in about one o’clock.” They shook hands across the counter.

  “Oh,” said Radomir, “I asked them at the desk when they thought you’d get here and they told me you couldn’t possibly be here before three. So I went to bed.”

  Nevis asked if he could have a tea and went to a table near a window. Radomir brought him a tray with pot and cup, toast and jam, and a plate filled with little lozenge-shaped cookies. “I gave you a lot of cookies because I know you like sweet things,” he said as he unloaded the tray in front of Nevis. Nevis asked him where his room was, and he explained it was right behind the restaurant. Nevis realized that his guess that Radomir had been somewhere nearby sleeping soundly as he wandered the night had been right.

  After Radomir had been working on the country house about a month, Nevis called him and suggested he come up to Paris for the weekend, instead of Nevis coming to the country. He was feeling guilty that Radomir was working hard and well at the house. He wanted him to have some good times, and he also wanted to see him in the context of friends, rather than employer and empl
oyee. And he was wondering where the long massages he had been giving Radomir might eventually lead. Radomir was taking on a more and more baroque character as Nevis got to know him better! During one massage as he sat atop Radomir working on his chest and the heavy upper arms thrown back over the pillow he said, “What’s this below your nipple, a mole?” From under his slightly opened lids Radomir glanced at him. “It’s an extra nipple. I have an extra vertebrae, too. That’s why I have trouble with my back.” Every time Nevis gave him a massage he examined the miniature nipple and began to think of Radomir as a kind of magical changeling. Someone out of that time when Central Europe was fascinated with alchemy, when kings believed in magic and charlatans and scientists alike provided it.

  When Radomir came to Paris for the weekend Nevis told him to take a taxi the twenty miles to the train station, to come first class, and that he’d repay him. Nevis always traveled first class and always paid the fares of those who traveled with him. He found it too embarrassing to explain to his guests that they should buy first class tickets if they wanted to be with him. And he didn’t want to force them to spend more money than they had planned to. He always paid for any dinner he shared with friends. In his mind the idea of discussing who had the moussaka and who had the shrimp salad placed him with a class of people he had never been in and had no plans to join.

  Through the spring they took turns. Radomir would come to Paris one weekend. Nevis would go down to the country the next. Radomir began studying French with the wife of the mayor’s assistant in the village. Nevis suspected she had a bit of a crush on her student.