by Rob Rosen
I heard him come back before I saw him.
“Good! You didn’t move. My boy learns quickly.” He knelt beside me, and his hands began to spread the soothing salve across my back. His touch was as healing as the ointment. “You did very well, Tobias. I am proud of you. Your master is proud of you. Do you hear? You may speak,” he added.
“Thank you, Master. I hear.” I wanted to say more. There was begging inside my mouth, but I was quiet, waiting, feeling his hands, gentle and warm. My cock grew large again. He reached under my body for it and chuckled. “My boy wants more.” He kissed my back. “There will be more, beautiful one, but not tonight. You must heal again. Tomorrow, Tobias. Tomorrow there will be more. Stand up.”
He removed the clamps and put salve on my nipples and in the places on my front where the lash had licked, then wiped his hands on my izaar and held my face up for one kiss, the softest he had given me thus far. It was sweet and full on my lips. “Go now,” he said, gently. “Heal and keep yourself for me again.” He took my izaar, his izaar, I didn’t know which anymore, and vanished into the flames.
Our excavation and examination continued during the day, my pain and pleasure during the night, over several weeks. When it came time to make my next report, my superiors in Baghdad received it with small smiles. “You’ve done well, Toby. Very well. We didn’t think there would be much at Tell Amayia, but you’ve found more than we expected. You’ve earned a better assignment. Go back to Amayia to finish up and then take a few weeks back in the States. You’ll hear from us what’s next for you.” They stood up and shook my hand. I did not smile, and barely thanked them. I would be leaving Tell Amayia. I would be leaving my master.
I spent the night in Baghdad at a fine hotel under clean white sheets and an overhead fan that kept the heat away. I thought of my master. I’d told him I would be gone a night. He gave me permission, but instructed me to save myself for him even so.
The next night, in the ruins, when he appeared in the fire, he saw immediately something was wrong. He commanded me to tell the story, which I did.
For some time he thought. I waited in silence, daring to watch him. Finally, he asked, “You do not want to leave, to return to your home, to go on to some better dig, as you call it?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
“You, Master.”
“A good answer, boy.” I felt something like love cross from him to me. “I have reached my decision. Dig tomorrow as usual, but in a farther place than you have reached before.” He took me to the exact spot.
The next day I did as my master instructed. At first there was confusion among my students. Why were we digging so far from our last point of excavation? But when the hurrahs were raised, I knew they had found the answer. Eric and David came running from the spot to my table, where I was working on my written summation of the dig.
“Come quickly, Toby!” they yelled at me. I trotted after them as they ran.
At the exact spot my master had shown me, the men had found a cache of clay tablets in what looked like Akkadian script and numerals, as well as vessels of copper, silver and gold. It looked as if this tell was something more than a poor outpost after all. I calmed everyone down and directed a careful uncovering and cleaning of the finds. We would need more help and more time to deal with these fantastic new discoveries.
That night my Master asked how my day had gone, which he had never done before. I described the discoveries while he smiled in amusement.
“There will be more, boy, many more,” he predicted. “I give you leave to go to Baghdad to tell your superiors, as you call them. But do not stay the night there. Return to me, Tobias. I did not like the parting last time.” His eyes showed more than I had dared hope for, even in my dreams.
“Master, may I…”
“Yes,” he answered, as if he knew my thoughts. I stepped toward him and we embraced, the dark of his body against the light of mine. “You see, you will not need to leave after all,” he said into my shoulder. “And I will have time, much more time to teach you more delights. Does this make you happy?”
“Yes, Master.”
He pulled himself to arm’s length from me, his eyes serious. “My name is Jinn, Tobias. Say it.”
“Jinn,” I croaked out.
“Jinn,” he repeated, firmly.
“Jinn,” I responded in a stronger voice.
“Good,” he said softly, folding me back into him. “We are master and slave, Tobias, but we are more now, and will be for the rest of your life.” He caressed my back, which he would soon be beating, and fondled my chest, where the clamps would soon pinch and pull. I felt impatient for the lash and the clamps, but knew I must wait. My master would give me what I needed when he knew best. I made myself relax into the strong clasp of his arms and the heat of his body.
The silence was thick around us. The stars gave light from above. Jinn removed my izaar and discarded his. Then, he began.
VIVA
Vincent Meis
Martin awakens to the voice, amplified and angry in the regular pounding cadence of Spanish. It rises and falls with the shifting breeze off the Caribbean, filling each corner, street, dead-end alley and patio, fanning out over the Vedado neighborhood of Havana. Life is at a standstill. Buses and cars are stopped. Banks, stores and offices are all closed. The voice bounces off the nearby walls and into the bedroom. Martin knows the voice, has heard it on TV. It crackles with age, but is still full of fight. It climbs, climbs, climbs up to lofty peaks, each one crowned with the words revolución or socialismo. Martin is reminded just how far he is from home, defying the travel ban, tasting forbidden fruits.
The crowd responds with a roar. Thousands of small island voices join into a giant force a mere two blocks away. Just the day before, he and Leo walked through the Tribuna Anti-imperialista, a large square constructed for massive demonstrations against the United States. The stark, erector-set construction of metal towers and arches is positioned opposite the nine-story building housing the U. S. Interests Section. They stand in a face-off, the open air plaza and the steel and concrete monolith, the tropical island David against the sea to shining sea Goliath.
Martin hears the voice shout, “Elian Gonzalez,” and he shudders. How absurd, he thinks, to keep a boy from his father while the rest of the world delights in the irony of the American family values crowd tearing a family apart. Leo does not share Martin’s political views. The red shirt that Leo’s employer gave him to wear today lies balled up on the floor. He’s already in trouble for the number of times he’s been late to work since they started sleeping together. Now he’s a no-show at the demonstration.
Martin untangles himself from Leo’s embrace, legs crossed here, arms there, limbs coated in sweat where their skin touches. Leo groans and rolls over. The ceiling fan rotates in an unsteady whirl, making Martin wonder if one day it will crash down on them. The whole room looks as if it’s crumbling under the weight of tropical air—paint peeling off the walls, broken tiles on the floor, and a bed that creaks comically during their love-making. He gets up and walks to the balcony doors. He adjusts the slats so he can look out. The street is full with overflow from the demonstration, hundreds of red T-shirts and miniature flags, a red sea with splashes of red, white and blue. A red, white and blue flag in star-and-stripes motif is another thing—like a fondness for baseball, classic cars and a casual approach to life—that the two countries share.
Brown hands envelop cooling soft drinks from the corner bar, and pink tongues skillfully wrap around scoops of shiny ice cream as the people lap, sucking up the trail running down the cone. It’s hard work against the heat of mid morning, their faces further contorted by lines of guilt. A day off for the rally, but they have strayed, like bad puppies, not hanging on the words, the voice. At least they made it out of bed and donned their red shirts.
Leo wakes up with a snort of disgust. “They don’t even let me sleep on a day off,” he says.
Ma
rtin turns and gapes at him. “Uh, it’s not exactly supposed to be a day off.”
“You’re welcome to put on my shirt and join them.”
Leo’s face is puffy from sleep and his thick black hair is like a battle helmet. One hairy leg sticks out from under the sheet. A dark hand against the whiteness caresses a bulge between his legs. He is staring at the older man at the door, scanning his nakedness through the slits of his barely open eyes. From deep in his throat comes a gravelly, “Come here. Tell me what you see.” He nods his head toward the street.
“A sea of people,” Martin says.
“Oh, yeah?” He pats the bed next to him, and the American goes over and kneels on the spot, looking down into the dark depths of the Cuban. Leo reaches up and pinches Martin’s nipples, and then, using them as handles, he pulls Martin down. He nibbles on his neck and then whispers in his ear. “Go on. Tell me what’s out there. I wanna know. Tell me.”
“People in red shirts and lots of little flags…” Leo squishes Martin’s face between his hands and kisses him with a surprising urgency. Sunlight streams in where he left the slats open and lands on the foot of the bed, warming their toes. With their lips still locked, Leo rolls over on top and begins grinding his hips, pressing Martin with his need. It’s been a dry week, and the American has come to the conclusion that his young friend is losing interest in him, two weeks into their summer experiment of living together, a year after they met on the Malecón, not far from where el comandante is now speaking. He remembers that first trip to Cuba, when his sabbatical project got sidetracked. It was also in the heat of summer when Martin, desperate for a bit of air, stumbled upon Havana’s premier cruising place, the seaside walk that skirted the city.
* * *
On that day, Martin took in the Malecón crowd with the wide eyes of a foreigner that had lost his footing. He felt that everyone was staring at him as though he was a mark. A young man sat on the low wall that held back the sea. He put a hand on his crotch, watching him. Martin turned his head quickly toward the cacophony of laughing and raised voices, the sound increasing as he got closer to the center of the crowd. A part of him wanted to be away from this mob of mostly young men, but a number of women, too. He spotted a few older foreign men like himself, leaning toward the younger Cubans with anticipation that buoyed their drooping faces. Unused to witnessing this blatantly sexual, raw solicitation, he stared with a combination of awe and disgust.
About halfway back through the crowd, Martin found a spot and leaned against the wall in the hope of being less obtrusive. A thin young man sitting on the wall stuck out his hand and mumbled something. Martin didn’t catch the name, but to be polite he took the youth’s hand. The boy held on just a moment too long with an inquisitive look on his handsome face, his features somber with full lips, the lower one hanging down slightly and looking a little puffy. Dark eyes peered out from barely open lids, piercing the film through which Martin looked at the world. He didn’t seem like the others, on the make; more like a friendly drunk. Martin was the first to look away, and when his eyes came back to the young man, they rested on the lion’s head tattooed on his right bicep, his scar from a vaccination cleverly incorporated into the nose of the beast.
“You like my tattoo?” His voice enveloped Martin, making him want to talk to him.
“It’s nice. Is it a friendly lion?”
“Sure. Like a little pussycat,” he said, speaking basic English, assuming Martin didn’t speak Spanish. “I have more. Look at this one.” He was wearing a red Nike T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, revealing the one on his other bicep, a long fire-breathing dragon crawling up his arm.
“Does it…uh…hurt?”
“Not now.” He laughed.
“You know, I mean when you got it.”
“It doesn’t hurt much on the arms, the ones in other places hurt a lot more.” He winked, and for a moment Martin thought he was going to show him the other places.
The young man offered Martin a small plastic cup. Martin sniffed the contents. It appeared to be rum mixed with a small amount of lemon soda.
“Don’t worry. I won’t poison you.”
Martin took a swig and winced at his first taste of the hard, biting street product. The Cuban laughed and offered to put in more soda.
“No, that’s okay,” said Martin. He watched two youths a few paces away talking animatedly. They moved their hands and positioned themselves like boxers, dancing around, speaking forcefully. Martin wasn’t sure if it was an argument or just the way Cubans talked to each other.
“You like Cuban guys?” the other man asked.
Martin wasn’t sure how to respond.
Unsatisfied with Martin’s nonanswer, the young man then asked, “You like me?” and then laughed.
Martin focused on an older foreign man and a Cuban youth. They leaned against each other, and then with the uninhibited sloppiness of drunks, they started kissing and fondling. Martin felt the burning sensation of rum in his stomach. He turned back to his new friend, who offered the cup again.
“What did you say your name was?” said Martin.
“Leonardo,” came the reply. “You can call me Leo. And yours?”
“Martin.” He pronounced it “Mar-TEEN,” like in Spanish, so that he wouldn’t have to repeat it multiple times.
He stuck his hand out and they shook again. This time Martin let him hold on. “We already did this,” Martin said, looking down at the joined hands, his a rosy white and Leo’s a creamy brown.
“Yeah, but a person worth meeting once is worth meeting twice.”
Martin chuckled nervously and was surprised to hear his own voice turn almost flirtatious. “Why do you think I’m worth meeting?”
“Because you’re from somewhere else. Because you can tell me about the world out there.” Leo swept his arm toward the dark sea behind him before reaching for the cup. “Come,” he said, patting the seat next to him. Martin hoisted himself up onto the cement, which was still warm from the sun of the day.
In passing the cup back and forth, Leo let his hand fall on Martin’s leg. It felt heavy, and the heat of it seeped through Martin’s jeans. Martin’s thigh twitched, and Leo took the hand away.
“Sorry,” Leo said.
“It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Nothing. It’s my first trip to Cuba…I don’t know. It’s all…different.” Leo passed the cup and Martin drank from it. It didn’t taste strong now, just soothing.
“Let me see your hand.” Leo took Martin’s right hand and joined the palm of his left with it. “Look, they’re the same size.”
Martin started to say, “So what?” but he remained quiet, terrified quiet.
“You have nice hands,” Leo said, still holding onto Martin’s.
“I’m a teacher,” Martin said, as if that explained it, and took his hand back.
“See, when I first saw you I knew you were a person who could teach me something. I would like to be in your class. Sit in the first row.” He sent out flashes of light with his eyes, his smile contagious.
“You don’t even know what I teach. I might teach something like nuclear physics.”
“I doubt it. You look too nice for that. I say something like history or English.” He’d casually let his hand again fall on Martin’s leg, but this time found Martin’s hand and slipped his fingers perfectly into the grooves between the knuckles. Martin’s resistance was fading, but he pulled his hand away just the same.
“What’s wrong?” Leo asked.
“It’s just that…” Leo put his arm around Martin’s shoulders and pulled his head in so that their two heads were touching. Martin could feel Leo’s hair, which had been gelled into a spiky do, stiff against the side of his head.
“Don’t worry. It’s okay.” His voice was like a foghorn, full of bass and vibrato, resonating inside Martin’s head. Martin tried to laugh off his predicament, imagining it was a game that no one was really taking seriously. It was me
rely a flirtation. Martin was not prone to hookups, and thought he could easily tear himself away and go back to the apartment, to fall into a dreamless sleep. He grabbed the cup, took a big swallow and handed it back to Leo, whose eyes, though hardly open more than slits, were locked on to him. He started to stand up, but Leo put a hand on his shoulder.
“What are you thinking?” Leo asked.
“I’m not,” Martin lied. “And you? No, let me guess. You’re thinking about your wife and kids back home.” He threw the remark out in a foggy slur, not sure what part of his addled brain it came from, wanting to continue thinking that this was only play.
“Coño!” Leo said in an obvious disapproval of Martin’s answer, his gravelly voice funny. It was sometimes really low, but when he got excited, it jumped up into a squeaky high range.
A woman appeared, well past middle age, shouting, “Mani, mani, mani,” in a tired voice. She had a bouquet of little white cones in her hand, each one filled with roasted peanuts. She stopped to talk to two young men, and they put a few coins in her hand, each taking a cone. When one of them made a comment, she let out a hearty cackle. The sidewalk parade stopped to look at her for a second before continuing, up and down the sidewalk, on and on. Martin was hypnotized by the movement. The rum and lack of sleep put him in a daze, and he realized that he was leaning against Leo. Leo put his arm around his shoulders. Martin was touched to the point of tears.
He hadn’t felt another man’s touch in months, not since his horrible breakup back in Los Angeles. He felt his sadness flowing out, a slow purge of the frustrations in his life. Being so far from everything that he knew began to take on a more positive light, full of possibilities.
Martin’s memories of their meeting are suddenly broken by Leo’s rough, scratchy voice. “What do you hear? Tell me what you hear.” His words gallop on hot breath. “Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” Leo struggles for air.
