Now and Yesterday

by Stephen Greco

  “Mmmm,” said Will, touching the hand that was touching him. “I wanted to, for so long.”

  “Me too.”

  His skin was so luminous, Peter thought—the fingers so thick, the cock so friendly. The idea of unfettered access to all this did feel literally insane.

  “Did you . . . plan to make a move tonight?” said Peter.

  Will thought for a moment, then said no.

  “Did you?” said Will.

  “Uh-uh,” said Peter. “I always wanted to, I was always sort of ready to. But I always felt, I dunno, like I shouldn’t make the first move.”

  “Yeah. Same.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Not that we weren’t close enough, or that it would be weird if it didn’t work out. It was more like . . . I didn’t know what I was feeling for you, or why.”

  “And now you do?”

  “Nope. I only realized—Luz helped me realize—that going to the next level was the only way of finding out about the next level.”

  “Ah. Good advice. I guess I would have gotten around to being that brave, eventually—’cause you’re so fucking amazing—but I kept thinking, ‘Good manners, good manners! Don’t wanna put Will in an awkward spot!’ ”

  “Please, put me in an awkward spot!”

  Peter drew close and began kissing Will’s chest and shoulder. When their cocks instantly became hard, they broke into gales of laughter whose force surprised them both.

  “May I offer you more champagne?” said Peter.

  “Yes, please,” said Will.

  Peter got up and pulled on his shorts.

  “Here, lemme help you,” said Will, pulling on his shorts, too.

  Barefoot, they went into the garden, gathered the champagne things and votive candles onto the tray, and brought them inside.

  “Whaddya say we have a quick shower,” said Peter. “Then I can make a little supper out of the shrimp, with some salad. The filets will keep. Unless you’re hungry.”

  “No, good idea,” said Will.

  But supper didn’t happen until an hour after that, because shampooing each other led to kissing in the shower, and toweling each other afterward led to more kissing, which led to the bedroom, where another round of lovemaking—this one slightly more adventurous than the first, though not exactly dirty—took place on Peter’s freshly laundered sheets.

  It was around ten when they were finally sitting at the tiny table overlooking the garden, shirtless and in shorts again, talking quietly about the real world, over little plates of shrimp and cocktail sauce, arugula salad, and handmade cheddar-dill crackers that Peter had found at a local market. After finishing the champagne, the last drops of which had gone flat, they drank the Bordeaux, since it was open, which, they agreed, didn’t make the worst pairing in the world with the shrimp and mushrooms and crackers.

  Conversation went from Will’s job, and Olivier and Angelina Jolie, to Peter’s job and McCaw.

  “I don’t hate the guy,” Will was saying.

  “No, I know,” said Peter. “That’s the wrong word.”

  “I see that he’s human. I just revile what he stands for, like a lot of people do. Like you do, for chrissakes. Though I accept the fact that you choose to continue working for him. . . .”

  “C’mon—the word ‘revile’ . . .”

  “You know what I mean, Peter.”

  “I don’t agree with the guy.”

  “You don’t agree with the guy or his agenda, yet you give power to that agenda. Which means you validate it. Now, I know this isn’t genocide, but it’s not the same as working for, oh, I don’t know, Gandhi. I may accept your working for him, but I sure as hell don’t approve. And you don’t need my approval, fine, but you do need my respect, I hope. And now, of course, I know you need my body, too.” Will ran his hand seductively over his pec and Peter giggled. “So, mister, you’d better be prepared for some serious persuasion to come your way.”

  “Oh, lord, OK,” said Peter. “Bring it.” He knew this was not the time to bring up the matter of the tagline.

  “I’m bringing it,” said Will.

  “I’m ready,” said Peter.

  They ate some of the lemon tart that Peter had bought for dessert and then Will sheepishly said he had to go.

  “I’m sorry, I planned terribly,” he said. “I wish I could stay, but I have a meeting tomorrow morning and can’t go in my shorts. . . .”

  Peter was disappointed, but said he understood. It crossed his mind to suggest that Will could stay and simply wear something of his, but he decided to remain quiet.

  “Later this week?” said Peter.

  “Definitely,” said Will. “Dinner, sleepover, whatever.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” said Peter. “Whatever works.”

  Everything in the universe had shifted, except the fact that calendars ruled the lives of busy New Yorkers.

  Good-byes in the hallway were tender. Then the car that Will called appeared and he went off into the night.

  “Holy shit,” said Peter, as he walked back into the apartment, alone for the first time in hours, but also not alone for the first time in years. He felt both serene and somehow explosive, as he put away the remaining food, loaded the dishwasher, poured himself a vodka, adjusted the lights, and plopped down in one of the big chairs.

  You happy now? he thought, breaking the room’s silence with a guffaw. Jesus!

  How to think about what had happened? Peter knew his usual, analytical mode of thought, as strong as it was, was still too feeble to describe the cosmic reasons for what had happened; nor could it guide a plan for making it happen again, because such occurrences were sublimely elemental. Anyway, a plan was probably unnecessary, since sex seemed sure to happen again—it just felt that way. This was no one-time recreation; their bodies had clearly concurred in some massive truth. The only path now was to contemplate what had happened, and, possibly, to thank God for it.

  Peter thought better of fetching his iPhone for some music, because no music could possibly be right. So he just sat there in the chair, contentedly, in silence, with the smell of Will still strong on his skin and on his breath. The memory of Will’s touch, of the architecture of his scrotum, of his grace in going barefoot up the iron steps from the garden to the house, carrying a tray of delicate things—these things comprised an opulence on which Peter decided to focus, like a mandala, and meditate. They hadn’t spoken of love, and maybe they would, someday, though to be loved again—that was an opulence even vaster. Peter had numbed himself to the absence of it for so long that even to contemplate it as a possibility, and not a comic-book fantasy, was going to take some . . . coaching. If love were in the offing, they’d coach each other.

  But it must be in the offing, thought Peter. A man who has stood on the surface of the moon, or on the top of Mount Everest, or at the Rialto Bridge on a late spring afternoon in Venice, must always need to return. . . .

  CHAPTER 22

  A few days later, Aldebar called Peter, to update him on Jonathan’s condition.

  “It’s no better or worse than expected,” said Aldebar. “He can’t be out of bed now. I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  “The doctor has been coming twice a week from Albany, but there’s really nothing left to do. We have another nurse now, around the clock—Sofia.”

  “Is he in any pain?”

  “Not really. We’ve started him on morphine.”

  Peter sighed.

  “So he can’t work,” he said.

  “No,” said Aldebar. “That’s all over, I’m afraid. When he can, he talks with Mike, the editor, but he’s so weak. Connor still comes over now and then, and they just talk or sit together without saying anything. No cameras. Sometimes Connor reads to him, but he goes in and out.”

  “Of sleep?”

  “Of lucidity.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s the brain.”

  “I see.”


  “And when he’s aware of it, it terrifies him.”

  “Shit—you mean he can be aware of that?”

  “Yes, sometimes, of course. And it’s a kind of pain we don’t have a drug for.”

  “Ucch.”

  “Yeah. So when it happens we talk, and he tells me what he’s afraid of, or what he sees out there. And it doesn’t necessarily make sense like you and I are making sense right now, but, you know, there’s a mind there, and an intelligence. So I listen and try to join him wherever he is, if you know what I mean. ”

  “God. Aldebar, so what’s the prognosis?”

  “I’m sorry to say we won’t have him for much longer.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “It’s progressing very fast now, Peter.”

  “It is.”

  “I’m very sorry. I know you two are such great friends. We’re just doing the best we can to keep him comfortable.”

  “I know you are, Aldebar. You’re an angel.”

  “We’ve closed the door to visitors, but I thought . . . you might want to come up as soon as possible.”

  Peter closed his eyes.

  “I see,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Aldebar.

  “OK. Well, why don’t I come up on Friday—unless you think sooner. . . .”

  “No, no. Friday is fine.”

  “I should probably come alone, right?”

  “Whatever you think.”

  Before they hung up, Peter made it a point to congratulate Aldebar on being appointed executive director of Jonathan’s new foundation. It was the position they’d once talked about for Will; Peter had heard about the appointment from Jonathan’s lawyer, Mark, since he was on the board.

  “It’s a big responsibility, and of course an honor,” said Aldebar. “But I believe I understand the mission and will be able to execute.”

  “Is that the marine in you speaking?”

  Aldebar laughed.

  “I suppose so,” he said. “But I must say it also reflects the vast amount of knowledge and wisdom I’ve received from your friend over the past few months. He’s truly a gifted human being, as you know—I’ve learned so much from him.”

  “He is amazing,” said Peter. “I’m glad you can see that.”

  “I only hope to have a big enough way to pay him back.”

  That last comment came to echo in Peter’s brain some hours later, when it started to resonate with something else Aldebar had said, about helping Jonathan remain “on his own terms with his body.” Peter didn’t ask him to elaborate and the conversation moved on, and on some level Peter registered the comment as relating to a patient’s right to regulate his own morphine drip, or something. But later Peter began to wonder if he’d missed recognizing an offer, made with elliptical grace, to include him in some end-of-life plan that Jonathan had put in place, which Aldebar knew that some people would find admirable and others might rather know nothing about....

  There was a party that week at a newly built private residence in Tribeca, for a new premium vodka that was being endorsed by the fashion-designer daughter of a legendary rock star. Will’s magazine was cosponsoring, along with the vodka brand and the high-end realtor that was handling the property. Will invited Luz to go with him, and they decided to dress for the occasion.

  Actually, it wasn’t exactly a party, remarked Luz, as they arrived. It was more an industry event pretending to be a party. There was no real host—no one truly to see to your comfort and entertainment. There were only girls in headsets at the door with clipboards, and beyond them brand managers, real estate execs, and photographers—the latter, of course, providing the real reason why people had dressed up and were beaming their brightest party smiles. Everyone was friendly, in a chirpy, generic way, and Will and Luz agreed that generic was indeed the kind of fun to be had at a party like this—in the form of spotting celebrities, downing free cocktails, sampling hors d’oeuvres, and maybe getting into a few paparazzi shots.

  The house itself, too, had a generically upscale feel to it, made all the more obvious by the fact that no one lived there. Technically, it was for sale—a mutely elegant, glass-and-stone, urban “incursion” with many levels and terraces, designed by a young star architect whom Will’s magazine once did a page on. The décor was all staged, the art was borrowed, and the “personal” touches, like candles in the powder rooms, were too contrived to be convincing. Some lucky zillionaire had yet to move in and mold himself into the kind of resident that such a house requires. Meanwhile, on evenings like this, for an hour or two, ordinary people could mold themselves to fit some version of the zillionaire lifestyle.

  “It’s been on the market for over a year now,” Will said, as he and Luz walked down the entry hall and into the soaring two-story living area, which was filled with bubbly guests. Bluish lighting had been specially formulated to dramatize the space’s cavernous design. On a sweeping balcony above, guests on an upper level stood with drinks in hand at the metal-railed parapet, chatting and marveling at the larger-than-life-sized projections of gritty, black-and-white, street-scene footage of New York in the ’70s that were being live-mixed by a VJ. The music pervading the scene said Rio, the beach, a few years from now.

  “Someone built this on spec?” said Luz. “That was brave.” She looked fiercely elegant that evening. She had put her hair up and fixed it with a glittery costume brooch with big blue stones. The enduring glamour of sapphires set off lustrous black locks.

  “Originally, they wanted twenty-nine million for it,” said Will. “I hear it’s come down, like, five times since then. There’s a pool in the basement. Olivier has all the details. It’s his party—I mean, he designed and cast it.”

  “Cast it?”

  “That’s what he calls it.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Come to think of it, I don’t think anything’s ever happened in this building that wasn’t a party.”

  “So it’s a party space pretending to be a house.”

  “And we’re lumps of flesh pretending to be guests.”

  “This lump needs a drink,” said Luz, snatching two cocktails from a passing tray and giving one to Will. “Salud y amor!”

  “Salud!”

  “Mmm,” said Luz, taking a big sip. “At least the drinks are real.”

  “Funny,” remarked Will with a snort. “We did a club party last month with a cognac sponsor. The bars were so jammed, I just grabbed a bottle from the display and began pouring for my friends. We were drinking for, like, five minutes before we realized it was just brown water. . . .”

  “Here he is—here’s the guy,” chimed Stefan Turino, arriving with a trio of stylishly disheveled, conspicuously good-looking young men—probably models—whom Will had never seen before. “The newest star in our world!”

  They shook hands and Will introduced Stefan to Luz, letting the models go unacknowledged except for a generic sweep of the hand that apparently no one found inadequate. He mentioned that Stefan was the one who’d originally suggested Will apply to the magazine.

  “I remember your saying,” said Luz.

  “I’m a natural recruiter,” laughed Stefan. “For the right talent, that is.” He was wearing the same model retro-clunky eyeglasses he was wearing on the night Will met him, only this time in pewter, not black.

  “What do you do for the magazine, Stefan?” asked Luz.

  “Editor at large,” he answered, but he was clearly more focused on Will than on Luz. “I hear you’re set for Argentina.”

  “Can’t wait,” said Will. “Skiing in June.”

  “Terrific. The issue is selling like crazy.”

  “The September issue,” said Will, for Luz’s benefit.

  “And you know we’re trying to tie in this São Paulo fashion week thing we’re doing—same week. So if that happens, we’ll get you up there. Maybe Xiomara will be able to come, too.”

  “Fun,” said Will,

  “We will talk, señor,” said Stefan, saluting jauntily,
as he and the boys moved on.

  “Not fun,” said Will, after they were gone.

  “No?” said Luz.

  “It’s hard trying to be normal and social, and get to know this artist you admire, while at the same time trying to function as a journalist. This trip is going to be work. And now I have to be a brand ambassador for the magazine, too?”

  “It’s glamorous work.”

  “They should pay me more,” said Will. “Actually, I love my job—deciding what’s interesting, how to present it to a couple hundred thousand interesting people. I shouldn’t complain.”

  “For a second, until you introduced him, I thought that was Olivier,” said Luz.

  “Oh, God, no,” laughed Will. “Stefan at least has some blood running in his veins. With Olivier, it’s more like Azzaro Pour Homme or Cool Water by Davidoff.”

  They wound up on a broad, packed terrace, and each had another few drinks and a nibble of coconut-crusted shrimp, while chatting intermittently with people Will knew. There was no view but the backs and sides of undistinguished neighboring buildings, formerly industrial. At some point the music changed and six dancers in white leotards appeared with ice picks to chip away, in military formation, at a coffin-sized ice block that was wheeled out on a cart—after which everyone giddily applauded, though some perhaps expected the result would be a sculpture of an Ice Dagger, the vodka brand’s signature cocktail, and not simply a pile of wet chips. Then Will and Luz decided it was time to leave—which was exactly the moment when Olivier appeared, in a parrot-green suit, with a date in tow, a Ford model named Ilze who seemed sweet but didn’t speak much.

  “My word, don’t you look handsome tonight,” said Olivier, sliding a finger under the lapel of Will’s jacket. “Lindeberg.”

  They shared a few words about how well the party was going—Ilze only listened—while Olivier kept scanning the crowd with a smile broad enough for the entire terrace. He complimented Luz on her hair, then waggled a finger playfully between her and Will.

  “Say, are you two . . . ?” he said, in a tone Will thought might be described as mock-naughty.

  “Nooo,” said Will. “Luz is my roommate and my mentor.”