“Nice!” said Peter. “The nook of life.” Resting on the window seat was a pile of magazines, a pair of glasses, and a laptop. Off to one side was the wheelchair.
“It is kinda nice,” said Jonathan. “There’s always something to see—even more in the winter, when the leaves are down. This window is like the best cable channel on earth. Not that I have that much time to watch.”
“The film?”
“We’re working, like, ten hours a day.”
“You film here?”
“We did—Connor and me, the crew. A lot of it is done now, though Connor and I continue to talk on camera. We’re mostly editing, going really fast. My editor and the sound guy even bunk here, upstairs over the studio. Connor and I look at footage every few days. He only lives a few miles away, in Claverack.”
“Sounds grueling.”
“Eh. Keeps me off the street.”
They laughed.
“Lunch in thirty, gentlemen,” said Aldebar, who began setting the round pedestal table that commanded the area in front of the fireplace.
“Well, then I’ll just check e-mail for two minutes, if I may,” said Will. “This is still kind of a work day for me—sorry!”
“No problem. He put your things in the room,” said Jonathan. “Aldebar, do you want to show him? We’ll have a proper tour after lunch; I’ll show you the studio.”
Jonathan took Peter into the library, where several boxes of art, fashion, and architecture books that had been sent up from Chelsea sat open but still packed—though where the books would go wasn’t clear, since the room’s shelves were already filled with what Jonathan called the “upstate” collections: film, intellectual history, and literature. The two settled in a seating area near the windows.
“You boys seem to be getting on,” said Jonathan.
“Will and me? We’re best buddies,” said Peter.
“That’s all—still?”
“He’s complicated, Jon. I’m complicated. The whole situation . . .”
“. . . Is complicated.”
They laughed.
“You know, I’d like to leave this earth with you sorted, darling,” said Jonathan.
“Do you know any priestesses in a cave nearby where we can go and sacrifice a goat?”
“I might,” chuckled Jonathan. “Well, at least you’re companioning. That’s nice. You know I think the world of Will.”
“Good word for it—companioning. Yeah, and that’s not a terrible thing.”
“And I suppose . . . you’re getting to know all about each other?”
“Sure.”
“Each other’s past lives and all that?”
Peter grunted.
“Sometimes I think mine is too much for him,” he said. “Revolution, the plague, the agency, my two last duchesses. It’s a lot for him to swallow. His life—well, college, a few odd jobs, and now the magazine . . . I mean, he’s terribly good at it and really loves it. But I think sometimes he thinks his story can’t compare to mine, or something—because there’s also much less of it.”
“You think he thinks that.”
“Which is ridiculous, because every life is as full as it is, right? It’s not about duration.”
“Tell me about it.”
Peter frowned.
“Oh, Jon—here I am, prattling on about boys when . . . I want to know how you are. Tell me everything.”
“No, I like to prattle on about boys. It makes me feel good. That’s where I’m at these days—trying to feel as good as I can, as much as I can: doing my work, taking care of my friends. Hey, I’m smoking again.”
“You are? You haven’t smoked in thirty years.”
“I know, but I get to do it now. Why not? Aldebar gets me the Sobranies I like. Oh, they’re sublime! Also, helps me keep the weight down.”
His face, deadpan—his comic delivery was sharper than ever. Peter shook his head.
“You’re amazing,” said Peter. “Good thing you have that classic bone structure. Looks good at any weight.”
“Like I said, today is a good day. It’s funny: I was never particularly naïve about mortality. I’m a Jewish boy, so in some ways the Cossacks are always at the door. And we went through AIDS, right? Which was as good a course in mortality as anyone is likely to get, short of war.”
“Sure was.”
“But these days, Peter, I have to say that I’m more aware than ever of . . . the need to die. Not my death so much as death-death. Do you know what I mean? Death happens. I get it. The thing is, it’s not this unalloyed disaster. Somehow, the awareness of the fears, of the regrets and frustrations, of the joys we still have—all that!—feels more like being alive than anything I’ve felt before. It’s so interesting. I just . . . you can’t be this alive when you’re walking around, taking everything for granted.”
As Peter listened he was aware of how quiet the house was, except for occasional cooking sounds coming from the kitchen.
“Of course, it’s not exactly a pleasant feeling,” continued Jonathan. “But on some level it’s almost a kind of compensation—a reward that comes with this state, or can come, if you’re available for it.”
“I see,” said Peter.
“And I find myself desperate to share this feeling—especially since I’m not going to be able to hold on to it for very long. You know? I mean, the film is partly about this, sure, but I want everyone to feel this way—totally aware! Especially the people I care about, like you and Will and Aldebar—and not waste time being half alive.”
“Oooph,” said Peter. The sentiment struck him as parental in the most loving way.
“Which is one reason why I keep coming back to Eliot,” added Jonathan.
“I see you’ve kept the manuscript,” said Peter. The notebook, in its Plexiglas case, sat on a nearby table.
“I’ve been rereading the Quartets. They make more sense than ever. It’s really been helping my work.”
“Wow. I guess I should reread them this weekend.”
“ ‘The still point of the turning world.’ That’s his big idea, Petey.”
“I know. You made me read it.”
“The days fly by and yet time stands still. And I must say I’ve been savoring that sense of stillness, while the world races on.”
Tenderly, Peter leaned forward, took Jonathan’s hand, and kissed it. Jonathan patted Peter’s cheek affectionately. Then, grasping the armrests, Jonathan began to push himself up from the chair.
“Something smells good,” he said, rising and accepting some help from Peter. “Lunch must be about ready.”
“You talk about taking care of other people,” said Peter, as they made their way toward the kitchen. “I was just saying to Will, in the car, how much I envy your ability to take care of yourself. Sometimes I make fun of guys our age, when all they want to talk about is their houses and the fancy hotels they stay at. It’s stupid of me, I know. But you know how to put a roof over your head. That’s a very adult talent.”
“Oh, I don’t know that there’s any trick to it,” said Jonathan.
“Seriously. I’m almost sixty, I’ve got all the money I need, and I’m still renting. I wouldn’t know how to get a home like this into my life.”
“It’s not as hard as you think. You’ll see.”
Lunch turned out to be a steak-and-mushroom potpie, studded with bits of smoked bacon and laced with ale. As Aldebar served from a baking dish, Peter and Will marveled appropriately. He told them it was easy to make—“just a quick stew, with a crust.” It was the four of them, at the table. The cheese was a Double Gloucester.
“A little something to tide us over to dinner,” said Jonathan, as they tucked in.
“I’m impressed,” said Peter.
“He buys the pastry dough at that bakery,” said Jonathan.
“Why not take a little help?” said Aldebar, with a wink. “I’m no cook.”
“Oh, right,” said Will. “This is fantastic.”
A nice fa
mily lunch, thought Peter—or something. He was glad that Aldebar joined them, since the man’s presence at the table answered a question that had been on Peter’s mind since they had walked in the door: How should Aldebar be treated? As more than hired help, certainly. A friend of the family? Or something more like a beloved family retainer, which modern gay life sometimes afforded older gentlemen of means, instead of a mate? It was clear that Aldebar and Jonathan had grown genuinely close, which made it less important whether the relationship would have come about without the employment. It was also clear, from little moments between them—as when Jonathan would pat Aldebar’s hand, or Aldebar would lay a hand on Jonathan’s arm or shoulder—that Aldebar’s duties as a nurse-slash-companion extended beyond traditional boundaries, into some distinctly gay realm of spiritual and physical caretaking, where all of Jonathan’s needs might sync with Aldebar’s skills and generosity in an almost connubial relationship with no precise name. After all, Aldebar bathed and dressed Jonathan, and wheeled him around and saw to his comfort; the operation of Jonathan’s body was now largely Aldebar’s responsibility. Peter knew that, in happier times, his friend had sometimes hired men, short-term, for similarly intimate duties.
Anyway, it was good to see Jonathan being cared for so lovingly—another extension of his talent for sheltering himself. He looked terrible—skinnier than ever, barely ambulatory—but in some ways, Peter thought, he was thriving.
After lunch, Aldebar tidied up and went out to do some errands. Peter said he needed ten minutes to check his messages before the promised studio visit.
“Go and check your e-mail,” said Jonathan, taking Will by the hand and shuffling over to the window seat. “We’ll be right here.”
The guest suite featured twin beds, as in the past, but Peter noticed the bathroom had been redone. Tile had given way to wainscoting in white bead board, except in the shower and bath area, which was now all white subway tile, with retro nickel fixtures. Will’s toiletry kit, in rep-striped silk, had been set out near one of the sinks on the white paneled vanity cabinet, above which, on the windowsill, stood a slender glass cylinder with a few stems of freesia. His toothbrush had been tossed in one of the stainless steel cups on the vanity. Will’s laptop was also set out, on the bedroom desk, with the charger deployed; his duffel bag was neatly stowed to one side of the bed he’d apparently chosen, over the end of which he’d laid his jacket.
Roomies, thought Peter. The thought was both delicious and terrifying.
The mountain view outside the windows might well extend for thirty miles, Peter thought—maybe even as far as the town he grew up in, though that was in a different direction. He’d lived there “in the sticks” until the age of eighteen, when he left for college—not long after Look magazine published a cover story on “The American Man,” featuring the cover line “The sad, ‘gay’ life of the homosexual.”
What in the world ever made me so sure they were wrong . . . ?
After checking his messages and finding nothing urgent, Peter rejoined Jonathan and Will, who were chatting away amiably.
“. . . And no cock to speak of.”
“Oh!”
“But a very nice guy,” Will was saying. “Just not for me, ya know?”
“No, no, no,” laughed Jonathan.
They greeted Peter, who didn’t have to ask whom they were talking about.
“Enrico,” said Will.
“Ah,” said Peter.
“The prince of chandeliers,” said Jonathan. “I know the type.”
Then Jonathan took them, slowly and with a cane, through a passage into the studio wing, where they met the film’s editor—a top guy in his field, Jonathan said—and the sound guy.
“I was wondering who belonged to all those cars in the driveway,” said Will.
The editor showed them the footage he was working on, featuring two talking heads: Jonathan and Connor Frankel.
“Frankel’s never talked so publicly about his sexual identity before,” said the editor. “That generation just didn’t, right? And now he’s coming across with all these amazing insights about his upbringing and his work, the times and the relationship between hiding and creativity, and how America deals with creativity and differentness. Awesome stuff.”
“That’s groundbreaking,” said Will.
“Major,” said Jonathan.
“Jonathan’s the best there is,” said the editor. “A real can opener!”
“You’re giving shape to it all,” said Jonathan. “Which, I might add, is an impossible task, since for months we just talked and talked and talked, and must have repeated ourselves a million times.”
“And you’re incorporating shots of Frankel’s work?” said Will.
“Individual pieces and installation shots, yes,” said the editor. “Some collage, some Ken Burns effect . . .”
“That panning-zooming thing . . . ?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“The art photography itself was a whole thing,” said Jonathan.
Peter felt a pleasant little shock in seeing the cultural journalist in Will in action.
“Do you have a title yet?” asked Peter.
“We’re playing with ideas,” said Jonathan, without elaborating.
“Thanks so much,” said Will. “Good luck.”
“Take care,” said the editor.
“That guy has an Oscar,” said Jonathan, as they made their way back to the main house.
The rest of the afternoon was devoted to quiet working and reading. Peter and Will each made a few phone calls, off in a corner, so as not to disturb the others. At some point Aldebar returned home and took Jonathan upstairs.
At six, cocktails were served, and at seven, dinner. It was “simple, simple, simple,” according to Jonathan: grilled salmon and vegetables with couscous. Aldebar opened a bottle of Riesling and they ate again in the kitchen. In the center of the table was a pair of Depression glass candelabra with stumpy, yellowish candles.
“We don’t really use the dining room anymore, do we?” said Jonathan.
“Not since the music society,” said Aldebar.
“We did a little benefit here this winter,” said Jonathan. “There was a string quartet, we had a nice buffet. . . .”
“You’re a big supporter, aren’t you?” said Peter. “The Hudson Valley chamber something.”
“It’s too much now,” sniffed Jonathan. “They’re in the will.”
They lingered over pear cobbler, while Peter and Jonathan talked about mutual friends and old times. They apologized to the others, saying they didn’t mean to monopolize the conversation this way, but they did anyway and no one objected. When the foundation came up, Jonathan mentioned that Will had officially declined the position of director—something that Peter hadn’t known was a final decision, but that he was happy to hear anyway. Will seemed to know what he wanted, these days. That was great to see. Moreover, something about the boy holding his own in the adult world—chatting with Jonathan’s editor, with Jonathan—made Peter proud.
And in a corner of his mind, there was even a half-formed notion to stop thinking about Will in terms of “the boy,” language he sometimes used when speaking with close friends like Jonathan. Peter sometimes referred to “boys” jestingly among older gay men for whom terms like “boy” and “girl” had evolved from camp to politically correct, to ironically camp. There shouldn’t be harm in framing the idea of a young man occasionally in a witty construct like a Noel Coward song, yet even the glamour of madness about a boy might be detrimental, Peter thought, if one cast someone as the boy too unobservantly.
Right? he telepathically asked Harold, who had been such an apostle of political correctness. Age has made me lax about the boy thing? Peter tried to clarify the notion in his mind, and then dinner was over.
When they rose, Peter and Will both started to help Aldebar clear, but Aldebar gently rebuffed them.
“I’ve got it, thanks—don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t want you to
miss the entertainment.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jonathan, turning to glance outside. “We have to go out on the terrace.”
“The sunset,” said Will.
“I’ll join in a minute,” said Aldebar. “Do people want coffee?”
No one did, and the three stepped outside.
The evening was cool but not cold—fine for sitting a little while and “visiting,” as Jonathan quaintly referred to it. They installed themselves in the sumptuously scaled deck furniture, while looming before them, over green hills now fading into a mute royal flush of mossy grays, was an evening sky ablaze in orange and gold. The sun’s fiery disc hovered just above the landscape, while a spray of altostratus clouds crested up symphonically from the horizon, irradiated from below, edged in mauves that melted into a background of out-dazzled sky blue. It was a scene worthy of one of the noble Hudson River School painters whom Peter had learned to love as a child—Thomas Cole, Frederic Church, John Kensett, and the like: nature’s picturesque majesty prompting the contemplation of Wilderness from the edge of Civilization; the quest for the Sublime, by way of the Beautiful. Only this was no painting. And the real thing, as viewed from Jonathan’s terrace, came with its own sound score: a profound yet buoyant silence that might be composed of a thousand harmonized echoes of a thousand winds swirling in the valleys surrounding them.
“We’re lucky it’s clear tonight,” said Jonathan. “You’re getting a good show. I love this view. It’s a view of time immemorial.”
“Hmm,” said Will.
“If you look the right way, you can see both the glacial and the instantaneous,” said Jonathan. “And everything in between.”
“OK,” said Peter.
“I’m shutting up,” said Jonathan.
Aldebar brought out a tray of three cognacs, and no one made a fuss when he withdrew.
“This is truly a precious spot,” said Peter.
“You like?” said Jonathan. “This is what I came up here for. Chelsea wasn’t really home. This is.”
They toasted silently and relaxed back into the terrace furniture’s thick striped cushions.
“Getting rid of the apartment must have been hard,” said Will.
Now and Yesterday Page 31
