He wasn’t deterred in the least by his own audacity. His desire to kiss his friend was evidently stronger than his fear of being rejected. In spite of his own desire for physical contact with Jakob, or for that very reason, Erneste would never so much as have ventured to brush against him, whereas Jakob, the inexperienced young man from Germany, was doing, and doing with complete unconcern, what Erneste would never have dared to do and would always be grateful for. Jakob had no fear of being rejected, so he made the first move. Wherever that move would lead in the end, it now led straight to paradise.
Jakob’s tongue took possession of Erneste’s mouth, invading it unimpeded. Needless to say, Erneste returned the kiss as willingly and ardently as he had received it. His breathing quickened, sucking air from Jakob’s lungs, and his heart pounded. Nothing could have surprised him more than this reckless onslaught, just as nothing could have delighted him more than this fulfillment of his dearest wish. He had never dared to hope that it could genuinely be fulfilled. He had too often dreamed that Jakob’s arms were around him, and now they really were. He was in paradise at last, filled with lust and sensuality, apprehension and fear of discovery.
At first, however, he strove to maintain a certain distance between them, not wanting Jakob to feel how crudely his desire was manifesting itself. Aroused as never before, with his penis engorged to bursting point, he naturally had to maintain this gap of a few inches, this hurdle, only until it was cleared by Jakob himself. When his body abruptly thrust itself against Erneste’s, it was obvious that each of them was as aroused as the other. Their bodies and temperaments complemented each other.
So there they stood on the shrub- and tree-lined woodland path leading down to the lake, closely entwined and inadequately shielded from the gaze of potential witnesses who could not but disapprove because they would regard the sight that met their eyes as “sick and depraved”—the list of current descriptions was a long one. Jakob might not be acquainted with it yet, but Erneste was. Despite this, they not only kissed but began to touch whatever their hands could reach without interrupting their kiss, without severing the bond between their lips. Their hands roamed over shoulders and back, neck and hair, arms, hips and buttocks—or over the cloth, at least, that covered the flesh, sinews and muscles beneath.
It was Erneste who summoned up the courage to put his right hand on Jakob’s penis, whose presence he had long felt. Without hesitation, unafraid of being repulsed, his hand enveloped the cloth beneath which Jakob’s penis strained as powerfully, crudely and shockingly as his own.
Jakob didn’t recoil. On the contrary, he pressed even closer, his penis sliding obediently through Erneste’s fingers beneath the cloth. Erneste felt the glans, gripped the shaft, cupped his hand around Jakob’s testicles. Jakob groaned aloud. Erneste stifled the sound with his lips. Jakob was trembling all over. No one had ever touched him where Erneste’s hand now lay, and while the ball of Erneste’s thumb moved slowly up and down between glans and shaft, navel and scrotum, his own hand soon found its way to Erneste’s penis. He groaned again between two intakes of breath, and this time a sigh escaped his lips. To Erneste, his breath felt like a silken cloth fluttering in his ear.
It was little short of a miracle that no hotel guests or Sunday excursionists crossed their path during those five minutes of perfect bliss. If they had, there would undoubtedly have been a scandal. But Erneste and Jakob had the shameless good fortune to be alone in the world for a few moments, alone and unobserved. Nobody came their way, neither adult nor child. Had they been caught, they would have been dismissed the same day.
Erneste had recommended that Jakob, who felt condemned to inactivity at the sideboard, should be promoted to waiting table, and he’d eventually gotten his way. Monsieur Flamin, who hadn’t failed to notice Jakob’s courteous manner, was persuaded by Erneste to give him suitable employment, at first on the terrace and later in the dining room. He also, when required, provided room service.
Although Jakob’s gratitude to Erneste was beyond doubt, it wasn’t gratitude that had prompted him to kiss Erneste that afternoon. That kiss and embrace were an expression of some other emotion—how profound an emotion, time would tell. He must have known that his behavior represented a threat to himself as well as to Erneste, who found it an abiding mystery why he should so recklessly have exposed himself to the danger of discovery. Not wanting to shake Jakob’s nerve, however, he refrained both then and later from inquiring why he had kissed him that first time, some halfway down to the lake, before they turned around and headed back to the hotel. They had detached themselves after a minute or two, but it was all they could do to keep their hands off each other.
It hadn’t been hard to convince Monsieur Flamin, who had been observing him for long enough, of Jakob’s talents. Having had a few words with him, Flamin announced that he was willing to give him an opportunity after only two months. A smart, good-looking youngster—un jeune homme adroit et flexible avec une pareille jolie gueule d’amour—was always welcome. Had Monsieur Flamin seen the two of them at that moment, he might not have dismissed them even though there was no shortage of willing employees. He would merely have turned away and pretended not to see. Monsieur Flamin wasn’t easily shocked.
It was always the same images that haunted Erneste that night, whether awake or tossing to and fro in a state of semiwakefulness. They were and remained identical: two menacing reflections. He would have certainly been rid of them had he managed to turn on the light and get up, but he couldn’t. He didn’t turn on the light or get up, he lay prostrate, so the images persisted, flowing out of him and back again, drifting through him as he drifted through them. He didn’t turn on the light, took no sleeping pill, waited, fell asleep, dreamed, woke up, dreamed again. It was interminable—an interminable, inescapable, exhausting cycle.
A light was on across the way, he knew. His shadowy neighbor, almost a shadow of himself, was pacing up and down. He knew this although he couldn’t see her. While he was endeavoring to sleep she staunchly remained awake, and he saw two images in his dreams, one of today and one of the old days, both equally motionless, equally distinct, equally cold and crisp, one overlaying and suppressing the other. His soul felt the touch of ice and was touched by it, frozen and petrified.
One image was of Jakob standing motionless in front of the airliner, an image from his imagination, his imaginary image of that morning: a white airliner against a dark background. The other was of Jakob and himself. Not an imaginary image but the actual, authentic moment when they touched and kissed for the very first time. It was so close and clear in his mind’s eye, the incident it represented might only just have occurred. He could feel the other tongue in his mouth without being aware of his own, could feel the pressure of the other body and only now became conscious of his own, a cold body, cold but not unfamiliar. The time of intimacy was long past, cold and incalculable, and the tongue in his mouth might have been composed of nothing—of wax. And while the first image might have signified how far apart they’d grown—he himself had never traveled by air—the other was an unmistakable indication that the gap between them hadn’t widened by a millimeter since then. Even though the other body had become unfamiliar to him, it was unfamiliar but close at hand.
Such were the two images he couldn’t shake off that night, which accompanied him into sleep and wrested him from it once more. He awoke and felt the pressure of his body, fell asleep and continued to feel it, but in either case, whether he was asleep or awake, the images were somber, not warm, not sunny like that summer afternoon in July 1935, but gloomy as the autumnal night that cheerlessly encompassed the town and its inhabitants, his neighbor, himself, and, somewhere or other, Jakob as well. There was darkness around them, darkness in front of the airplane, darkness behind it. Everything was as cold and dreary and confused as his life had been since Jakob’s letter. His life had undergone a minuscule change: sleepy indifference had given way to hectic activity. He could no longer control his though
ts and emotions and hold them in check—couldn’t control them at all. What he had left behind him lay ahead of him once more. It had simply been a comforting illusion to believe that he’d left his time with Jakob behind him; it had never been behind him. He had never left Jakob. Jakob was as present as if he had never gone away; Jakob and he were mutually pervasive. That, at any rate, was what Erneste felt between waking and dreaming in the small hours, after he had opened and read Jakob’s second letter.
It was somewhat longer than the first and made a confused impression. Jakob seemed to have written in great haste. Erneste didn’t know what to make of it. He knew nothing of America and took no interest in politics, which had so far failed to bring him any luck.
Jakob’s second letter read:
My dear Erneste,
I’m writing you again, quicker this time. You haven’t had long to wait. But as you know, I’m still awaiting a reply from you. Perhaps our letters will cross, which is what I’d expect of a true friend. On the other hand, perhaps you haven’t replied because you don’t believe me or want anything more to do with me. I don’t know much about you, but I do know you aren’t married. You can’t hide from me. Does our past mean nothing to you? Why else haven’t you written? Have you seen Klinger? Haven’t you written because you’ve already had a word with him? If so, I’d like to know what he told you. It may well be lies. Lying is his profession, after all. If not, what are you waiting for? I don’t have any time to lose, unlike you. Tell him they’re after me because of him. If the FBI (the police, in other words) are after me, it’s because of him. They’re the same people who were after him before—they thought he was a communist sympathizer. Now they’re after me, the same men who were after Klinger: Weston, Broadhurst, Burlington, and the rest of those scum. He knows them too, they’re still alive. Mention their names to him and you’ll see. They’ve all come crawling back out of the woodwork. He had dealings with them. They’ll arrest me if I don’t get away in time. Either that or I’ll have to bribe them. I need money if I’m to get away from here. I don’t suppose you have any money, but Klinger has. He’s well-heeled, he can help me.
Go and have a word with him. In my lousy life, every minute counts. I’m sure you won’t let your Jakob down.
Love,
Jack/Jakob Meier.
Monsieur Flamin was extremely satisfied with Jakob’s work, as was only to be expected. Jakob did more than his duties prescribed. He was attentive, skillful and quick. He did the donkey-work for other members of staff and was capable of making decisions himself if need be. Monsieur Flamin and Herr Direktor Wagner admired his initiative, his respect for authority, his quick-wittedness, and, last but not least, his unwavering composure. He seemed to have no personal quality that did not merit admiration, and even his less admirable qualities might have been toler ated—and certainly would have been by Erneste—had they come to light. Erneste’s admiration for his beloved friend did not diminish; on the contrary, it grew with every passing day. There was nothing he wouldn’t have forgiven the love of his life, but there was nothing to forgive, not yet. Erneste could detect no flaws in Jakob, only virtues.
Jakob had long ceased to be dependent on Erneste’s advice when he was finally, at the beginning of September, permitted to wait table in the dining room as well. The nights had become distinctly cooler, so dinner was no longer served on the terrace. The guests now dined indoors, where they could continue to dress lightly for a while. There was still a touch of summer in the air, even after nightfall, when the menfolk went out onto the terrace after dinner, or more rarely between courses, to chat and smoke in peace.
Jakob left the terrace, which had become his kingdom, and conquered a new one. He and Erneste were universally popular, especially with female guests and more particularly with unaccompanied widows. It was pleasantest of all to be served by both of them at once. What elegant, handsome young men they were—so much better-looking than all the men of their acquaintance—and what good manners and nice skin they had! If the ladies hadn’t aspired to more ambitious careers for their own children, and if they hadn’t realized that not even waiters stay young forever, they might almost have felt inclined to want them as sons-in-law.
Before long, Jakob was past teaching anything anymore. He had mastered all the tricks of the trade. His smattering of French was cute, his English charming, his deportment impeccable. He had quickly become a perfect waiter, one who could unhesitatingly have been employed in the finest establishments, so the tips he received were lavish. Their munificence was far from inappropriate, given that money cannot be more profitably invested than in one’s personal comfort, and not only on vacation.
Jakob was not only a perfect waiter but a perfect lover. Erneste’s chagrin at not being the only person to enjoy his favors was still to come. In September of 1935 he had Jakob’s affection all to himself.
There were two times of day for Erneste: working hours and the few hours he and Jakob spent unobserved in their little room, a domain to which no one but they had access. It was dark in there, but light enough for them. Chambermaids had no business entering their room, which had running water, so they kept it clean themselves. They were issued fresh towels and bed linen once a month.
During working hours Erneste thought of that other time, the time after work, of nighttime and his other, separate life. And when he passed Jakob at work he thought he discerned in his eyes the same expectancy that made his own heart beat faster, the same yearning for the night to come, the same longing for a second, brief—far too brief—time of day, for the physical contact possible only in the seclusion of their little room, where both of them shared the same desire. Anyone watching them closely must have noticed that the looks they exchanged were more than just friendly. They couldn’t make physical contact during work, but whenever they chanced to pass one another in a doorway or stand side by side in front of the cutlery drawer, they contrived to brush hands or elbows, even hips or thighs. This, too, was seen only by those who chose to see it, in other words, by those who habitually detect something equivocal—or thoroughly unequivocal, depending on their point of view—in everything and everyone. The other waiters treated them with friendly indifference. The others were content with their own, limited horizon, and off duty that seldom encompassed their immediate surroundings, which were unimportant compared to what awaited them back home: girlfriends or wives and families in places no one else had ever seen.
The one time—their hours of work—seemed never-ending, whereas the other time—nighttime—passed in a flash. The nights, which seldom began before midnight, were a princely recompense for all those working hours, but they were short. Erneste still found it hard to believe in his ownership of that other body. As he surrendered his body to Jakob, so Jakob’s was his to possess. Neither of them made any attempt to play coy or hold back. They would eventually fall asleep after all their talk and exertions, Erneste slumped against Jakob’s shoulder and Jakob with his head on one side.
If the days were too long, the nights were too short. The nights seemed to run away with them, escaping their love and leaving behind a dull ache which sometimes became so intense that Erneste started to weep. The two of them had to get up at six, often after no more than three hours’ sleep, because there were always a few guests who wanted their breakfast served at seven.
At night they found it easy to forget their work and their subordinate status. Then, for the first time, they were free: two runaway slaves in an expanse of green meadow very like the Alpine pasture conjured up by the painter of a picture hanging in the breakfast room, a meadow backed by snow-capped peaks.
They rose at six and washed in a hurry, suppressed their mounting desire or failed to suppress it, washed again, put on their waiters’ outfits, knotted their bow ties, and combed each other’s hair because that was quicker than doing it in the mirror. Each was at pains to see that the other looked spruce. Before parting they kissed, with the result that their lips were temporarily redder than th
ose of their colleagues, who would already be waiting for them with impassive faces. They often turned up a few minutes late, their hair still slick with the saliva they’d used to tame each other’s rebellious locks. They were happy beyond a doubt. Fate was favoring them. The situation couldn’t last forever, but it lasted a little while longer.
Sometimes, when Jakob passed Erneste in the lobby or dining room or out on the terrace, or when he lay down beside him at night, Erneste had to fight back the tears. Sometimes he failed to do so, but Jakob couldn’t see this in the darkness. There was no electric light in their room. If they needed light they lit a candle. The moon shone on the front of the building, not into their cramped little attic at the rear, which just had room for two beds, a wardrobe and two chairs. The chairs were used merely as clotheshorses, hardly ever for sitting on.
Erneste may already have sensed that his happiness wouldn’t last forever, but that wasn’t the only reason for his tears. He wept simply because he was happy, and he was happy because he loved Jakob—because of Jakob’s nearness and the touch of Jakob’s hand on his lips, his chest, his belly, his thighs. He slept and awoke in a state of bliss; no other word would do. They were tired, the work was strenuous and the days were long. They seemed particularly long at the height of the season in 1935. July of that year was an exceptionally busy time. Numerous guests—refugees—had arrived from Germany. Quiet, inoffensive, apprehensive people who sometimes got drunk, they lingered in Giessbach, unable to decide when to leave and where to go.
When the moment finally came—when Erneste was lying beside Jakob in bed after midnight—he would fall asleep exhausted in his arms, and Jakob would be asleep already.
A Perfect Waiter Page 6
