“I think I can be a little intense for people,” said Peter. “I’m a pretty open and unblocked human being, you know. I just feel that if there’s a connection, it should be explored, like, now, and a little thing like age shouldn’t matter.”
Jonathan chuckled.
“Little to you,” he said.
“Thirty little years,” said Peter, knowing how absurd the idea was, even as he found it perfectly normal.
“Look at them as members of your team,” suggested Jonathan. “You’re not dating,” he said with a lilt. “You’re hanging out with each other, having fun. If someone turns into something special, you’ll know it. Meanwhile, keep it light, easy.”
“I know, I know,” said Peter. “But I’m stuck with this sense of fate that I felt with Harold. It’s supposed to be this way. So we must rise to the occasion and let destiny be fulfilled. That’s what kept me with Nick for so long, I think. I couldn’t imagine having made a mistake.”
“No, Peter—no fate,” said Jonathan. “Just happy. Fun. Light. That fate thing—comes across as Lonely Guy. I’m being honest with you.”
“But happy, fun, light—aren’t I just enforcing my own loneliness, unless I push for something deeper?”
“You can’t really push these things, darling. You can’t when you’re twenty-two and have all your looks, and you can’t when you’re sixty and a master of the universe.”
Peter sighed. He was lonely—even if, at times now, because he was an adult, he was able to enjoy solitude more than ever. Something else was going on, something he didn’t have a word for. His hunger for bonding with another soul had always felt cosmically urgent; now, since Nick, it had ripened into a kind of starvation. Peter once explained to Tyler that he felt he possessed more than just the knack for couplehood. He said he felt he could breathe comfortably only on that elevated plane of existence where relationships were pure, true, divinely purposed—a thought Peter had hoped at the time might help dissolve Tyler’s infatuation with him, but apparently didn’t. Playing fast and loose with affections was like suffocation to him, said Peter, even if it did make him popular with young guys who were looking for a cool daddy or something. That was fetishization, objectification, whatever. Instead, Peter wanted to be known by another man specifically and completely, and was willing to know that man just as specifically.
Sometimes when he was home alone, Peter found himself desperate simply to share his apartment, since it constituted a form of such personal expression for him. The harmoniously odd bits of furniture and haphazardly acquired art collection all seemed to require more witness than one person could offer. A gag gift that Tyler gave him one day, a beautiful book entitled The Pleasures of Cooking for One, by the legendary food book editor Judith Jones, left him mysteriously enraged. It was unacceptable, the idea of this marvelous woman, cultivated and sensuous, now a widow and dining alone on a little gratin, at the table she and her husband might have found together at an antiques shop one marvelous day in Sag Harbor. As was the idea of Peter living alone in the home he’d thoughtfully fitted out to nourish body and soul—a refuge from city stridence that could gratify the mind with its sensible arrangement of books and objects and files, and feed the soul with the well-ordered flow of dry goods and fresh produce. The delight Peter took in the apartment was so strong that even the dark memory of his losing Harold there—in a wheeled-in hospital bed that scratched the floor—couldn’t dim it.
What happened to delight like that, if not shared? Did it accrue interest, like money in the bank? Or rot, like food on a supermarket shelf?
Of course, beyond the apartment, it was happiness that Peter most wanted to share. He had never been happier! It was the pleasantly predictable result, perhaps, of looking inward and working on one’s self for five decades, after being encouraged to do so in elementary school by well-meaning child psychologists, in high school by radical, Vatican II–inspired nuns, and as a wannabe adult by the entire spirit of the 1960s. At the age of almost sixty, Peter had finally managed to shut down most of the spirit-sucking shame and doubt programs that had once occupied his mind. He was confident now, even buoyant. Sure, it was enjoyable simply to be this way. It was better to share it.
Worshipping with Tyler in a temple like Paul Smith was a small part of the sharing that Peter had in mind—vibing over sweaters meant to re-center you in the redeeming splendor of optimism. Only with Tyler, dear boy, there was no chemistry. Fun, yes, and maybe a little lust. But no real chemistry, and Peter needed chemistry. He always had. And this was a quandary, because Peter had little taste anymore for the maneuvers of lust that gay men used to deploy instantly in their search for chemistry with another man. That jump-into-bed thing felt outmoded now; anyway, Peter couldn’t do it anymore. In this way he felt he might have something in common with younger guys who were contenting themselves with occasional hand jobs in the men’s rooms of their local gay bars, even if it meant that neither he nor they were locating much chemistry.
“You’re going to meet with him?”
“Sure am.”
“The guy is pure evil.”
“Yeah, unlike the rest of our clients, who are only partly evil.”
In a cab, on their way back to the office after Paul Smith, Peter and Tyler talked about Henderson McCaw.
“I just don’t know what it would feel like, to work on an account like that,” said Tyler.
“It would feel like getting paid your usual six-figure salary, wouldn’t it?” said Peter.
“You know what I mean. I came to work for you for certain reasons—we all did. You stand for something—your work does.”
“Look, I’m not going to get us caught up in the wrong thing. I’m only gonna talk to the guy. It’s my corporate responsibility, really.”
“Now there’s a phrase I haven’t heard until now.”
“Nothing wrong with money.”
“Since when have you only been about money?”
“Tyler—enough. You’ll be the first to know what happens.”
“OK,” said the boy, backing down with politeness that was meant to be conspicuous.
It was only a little after noon. Traffic was light. It took both men a second to figure out how to shut off the cab’s backseat video screen, which was blaring nonsense.
“Anyway, on a lighter note,” continued Tyler, “are we going to do the holiday party or not?”
“Oh, shit—yes, we are. Thank you. On that date we spoke about. Hold on.” Peter fished out his phone. “Just us,” he said, tapping in some numbers. “No clients. Let everybody know?” And then he held up a finger to pause the conversation with Tyler. “Jonathan—sorry to disturb,” said Peter. “How are you doing? Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm—good. Mm-hmm—great. Well, listen, I won’t keep you. The bartender you used for your housewarming party—was he any good? Mm-hmm. He seemed good. I need someone for an agency thing I’m doing at my house. Mm-hmm. Can I get his number from you? What did he charge you? Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. And he was thorough and on-time, and all that? Mm-hmm. OK, great. Text me the number. You’re a rock star. I’ll call ya later. Big hug.”
“Yay,” said Tyler.
“Yeah, good,” said Peter. “Agency staff and plus-ones, OK? I want to keep it under fifty. People, that is.”
Will couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the fanciest, if tiniest, New York apartment he’d yet seen.
“Whoa,” he said, stepping into the minuscule entry hall and looking around.
“Take your coat off; make yourself comfortable,” said Enrico, stepping away with a little squeeze of Will’s wrist. “There is a closet on your left.”
It was late, around midnight. Will had met Enrico at G, in Chelsea.
The entire hall, tiny though it was, had been painted in faux marbre to look like the interior of an ancient temple. Doorways leading off to the kitchen, where Enrico slipped away, and to a sitting room, opposite, were framed by trompe l’oeil Corinthian columns and classical pediments. The door to the coat closet was pai
nted with a trompe l’oeil niche featuring a statue of Cupid.
“I’m just getting us a nibble,” said Enrico, from the kitchen.
A delicate console and bijou of a mirror, flanked by two fragile-looking chairs, upholstered in pearl-colored silk that harmonized with the blue-gray of the “marble,” clung decorously to one wall. Surrounding the mirror, which was framed in a band of gilt scroll-work, was a collection of scallop shells in different sizes, carved out of something that looked like ivory, hung in a pattern that appeared at first to be symmetrical, but on closer inspection proved subtly asymmetrical. Then the lighting altered. In a gentle cascade, the wall sconces and chandelier in the hall dimmed, and a little lamp on the console came on. Beyond, in the sitting room, done dramatically in black, lights came up to half, creating a warm, inviting glow. That room looked spectacular, too, though also quite small.
“Go on in,” said Enrico, reappearing with a plate of cheese and nuts.
Will proceeded and tried to take it all in.
“Please feel free to sit, or of course look around,” said Enrico.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a black room before,” said Will. Enrico chuckled.
“Aubergine, please,” he said. “I told you I am a designer.” Enrico spoke with a light accent that Will had learned in the bar was Argentinean.
The room could have been no larger than twelve-by-fifteen feet, yet there were no surfaces or corners that had been left unembellished. The walls, moldings, and floors had been enameled in a lustrous, semi-matte finish that resembled onyx. Such a finish, which draws the eye to every bump and imperfection, would have been disastrous on an old surface, but Will noticed that every bit of wall, molding, and floor in the apartment appeared to have been newly renovated. Even a close look into a corner or at a joint betrayed no messiness.
Impressive, sort of, thought Will.
A writing desk, draped partially with what looked like a tapestry and topped by a life-sized plaster bust of someone agitated, with wind-tossed hair, occupied one corner of the room. Over the desk was a large oil painting of a nude, muscular man who had fallen down or been injured. A large window, festooned heavily in black silk, had been scrimmed over with some high-tech and unobtrusive-looking material.
“There’s no view and not even much light,” said Enrico. “Sit—please.” There was a small black fauteuil, upholstered in yellow with gray medallions, but Enrico indicated the large settee that was the centerpiece of the room. “I think you will be comfortable there.”
The settee was framed by ornate, built-in wooden bookcases with glass doors and set off by a dramatic baldachin suspended above, in black-and-purple-striped draping that hung down on either side of the settee, to create a plush, upholstered nook. Covered in purple striped damask, the settee was topped with silk and velvet pillows and bolsters in purples, grays, and yellows. In front of the settee was a mammoth hassock covered in a black-and-white hide that looked like palomino, which was topped with two piles of overscaled art books and, on a mirrored tray, some mismatched candlesticks and something that looked like an ostrich egg.
“There we are,” said Enrico, placing the plate of cheese down on a book about Derain. “Comfy? How about some wine?”
Will nodded and Enrico, with a touch, opened a disguised door in one of the few blank spots on the wall, to reveal a mirrored bar that sparkled under concealed pin spots with glints from decanters, bottles, stemware, and glass shelving. The inside of the bar door was decorated in three little trompe l’oeil still life paintings, frames and all.
“Burgundy OK?”
“Sure,” said Will.
Will wasn’t quite sure how to be in such a room: remain attentive to all the details clamoring for attention, or ignore them in favor of some cumulative enjoyment of, what, luxury? Delirium? Will decided to do what was recommended in a certain sexual situation that was said to be pleasant but which he’d always found difficult: He tried to relax and open himself to the experience.
“Chin-chin! Welcome,” said Enrico, insinuating himself onto the settee near Will, and pulling up a bolster on which to semi-recline.
“Cheers,” said Will. The only place he could find to put his wineglass after taking a sip was on top of an art book. It looked precarious, but he promised himself to be careful. The fear of staining palomino with burgundy was not far from his mind.
“It’s my little zone,” said Enrico.
“How long have you been here?” said Will.
“Two years. Half of that was renovation.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you own? You must.”
“Yes.”
“How many bedrooms do you have?”
Enrico made an expansive gesture, to indicate the room they were in.
“This is the bedroom,” said Enrico. “There is only one.”
“No. Really?” said Will.
“Yes. This is the bed—we are on it. This comes off”—he pulled up a corner of the damask, to show that it was a large spread—“and I push away the ottoman. Easy.”
“You do?” said Will. “Every day?”
“Every day, every night.”
“Hmm.” Will noticed that hidden among the folds of baldachin drapery was a flat-screen television, mounted to the wall by a hinged arm.
“Yes,” said Enrico. “And the hall becomes my dining room. I can do sit-down for six—eight, maybe, if we are all very good friends.”
“And that’s it—the whole apartment? I mean, it’s gorgeous.”
“Yes, the galley kitchen, you saw where that was, and the little bathroom is over there.” Enrico pointed to another hidden door, the handle of which Will now recognized. “My printer and all that is in the bookcase.”
“And what do you call this style?” asked Will. “I just don’t know very much about décor—design.”
Enrico giggled.
“Good question,” he said. “In school we called it ‘Louis Louis’—which means, mmm, French, classic, but loose. Oh, but you should have seen before the renovation, when I moved here—before I planned this. It was modern, Moderne, and mod, all mixed together! I had a lot of junk, but it was fun, I think!”
Enrico spoke in an animated way that Will found appealing, and he was handsome in a classic sense—with dark hair and eyes, and features formed with almost mathematical precision. His teeth were perfect. And Will knew from various cues—the smoothness of the neck, the muscularity of the hands, the tautness of the waist, all gleaned from some light snogging at the bar—that there was an amazing body underneath the neatly pressed exterior.
“Where did you go to school?” asked Will.
“Well, I was preparing for law in Argentina,” said Enrico. “But then I went to Paris, and apprenticed with one of the big decorators there—very high society. ”
“Out of the blue, you started apprenticing?”
“The decorator—we met at a party.”
“Oh, uh-huh.”
It was clear Enrico came from a good family, or money, or both.
“Then I became very serious and went to a school called Ecole Boulle—very well respected,” said Enrico. “And then I came to New York, to be with a boyfriend, but . . .”
“It didn’t work out?”
“ No.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s better this way.”
Suddenly, Enrico seemed like such an adult. Will had assumed he was no older than his mid-thirties.
“May I ask how old you are?”
“Yes. I am twenty-seven.”
“Ah.”
“And you, if I may ask?”
“Same.”
“Exactly?”
“Exactly.”
It wasn’t such a huge lie, Will thought, as they raised their glasses in a toast to the age of twenty-seven.
“And may I ask what you do, Will?”
Enrico took Will’s hand and began to stroke it gently.
&nbs
p; “I, uh, am temping right now at this law firm,” said Will. “And I’m doing the cater-waiter thing, you know. I just arrived in New York, six months ago. But I’m transitioning into magazine editing. That’s where I want to be. I just had an interview this morning, in fact.”
“Oh, very good,” said Enrico, expressing delight when Will told him the name of the company. “I know some people there.”
“Yeah, I’m hopeful,” said Will.
The interview had gone well, after a shaky start. He had gotten up early and arrived at the building half an hour before his appointment. He wore his only suit, and made it a point to polish his shoes.
“Come in, please. Sit down,” said the head of HR.
“Thank you,” said Will.
The office was small and surprisingly free of personal touches—no pictures or little objects. The desk was clear. The head of HR was apparently a legendary lady who had been in the position for decades. Unlike every other woman who worked at the company, regardless of age or station, the HR lady was distinctly unfashionable. She was dressed in a shapeless blue jacket and collarless white blouse that would have been too plain even for a ’50s Hollywood parody of a librarian. Her short grayish hair was lifeless.
“What brings you in today?” the woman asked.
“I am very eager to work here,” said Will.
“I see. And why here?”
“Well, because you publish the best magazines, and I believe I can contribute in a significant way.”
One of the lady’s eyes was strabismic, and at first Will was extremely self-conscious about where to look. He was uncertain as to which eye to focus on, and tried to look toward the one that was looking most directly at him, and hoping his disconcertment was not obvious.
“And I gather you know Stefan,” said the lady.
“We just met the other day . . . or, night,” said Will.
“He’s one of our most valuable assets. And that’s what this company has always looked for, in all economies—assets.”
“That’s awesome. A company is its people.”
It was only after a few exchanges that Will’s panic about looking at the lady subsided. She seemed to be kind, and Will began to feel as though they were actually having a conversation.
Now and Yesterday Page 9
