Of course by the time of his confrontation with Kilburn, everyone thought he was trouble, and they knew he would raise hell if they interfered with him. And things kept right on as before. But Chicago Junior was a world unto itself, way the hell out in the country, with its own rules and customs, and none of the housemothers and administrators could do much to change things. And it was kid stuff, at least that’s what all the adults thought. Let them kiss and hold hands and choke the chicken. What harm can it do? As soon as they grow up and go out into the world and meet girls, all that sissy stuff will vanish. But for Curt it was real. More real than anything he’d ever known or felt in his entire life. And it made him angry to see how disrespected by society it was. How dare anyone call him faggot, tell him how to dress, how to carry himself? What fucking right did they have? He turned back to see if Collin was still sleeping. There he was, flat on his back. Fucking asshole.
He was thirsty and hot. Maybe a Coke would fix him up. But as soon as he thought of going to the refreshment stand, he remembered he’d have to put on his towel. But he didn’t feel like wearing a towel. It was so hot, and he liked the way he looked in his bikini. He liked the way men stared at him in his trunks. He knew he had a cute body. He knew he looked younger than his age. And the boardwalk was packed with men. He wanted to walk up and down the boardwalk and soak in the attention and flirt and maybe ask someone for a cigarette and talk and flirt some more and who knows where it could lead? And why should he capitulate to some blue-nosed rule about proper attire? Look at all those women on the boardwalk wearing next to nothing at all!
He headed towards the refreshment stand. The cops were watching him. Let them watch. He would walk right past them, go straight up to the counter, order his Coke, and fuck ’em if they didn’t like it. He wouldn’t be rude, he wouldn’t be provocative. Wouldn’t camp it up. Just go about his business, like he was entitled to, just like anyone else.
“What the hell you think you’re doin’?” one of the cops said to him. He stood with folded, muscular arms. A pair of aviators obscured his face.
Curt halted. “Going to the soda stand.”
“Not like that you’re not.”
The words lit a match inside him. “Not like what?”
“You can’t walk on the boards without a towel.”
Curt shrugged, walked past him, and stood in line at the counter.
“Hey, pussy, did you hear me?”
Curt looked over his shoulder with contempt. “What did you call me?”
“I called you pussy!”
“Leave me alone!”
The cop moved fast, grabbing him hard by the arm.
“Let go of me, scumbag!”
“Take him back,” the other cop said with dispatch, and his partner yanked Curt around back of the refreshment stand to a shed with a radio and a file cabinet. He shoved him against the wall. Curt heard the door slam and the click of a lock. The room smelled like body odor.
“What’s your name?”
“Curt Watson.”
“Address.”
“I live at the 34th Street Y. So what?”
The cop stepped within inches of him. He took off his glasses, revealing dark brown eyes. He spoke softly. “Lot of homos live there, don’t they?”
Curt said nothing.
Raising his voice: “Don’t they?”
Still nothing.
“Answer me, faggot!”
Curt wiped the cop’s spittle from his face. “Go fuck yourself!”
The cop raised his backhand and swung it with all his might at Curt’s mouth.
Stars burst in the sky, then everything went black.
CHAPTER SIX
La Gioconda’s indefinable smile has been the object of countless explanatory attempts, though its mystery has never been solved. According to Vasari, Leonardo’s contemporary, the smile results from the fact that Leonardo “retained musicians who played and sang and continually jested in order to avoid that melancholy which painters are used to give their portraits.” Sir Kenneth Clark has compared it with the smile of the Gothic statuary of Rheims. Marcel Brion sees La Gioconda as “the last great religious painting.”
“I always preferred Walter Pater’s view,” Sam whispered into Frederick’s ear. “He says she’s a vampire, a deep-sea diver, a seller of shawls in a Middle Eastern bazaar… ”
Frederick chuckled. Sam was one of his oldest friends, and he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather suffer through this experience with. They’d stood in line this frigid February morning a full two and a half hours just to get into the museum when it opened at ten, and then it took another hour to get close to the painting itself, which hung in the Medieval Sculpture Hall against a red velvet curtain in front of the massive Spanish Renaissance choir screen. Two guards from the Louvre were stationed on either side of it, and a pair of US Secret Service men stood at opposite ends of the velvet rope, urging people to keep moving. A reverential hush descended upon the crowd and filled the chapel-like room. Whatever fatigue he might have felt, by the time Frederick stood before the Mona Lisa its undeniable spell had begun to work upon him. Unlike Sam, who muttered catty remarks about the painting’s over-inflated reputation and was preoccupied with its monetary value (“according to the Times it isn’t even insured because it’s priceless”), Frederick stood awestruck, letting sink in the reality that this was no reproduction but the real thing.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” Sam said, reading the information panel to their right. “It was hidden in a chateau in southwest France during the war.”
A peal of sharp laughter broke the general quiet of the room. Frederick turned to see what the commotion was about. There was Curt. His blood ran cold. Curt looked at him with unblinking expressionless eyes. Then he smiled. Frederick responded in kind, but his smile quickly contracted as the memory of being stood up in Washington Square Park six months ago came rushing back as if it were yesterday.
“Someone you know?”
“No. Sort of.”
“That kid with the blue scarf?” Sam was intrigued.
“Please keep moving,” the guard said, and Frederick and Sam were forced to step aside as eager spectators crowded the space they had just occupied. Frederick turned back again and Curt was still looking at him, even as his companions, another young man and a girl, continued to share some joke.
“He’s certainly got his eye on you.”
“It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.”
“You want to speak to him?”
“I can’t make up my mind.”
Frederick looked a third time, as Curt began maneuvering through the crowd.
“Looks like he’s made up your mind for you.”
“Frederick!” Curt said with the sunniest of smiles.
“Hi,” he returned, not knowing whether to show joy or hurt. He felt both. His heart was pounding. “Sam this is Curt. This is my friend Sam.”
“You remembered my name.”
“How do you do?” Sam said with more emphasis, Frederick felt, than was entirely necessary.
“Excuse me, please!” and “keep moving” came from several directions as they realized they’d created a traffic jam where people were trying to head toward the exit. Sam took both of their arms and ushered them off to the side near the wall where there were fewer people.
“It’s good to see you!”
“Yes,” Frederick said, struggling to contain his nervousness. “And you.”
Now Curt’s friends arrived, a young man whom Frederick quickly dismissed as too effeminate and a rather masculine though sweet-faced young woman.
“Collin and Bev. This is Frederick and—what is your name again?”
“Sam,” he said with a light laugh, acknowledging the mild absurdity of the situation.
They both murmured Hi, but Collin was impatient to leave.
“I’m gonna blow my stack if I have to stay here another minute,” he said, showing no interest in polite conversation.
> “I hardly got to see it because this lady kept pushing me,” Bev added. “I was expecting something huge.”
Sam laughed. “So many things in life are like that.” The kids didn’t respond to the joke. “They should be distributing free souvenir posters for all the trouble we went to.”
“What did you think?” Curt asked Frederick.
“I think it’s…fascinating,” he said, and Curt nodded in agreement, looking seriously into his eyes and making Frederick confused, all of a sudden, about what it was they were really talking about.
“I’m gonna split,” Collin said to Bev, as if reacting to what Frederick had just said.
“Oh phooey, all right,” she replied.
They agreed to convene near the information booth in the lobby in fifteen minutes.
Bev said “Nice to meet you” while Collin started heading towards the exit, tossing off “Fifteen minutes” with his back already turned.
Sam tried to make an exit himself. “I have to find the rest room.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I’m a big boy, I can go myself. Shall I meet you at the information booth in fifteen minutes?” Frederick glared at him. “I’ll take that as a yes. Curt, it was a pleasure.” And he was gone.
“This is so incredible! I can’t believe I’ve run into you. That time we were supposed to meet in Washington Square Park—”
“I waited.”
“I am so sorry, Frederick. I was at the beach that day and the craziest thing happened.”
Trying to maintain his dignity, he said, “You don’t need to explain anything.” But he wanted an explanation.
“I swear it wasn’t intentional.” He described the incident at the beach, the dress code on the boardwalk, how the cops provoked him and beat him up. “Then they booked me and threw me in jail for the night. I could only make one phone call, so I called Collin because he was the only person I knew who I could ask to bail me out. I wanted to call you but I didn’t think it was right.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Hell yeah! They broke a tooth, I got a split lip and a black eye.”
“I’m sorry.” But Frederick couldn’t resist. “And the next day, or whenever you got out of jail, you didn’t think to call and explain?”
“I lost your number. I felt so bad but there was nothing I could do.”
He didn’t know how much of it to believe. The story didn’t sound implausible, but he wasn’t ready to forgive just yet.
“I want to make it up to you. I have a feeling about you. I haven’t forgotten what happened when we sat next to each other in the theater, have you?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” he said, and the words were truer than Curt could know.
“So what’ll it be?”
“How old are you?”
Curt laughed heartily, and his laugh brought forth all his beauty. “I’m twenty.”
“Are you in school?”
“I’ll tell you about it when we meet.” He gently touched Frederick’s hand. “I believe in coincidences, and our meeting like this is a sign. We were meant to find each other again. Don’t you feel that?”
“I’m not that kind of believer.”
“Oh well, if you don’t want to see me again…”
Frederick saw Sam approaching from the lobby. He caught Sam’s eye, and Sam waved but kept his distance, seeing that Frederick and the boy were still talking. He held up his wrist, pointed to his watch, and mouthed the words, I’m leaving. Curt half turned but didn’t acknowledge Sam’s presence. Looking again at Frederick, he wore a sly, almost confrontational expression on his face, as if to say, I dare you.
“I do,” Frederick confessed. “I do want to see you again.”
“What about tonight?”
Frederick had planned to spend the evening at home working. But this couldn’t wait.
“Let’s not meet in public so, in case I’m late, you won’t be left—”
Frederick protested.
“No, I’m just saying—”
“Seriously, if you’re not interested—”
“I’m interested, okay? Jeez!” Curt gave an exasperated laugh. “How about if I come to your place? You live alone?”
“Yes. Where do you live?” He asked only because it started to feel as if he were giving everything and getting nothing. In fact, a part of him didn’t want to know anything about the boy.
“I live on 29th Street with Collin. It’s no good, I can’t bring anybody there.”
“Why not?”
“That’s something else I’ll explain tonight. What time, seven o’clock?”
Frederick agreed, producing a pen, and Curt wrote the address and phone number on the palm of his hand. “This way I can’t lose it.”
“What if you sweat?”
“I’m always cool, can’t you tell? I’m also crazy!” Frederick didn’t have time to think about the statement before Curt hugged him. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kiss you. You’ll have to wait till tonight.”
“I’m glad we ran into each other,” Frederick said unbidden.
“Are you?” Curt said with a broad smile and a wink. He made a motion to leave.
“What’s your number?” Frederick asked, as if waking from a dream.
“Sorry, can’t give it to you. Collin would go bananas.” Frederick frowned. “I’ll explain everything tonight!” And he departed, this time without a smile or a wink or anything really, Frederick felt, that might have put a cordial period to the rude, astonishing coincidence of their meeting again. He turned to look at the Mona Lisa once more but all he could see were the backs of other people’s heads.
Frederick sipped his Scotch on the rocks and tried to focus on the task at hand. He chewed the nail of his middle finger. Here he was again, waiting for Curt. It was nearly 7:00 PM. If he was anything of a gentleman, he thought, he’d arrive early as a show of respect to prove he’s serious. But—“gentleman”! It was absurd even to measure him against such an ideal.
A sonata for solo violin by Bach played on the hi-fi. He always found baroque music particularly suited to drawing and writing. Presently he was going over the entry for the Brokaw Residence. Northeast corner Fifth Avenue and East 79th Street. This little castle on its corner site is one of the few remaining town houses which could boast such splendid isolation. Romanesque in many of its details, this mansion is basically of French Renaissance inspiration in its fenestration and roof lines. The marble interiors clove to the Romanesque revival and were some of the finest and most original work of this style. With prodding from Deborah, he’d taken over the job of revising the entries when the Municipal Art Society’s president, Harmon Goldstone, playfully joked at the last annual meeting that, given Alan Burnham’s scholarly pace, the New York Landmarks book should be ready for publication by the end of 1998. It was an odd experience, describing these buildings from bygone eras. He felt as though he were adopting a tone, a vocabulary that wasn’t exactly his own (the marble interiors “clove”?). What amused him, however, was how easily he could slip into boosterism (“some of the finest and most original work of this style”), never mind he’d always found the Brokaw house rather squat and pudgy.
But where was Curt? It was now past seven. His stomach hurt. He lit a cigarette and refilled his glass. The telephone rang.
“Hello.”
“It’s Sam.”
His heart sank. He mustn’t tie up the phone in case Curt was trying to reach him. It was unthinkable he could pull this again. Sam wanted to debrief after their trip to the Met this morning. He was full of questions about the fetching lad they ran into. But Frederick didn’t feel comfortable telling him the whole story. Had the shoe been on the other foot, Sam would have bragged that so young and attractive a man had approached him, asked for a date, their dalliance during My Fair Lady (he would have had a field day with that), but Frederick felt there was something unsavory about Curt, about the way he’d already let Curt walk all over him—the kiss on
Broadway, the degrading scene in Washington Square Park, now Curt and his friends (he wondered if Curt and Collin were lovers).
“I was worried about you. Something didn’t smell right. He’s awfully cute, but you seemed taken aback.”
True enough. So he went through the story, only omitting certain details lest the intensity of his involvement should provoke a lecture. He let slip Curt’s age.
“Ha! In the mood for some chicken, are you?”
Frederick bristled. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“I know you wouldn’t, you’re too genteel. When’s he due to arrive?”
“He was due fifteen minutes ago.”
“Lock the door! Or go out. Tell the doorman if he comes, you’re not in.”
“I know that’s what I should do.”
“Frederick, be careful. I wouldn’t have given him a second chance. I don’t care if he was arrested, you really want to get mixed up with a kid who flirts with danger like that? And then the silly thing loses your phone number! Oh no, not me, doesn’t matter how cute he is.”
What Frederick wanted to say, but couldn’t, was that he felt nearly powerless to change the course of events. And wasn’t sure he would if he could. “Sam, I really ought to go.”
“Let me know what happens.”
He lit another cigarette and poured himself another Scotch. He tried to continue his revisions but found it hard to concentrate.
The phone rang.
“Fred, this is Deborah.” She wanted to talk over the revisions for the book. She’d been relegated to the Bronx and wanted Fred to promise he’d accompany her when it was time to do the site measurements. “Wayne Andrews and Ken Dunshee are supposed to join me, but I’d rather have you. I’m sure if I said you and I were gonna do it ourselves, Burnham would give us the go-ahead.”
“But I’ve got all these Manhattan buildings, plus a few in Brooklyn.”
“I can help you with those. I can’t do the drawings, that’s your department, but I can do the text.”
It wasn’t the revisions, however, that Deborah really wanted to discuss. Alan had just informed her he was adding an index that would break down the entire list of buildings according to four categories—“Are you ready for this?” she laughed—“structures of national importance, structures of local or regional importance, structures of importance designated for preservation, and structures of note filed for ready reference.”
Pennsylvania Station Page 6
