Short Stories

by Lanyon, Josh

  Thomas’s dark brows shot up. “Why would I be offended?”

  “Well, I just mean…”

  Meeting Thomas’s steady, smiling gaze, something clicked into place for Colin. Warmth flooded his face.

  “Oh.”

  Thomas’s grin widened.

  “I’m an idiot.”

  Thomas laughed. “No.”

  “Yeah. I am.” Collin was shaking his head. “God. Now I really am embarrassed.”

  “Why? It’s not like that was a conversation we were ever going to have.”

  “I don’t know why not. We talked about everything else.” Especially at first. Especially after he’d been dumped back into the nest: the fledgling the cat had chewed up. Colin had still been in shock and terrified. For a time it had been hard to let Thomas out of his sight. Thomas had represented safety, security and fourteen-year-old Colin had latched on tight. Thomas had accepted it with good grace.

  Maybe he understood that being taken had done something to Colin. Shattered his belief in people, made him understand how thin the veneer of civilization was, how fragile its protections against what his grandfather only half-jokingly referred to as “the barbarians outside the gate.”

  You didn’t get over that right away — but you did get over it. If you worked at it.

  Colin pushed back in his chair. “It’s too bad we didn’t talk about it. It might have made things easier for me. Knowing an adult who was gay, who I could have asked — “

  “There is no way we were ever going to have that discussion.”

  Colin was a little startled at his vehemence “Sorry?”

  “Nothing.” Thomas rose. “Do you have time for another drink?”

  Colin nodded eagerly and Thomas disappeared inside the bistro. The waitress appeared shortly after with another round. So that was the good news. Thomas wasn’t in a hurry to say goodbye.

  He puzzled over Thomas’s odd attitude about not discussing being gay with him, but then Thomas finally came back, took his seat. He smiled and Colin blinked in the brilliance of that smile.

  “So, why France? Couldn’t you paint in the good old U.S. of A.?”

  “Sure. But Paris…well, Montmartre. Monet, Picasso, Van Gogh.” Colin added prosaically, “Plus it’s over three thousand miles between me and Grandpappy.”

  “Things not so good between you?”

  Colin shrugged. “I just needed a little room.”

  “Three thousand miles ought to do it.” Thomas sipped his wine. “What was the problem? He didn’t want you to become an artist?”

  “If only it was that simple. No. No. He was always supportive. Arranged for me to have tutors, picked the best art college he could find, and started to plan my first show.”

  Thomas said nothing.

  Reluctantly, Colin said, “However I explain this I’m going to sound like an ungrateful shit.”

  “So?”

  “I said I wanted to study in France. That I just wanted to…try and do it on my own. Without his money or the family name to pave the way. I wanted to do it for real.”

  Thomas nodded noncommittally.

  “And that hurt him. I knew it would, no matter how I tried to say it. So then he brought up the kidnapping and said that it wasn’t safe. That it would never be safe for me because I would always be a target now.” He grimaced. “I got angry.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “And I said I’d take my chances. And then he got angry and said that since I wanted to do it all on my own, I could try supporting myself like everyone else had to who wasn’t as lucky to be born into a family like mine.”

  “Oh boy,” Thomas said. That was something Colin had forgotten until now. Thomas never swore. Never. Rarely even raised his voice. Not even when he was negotiating with a raving psychopath who kept threatening to blow a hole in a terrified little kid.

  Colin smiled sheepishly as he said, “It sort of deteriorated from there. I said that suited me fine and he said we’d see if I lasted two weeks.”

  “And you’ve lasted nine and still counting. Have you called him since you got here?”

  “Nope. And I don’t plan on it.”

  “He’s probably worried sick by now.”

  Colin smothered the flash of irritation. “I send him a postcard every week. Knowing Grandpappy, he’s probably got the phone rigged to trace me if I do call. Which means he’d be here on the next flight trying to blackmail me into coming home.”

  “You send him a postcard every week?” Thomas sounded surprised.

  “Yeah. Why?” Colin added, “I mail them from different parts of Paris.”

  Thomas’s mouth twitched like he was trying to keep a straight face. “Tricky.”

  Colin laughed. “No. I know it wouldn’t be hard to find me if he sent one of his henchmen after me. I’m not trying to hide from him, just give myself a little breathing room. I’m nearly thirty, you know?”

  “You just turned twenty-seven.”

  “I’m flattered you remember.” He was, too, which was surely a sign of what a goof he was. Well, once a goof, always a goof. He said earnestly, “God, I wish you were staying longer. It’s so great to see you.”

  Of course that might be all on one side.

  But Thomas was eyeing him in that steady, thoughtful way. He said slowly, “Do you have plans for tonight? Maybe we could have dinner?”

  “No, I don’t have plans. In fact, I could cook if you like.” God knows what he would cook. He’d have to take the money he had put aside for art supplies to buy food fit for company, but it would be worth it to get Thomas back to his place because…well, you never knew. Thomas had hung around chatting with him all afternoon and there was something in the way his gaze held Colin’s just a few seconds too long every time their eyes met…

  Colin wasn’t seventeen now or a virgin, and Thomas Sullivan showing up in Paris for one night was like a fantasy come true.

  But Thomas said, “How about I take you to dinner? You can pick the place — one of your favorites — and we’ll make a regular evening of it.”

  “Seriously?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “I would — yeah! That would be great.” Almost too good to believe.

  “I’ve got some things to take care of. What’s your address? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  Colin gave the address and Thomas jotted it down in a little notebook. Then he pushed back his chair, metal scraping cement, and rose. “I’m glad I found you, Col. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Col. The old nickname. What a lot of memories that triggered — not all good. He didn’t want Thomas confusing him with the kid he had been.

  Colin wasn’t even sure what he answered. He watched Thomas disappearing down the cobbled street, that easy, long-limbed stride, at home anywhere in the world.

  When Thomas was out of sight, he gathered his things and walked in the other direction, up the hill.

  * * * * *

  Colin lived in a 19th century block of apartments and shops. His particular flat was above a boulangerie and every morning he woke hungry from the warm scent of rising bread and buttery croissants drifting through the floorboards. He was very happy if a little lonely. Sure, it was worrying to be poor, to be uncertain that he could make the rent and to have to choose between food and paint, but he was happy just the same. Happy in a way he had never been before.

  It had something to do with pursuing his life’s dream. It had something to do with finally being on his own — and surviving. And it had something to do with the way the morning light streamed through the old windows and the way the silver moon shone over the grey slate rooftops. It had to do with the rustling leaves of the chestnut trees, the old Parisian songs, and the muffled laughter from the cafés below.

  It was all still new, still exciting and vibrant. Maybe that would change one day. Maybe the day would come when he didn’t notice the light or the colors or the shapes and shades of this old and beautiful, foreign city. When he was tired of
being hungry and being lonely. But for now every single day was an adventure.

  And tonight felt like the greatest adventure of all. Thomas Sullivan was in Paris and tonight they would dine together. And, perhaps, if Colin was lucky…

  He went through his meager wardrobe looking for something presentable to wear. Something that wasn’t paint-stained or torn. Not a lot in the jeans, tees, and flannel shirts to choose from. He had not come to Paris to socialize. He found a clean pair of Levis and then he discovered a soft lambswool sweater in a lemony bisque color that he’d forgotten about. It looked nice with his blue eyes and dark hair. Speaking of which: he needed a shave and a haircut.

  He couldn’t do much about the hair; it was always a mop, but he shaved and studied himself narrowly. He looked presentable. More importantly, he looked his age. So hopefully there wouldn’t be any problem there. Assuming Thomas’s mind was running on the same lines as his own.

  Thinking again of the way Thomas’s gaze had held his, the way Thomas had watched him so closely, Colin was pretty sure he wasn’t wrong in believing there was some interest there. He smiled at his reflection.

  At seven o’clock, right on the button, Thomas knocked on his door and Colin’s heart leaped in his throat with something very like stage fright.

  He was smiling at the ridiculousness of that thought as he opened the door and Thomas smiled back.

  “Hey.” Thomas wore dark jeans, navy turtle neck and a leather jacket. He looked unreasonably sexy even in this city that prized elegance and sophistication so highly.

  “Hello.” Colin stepped back and Thomas walked into his small, tidy flat. “Did you have any trouble finding it?”

  “Nope. I’m very good at finding things.” Thomas answered absently, looking around, checking the flat out. There was not a lot to see. An “American kitchen” with a two-burner range, refrigerator, and toaster oven. A few essential pieces of furniture: a battered armoire, a small table and chairs, and lots and lots of canvasses and art paraphernalia. In the closet-sized bedroom was a brass bed — the sheets freshly laundered. “It’s nice.”

  “Thanks. I like it.”

  “Smells good.”

  Colin nodded. “You should smell it in the morning.”

  And perhaps Thomas would, given the way he was smiling as their gazes locked yet again.

  This was one of Colin’s favorite times of day. The twilight turned a rich indigo and purple as the shadows lengthened on the winding streets below. The first stars twinkled over the rooftops. At this hour the 18th arrondissement looked much like it had in the paintings of Van Gogh.

  It smelled just right too: a hint of woodsmoke, a trace of rain, turpentine and paint, all mixed with the heady scent of café crème drifting from downstairs.

  Thomas’s smile wasn’t a promise, or at least not a promise to do more than consider the possibility. All he said was, “Quaint little neighborhood. I couldn’t park anywhere near.”

  “No, it’s a pedestrian square.” Artsy and residential. There were several cafés and about a five minute walk to the Metro stop. A lot of old timers complained Montmartre had changed past all recognition, but in Colin’s opinion it still had a small village feel to it. At least in the daylight hours. Very, very different from anywhere in the States. At night, Montmartre was a nightclub district, but Colin didn’t do nightclubs.

  Thomas walked over to one of the stacks of painted canvasses. “You’ve been busy.”

  “Yes. That’s what I came for.” His nerves tightened. He knew he wasn’t bad. Maybe he was even better than average. He’d sold a few things — but everyone sold paintings in Paris — and it really mattered to him what Thomas thought of his work. Maybe that was silly because Thomas would probably be the first to admit he was no art expert.

  He picked up a canvas; a small study of Cimetière Saint-Vincent.

  When he didn’t say a word, Colin said self-consciously, “I’m trying to do in oil and alkyds what Brassai did with his photographs. You know, capture that mood, that feeling, that emotional texture of Paris at night, the moonlight shining on the wet streets, the secret walkways and gardens, the shadows of iron railings against brick walls.”

  Thomas said slowly, “I don’t know who Brassai is but this is excellent.” He looked up, serious. “These are all really excellent.”

  Colin laughed, scratched his nose in a nervous gesture held over from boyhood. “Thanks. They’re not, though. But I’m getting better.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this. You only paint in black and white? What do you have against color?” Thomas was rallying him, his expression flatteringly impressed as he put the one canvas down and picked up another, this of the Place du Tertre

  “Nothing. There’s a lot of variation in black and white, you know. Besides, I use browns and grays and blues, too. I want to capture the way Paris tastes and smells, you know?”

  “And you think it smells blue?” Thomas was examining the delicate lines and details of the staircase and funicular.

  “In the winter. Brown in the autumn.” Colin loved his browns: burnt umber, raw sienna, burnt sienna, cinnamon, nutmeg, chestnut, bister, fawn, russet…

  “Green in the spring.” Thomas looked up, his eyes quizzical.

  “And summer.” Sometimes — rarely — he used green in his work, very dark green shadings. The greens of moss growing at the base of cracked fountains, or overgrown ivy, or the deepest of forests.

  Thomas had picked up another painting. He said slowly, “And black and white at night.”

  “Yes,” Colin said, pleased — probably disproportionately so — that Thomas got that. Starlight and black water, empty streets and white tree trunks, old buildings and shadowy figures.

  “Looks like a lot of isolated, dangerous places,” Thomas observed.

  Colin kept his expression neutral but it took effort — he had tensed instantly at the suggestion that he wasn’t safe, needed to be more careful, couldn’t afford to take chances. Like he didn’t already know? Like he needed a reminder? But he was not — refused — to live his life in fear.

  “I’m careful.” His voice came out more flat than he’d intended.

  Thomas said, “Good. I’m glad.”

  It had never occurred to Colin to wonder, if he and the adult Thomas were to meet, whether they might have nothing in common. Might not even get along. The idea saddened him.

  Thomas’s look grew inquiring. “Something wrong?”

  Colin shook his head.

  Thomas put the painting aside. “Are you hungry? Did you figure out where we’re going for dinner?”

  Colin shook off the strange flash of melancholy. “I did. Chez Eugene. It’s close by the Basilica du Sacré Coeur.”

  “Near the place where all the artists hang out.”

  “Right.”

  “Place de Tertre.”

  “Place du Tertre, yes.”

  “I was there earlier today.” Thomas seemed about to say more. He changed his mind. “Are we walking or driving?”

  “Let me grab a jacket and we can walk. Unless you’d prefer someplace closer?”

  “It’s a good brisk night for a walk.”

  Colin grabbed his jacket and they went downstairs and stepped out into the cold November evening. The cobbled streets were shining in the lamplight. It had rained, but the shower had passed. There was not a cloud in the night sky. The stars sparkled overhead.

  They walked and talked, continuing up the winding street to Rue Lepic then turning right towards the intersection of Rue des Saules and Rue St-Rustique. Colin pointed out various places of interest. Interesting to him, anyway. He hoped they were interesting to Thomas. If not, Thomas was good at hiding his boredom.

  “The Auberge de la Bonne Franquette was the one of the favorite hang-outs of the Impressionists,” Colin said, pointing out the white restaurant as they hiked past. “Toulouse-Lautrec, Utrillo, a lot of penniless artists lived and worked around here — there’s a museum dedicated to Dali up ther
e.”

  Thomas smiled, his face enigmatic planes and shadows in the lamplight. “I can see why this is Mecca for an artist.”

  “It has been for me.”

  “You do seem…”

  “What?”

  “Happy.”

  “I am.”

  Thomas said quietly, “It’s good to see.”

  And surprising? Probably.

  They followed Rue Poulbot to Place du Calvaire, and at last, right round to Place du Tertre. The square was brightly lit and still crowded with artists and easels, the cafés were ablaze with music and lights.

  They found Chez Eugene without trouble, the famous brasserie in the shadow of the magnificent Basilique du Sacré Coeur. Outside tables with red umbrellas were charmingly arranged between heaters and romantic globe lamps within a white picket fence.

  Inside it was warm and crowded and cheerful. There was confetti on the floor and Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling. There were painted wooden horses and a musical organ, the organ cranking out cheerful Parisian melodies. The waiters were dressed like street urchins from the last century, with caps, suspenders, and cravats.

  “What do you think?” Colin asked.

  He couldn’t read Thomas’s smile at all. It seemed almost…affectionate. “I like it.”

  “Okay, yes, there are merry-go-round horses, but the food is great,” Colin promised. “You’ll see.”

  Thomas laughed, but the food was excellent — as was the wine — and the company was even better. Colin had the lobster ravioli and Thomas had the veal, and they sampled each other’s meals and talked and drank more wine and smiled into each other’s eyes.

  Thomas teased Colin about being a starving artist and Colin teased Thomas about being a cowboy; Thomas was originally from Wyoming and the papers had made a big deal of his “western” background after the daring rescue of Mason Lambert’s sole heir. The fact that Colin had reached the point where he could joke about even that much was probably a good sign, though hopefully Thomas didn’t notice.