Another Country (44 page)

Eric, without moving his head, suddenly opened his eyes and looked blankly around the table. Then he looked sick, rose, and hurriedly vanished. All the students laughed. They were caustic about their vanished comrade, feeling that the character represented by Eric lacked courage. The film ground on, and Eric appeared twice more, once, silent, deep in the background, during a youthful council of war, and, finally, at the very end of the film, on a rooftop, with a machine gun in his hand. As he delivered his one line— “
Nom de Dieu, que j’ai soif!
”— the camera shifted to show him framed in the sights of an enemy gun; blood suddenly bubbled from Eric’s lips and he went sliding off the rooftop, out of sight. With Eric’s death, the movie also died for them, and, luckily, very shortly, it was over. They walked out of the cool darkness into the oven of July.

“Who’s going to buy me that drink?” Eric asked. He smiled a pale smile. It was something of a shock to see him, standing on the sidewalk, shorter than he had appeared in the film, in flesh and blood. “Anyway, let’s get away from here before people start asking me for my autograph.” And he laughed.

“It might happen, my dear,” said Cass, “you’ve got great presence on the screen.”

“The movie’s not so much,” said Vivaldo, “but you were terrific.”

“I didn’t really have anything to do,” said Eric.

“No,” said Ida, “you didn’t. But you sure did the hell out of it.”

They walked in silence for a few moments.

“I’m afraid I can only have one drink with you,” Cass said, “and then I’ll have to go home.”

“That’s right,” Ida said, “let’s don’t be hanging out with these cats until all hours of the morning. I got too many people to face tomorrow. Besides”— she glanced at Vivaldo with a small smile— “I don’t believe they’ve seen each other alone one
time
since Eric got off the boat.”

“And you think we better give them an evening off,” Cass said.

“If we don’t give it to them, they going to take it. But, this way, we can make ourselves look good— and that always comes in handy.” She laughed. “That’s right, Cass, you got to be
clever
if you want to keep your man.”

“I should have started taking lessons from you years ago,” Cass said.

“Now, be careful,” said Eric, mildly, “because I don’t think that’s very flattering.”

“I was joking,” Cass said.

“Well, I’m insecure,” said Eric.

They walked into Benno’s, which was half-empty tonight, and sat, in a rather abrupt and mysterious silence, at one of the tables in the back. This silence was produced by the fact that each of them had more on their minds than they could easily say. Their sexes, so to speak, obstructed them. Perhaps the women wished to talk to each other concerning their men, but they could not do this with the men present; and neither could Eric and Vivaldo begin to unburden themselves to each other in the presence of Ida and Cass. They made small-talk, therefore, about the movie they had seen and the movie Eric was to make. Even this chatter was constricted and cautious, there being an unavowed reluctance on Eric’s part to go to Hollywood. The nature of this reluctance Vivaldo could not guess; but a certain thoughtfulness, a certain fear, played in Eric’s face like a lighthouse light; and Vivaldo thought that perhaps Eric was afraid of being trapped on a height as he had previously been trapped in the depths. Perhaps he was afraid, as Vivaldo knew himself to be afraid, of any real change in his condition. And he thought, The women have more courage than we do. Then he thought, Maybe they don’t have any choice.

After one drink, they put Ida and Cass in a cab, together. Ida said, “Now don’t you wake me up when you come falling in,” and Cass said, “I’ll call you sometime tomorrow.” They waved to their women and watched the red lights of the cab disappear. They looked at each other.

“Well!” Vivaldo grinned. “Let’s make the most of it, baby. Let’s go and get drunk.”

“I don’t want to go back into Benno’s,” Eric said. “Let’s go on over to my place, I’ve got some liquor.”

“Okay,” said Vivaldo, “I’d just as soon see you pass out at your place as have to
drag
you to your place.” He grinned at Eric. “I’m very glad to see you,” he said.

They started toward Eric’s house. “Yes, I’ve wanted to see you,” said Eric, “but”— they looked at each other briefly, and both smiled— “we’ve been kept pretty busy.”

Vivaldo laughed. “Good men, and true,” he said. “I certainly hope that Cass isn’t as— unpredictable— as Ida can be.”

“Hell,” said Eric, “I hope that you’re not as unpredict able as
I
am.”

Vivaldo smiled, but said nothing. The streets were very dark and still. On a side street, there stood a lone city tree on which the moonlight gleamed. “We’re all unpredictable,” he finally said, “one way or another. I wouldn’t like you to think that you’re special.”

“It’s very hard to live with that,” said Eric. “I mean, with the sense that one is never what one seems— never— and yet, what one seems to be is probably, in some sense, almost exactly what one
is
.” He turned his half-smiling face to Vivaldo. “Do you know what I mean?”

“I wish I didn’t,” said Vivaldo, slowly, “but I’m afraid I do.”

Eric’s building was on a street with trees, westbound, not far from the river. It was very quiet except for the noise coming from two taverns, one on either far corner. Eric had visited each of them once. “One of them’s gay,” he said, “and what a cemetery
that
is. The other one’s for longshoremen, and that’s pretty deadly, too. The longshoremen never go to the gay bar and the gay boys never go to the longshoremen’s bar— but they know where to find each other when the bars close, all up and down this street. It all seems very sad to me, but maybe I’ve been away too long.
I
don’t go for back-alley cock-sucking.
I
think sin should be fun.”

Vivaldo laughed, but thought, with wonder and a little fear, My God, he
has
changed. He never talked like this before. And he looked at the quiet street, at the shadows thrown by houses and trees, with a new sense of its menace, and its terrifying loneliness. And he looked at Eric again, in very much the same way he had looked at him in the film, wondering again who Eric was, and how he bore it.

They entered Eric’s small, lighted vestibule and climbed the stairs to his apartment. One light, the night light over the bed, was burning, “To keep away robbers,” Eric said; and the apartment was in its familiar state of disorder, with the bed unmade and Eric’s clothes draped over chairs and hanging from knobs.

“Poor Cass,” Eric laughed, “she keeps trying to establish some order here, but it’s uphill work. Anyway, the way things are between us, I don’t give her much time to do much in the way of straightening up.” He walked about, picking up odds and ends of clothing, which he then piled all together on top of the kitchen table. He turned on the kitchen light and opened his icebox. Vivaldo flopped down on the unmade bed. Eric poured two drinks and sat down opposite him on a straight-backed easy chair. Then there was silence for a moment.

“Turn out that kitchen light,” Vivaldo said, “it’s in my eyes.”

Eric rose and switched off the kitchen light and came back with the bottle of whiskey and put it on the floor. Vivaldo flipped off his shoes and drew his legs up, playing with the toes of one foot.

“Are you in love with Cass?” he asked, abruptly.

Eric’s red hair flashed in the dim light, as he looked down into his drink, then looked up at Vivaldo. “No. I don’t think I’m in love with her. I think I wish I were. I care a lot about her— but, no, I’m not in love.”

And he sipped his drink.

“But she’s in love with you,” said Vivaldo. “Isn’t she?”

Eric raised his eyebrows. “I guess she is. She thinks she is. I don’t know. What does it mean, to be in love? Are you in love with Ida?”

“Yes,” said Vivaldo.

Eric rose and walked to the window. “You didn’t even have to think about it. I guess that tells me where
I
am.” He laughed. With his back to Vivaldo, he said, “I used to envy you, you know that?”

“You must have been out of your mind,” said Vivaldo. “Why?”

“Because you were normal,” Eric said. He turned and faced Vivaldo.

Vivaldo threw back his head and laughed. “Flattery will get you nowhere, son. Or is that a subtle put-down?”

“It’s not a put-down at all,” said Eric. “But I’m glad I don’t envy you any more.”

“Hell,” said Vivaldo, “I might just as easily envy
you
. You can make it with both men and women and sometimes I’ve wished I could do that, I really have.” Eric was silent. Vivaldo grinned. “We’ve all got our troubles, Buster.”

Eric looked very grave. He grunted, noncommittally, and sat down again. “You’ve wished you could— you say. And I wish I couldn’t.”

“
You
say.”

They looked at each other and smiled. Then, “I hope you get along with Ida better than I did with Rufus,” Eric said.

Vivaldo felt chilled. He looked away from Eric, toward the window; the dark, lonely streets seemed to come flooding in on them. “
How,
” he asked, “did you get along with Rufus?”

“It was terrible, it drove me crazy.”

“I figured that.” He watched Eric. “Is that all over now? I mean— is Cass kind of the wave of your future?”

“I don’t know. I thought I could make myself fall in love with Cass, but— but, no. I love her very much, we get on beautifully together. But she’s not all tangled up in my guts the way— the way I guess Ida is all tangled up in yours.”

“Maybe you’re just not in love with
her
. You haven’t got to be in love every time you go to bed. You haven’t
got
to be in love to have a good affair.”

Eric was silent. Then, “No. But once you
have
been—!”

And he stared into his drink. “Yes,” Vivaldo said at last, “yes, I know.”

“I think,” said Eric, “that I’ve really got to accept— or decide— some very strange things. Right away.”

He walked into the dark kitchen, returned with ice, and spiked his drink, and Vivaldo’s. He sat down again in his straight chair. “I’ve spent years now, it seems to me, thinking that one fine day I’d wake up and all my torment would be over, and all my indecision would end— and that no man, no boy, no
male
— would ever have power over me again.”

Vivaldo blushed and lit a cigarette. “
I
can’t be sure,” he said, “that one fine day, I won’t get all hung up on some boy— like that cat in
Death In Venice
. So
you
can’t be sure that there isn’t a woman waiting for you, just for you, somewhere up the road.”

“Indeed,” said Eric, “I can’t be sure. And yet I must decide.”

“
What
must you decide?”

Eric lit a cigarette, drew one foot up, and hugged one knee. “I mean, I think you’ve got to be truthful about the life you
have
. Otherwise, there’s no possibility of achieving the life you
want
.” He paused. “Or
think
you want.”

“Or,” said Vivaldo, after a moment, “the life you think you
should
want.”

“The life you think you
should
want,” said Eric, “is always the life that looks safest.” He looked toward the window. The one light in the room, coming from behind Vivaldo, played on his face like firelight. “When I’m with Cass, it’s fun, you know, and sometimes it’s, well, really quite fantastic. And it makes me feel kind of restful and protected— and strong— there
are
some things which only a woman can give you,” He walked to the window, peering down through the slats in the Venetian blinds as though he were awaiting the moment when the men in their opposing camps would leave their tents and meet in the shadow of the trees. “And yet, in a way, it’s all a kind of superior calisthenics. It’s a great challenge, a great test, a great game. But I don’t really feel that—
terror
— and that anguish and that joy I’ve sometimes felt with— a few men. Not enough of myself is invested; it’s almost as though I’m doing something— for Cass.” He turned and looked at Vivaldo. “Does that make sense to you?”

“I think it does,” said Vivaldo. “I think it does.”

But he was thinking of some nights in bed with Jane, when she had become drunk enough to be insatiable; he was thinking of her breath and her slippery body, and the eerie impersonality of her cries. Once, he had had a terrible stomachache, but Jane had given him no rest, and finally, in order to avoid shoving his fist down her throat, he had thrown himself on her, hoping, desperately, to exhaust her so that he could get some sleep. And he knew that this was not what Eric was talking about.

“Perhaps,” said Vivaldo, haltingly, thinking of the night on the roof with Harold, and Harold’s hands, “it’s something like the way I might feel if I went to bed with a man only because I—
liked
him— and he wanted me to.”

Eric smiled, grimly. “I’m not sure that there is a comparison, Vivaldo. Sex is too private. But if you went to bed with a guy just because he wanted you to,
you
wouldn’t have to take any responsibility for it;
you
wouldn’t be doing any of the work.
He’d
do all the work. And the idea of being passive is very attractive to many men, maybe to most men.”

“It is?” He put his feet on the floor and took a long swallow of his drink. He looked over at Eric and sighed and smiled. “You make the whole deal sound pretty rough, old buddy.”

“Well, that’s the way it looks from where I’m sitting.” Eric grimaced, threw back his head, and sipped his whiskey. “Maybe I’m crying because I wanted to believe that, somewhere, for some people, life and love are easier— than they are for me, than they are. Maybe it was easier to call myself a faggot and blame my sorrow on that.”

Then silence filled the room, like a chill. Eric and Vivaldo stared at each other with an oddly belligerent intensity. There was a great question in Eric’s eyes and Vivaldo turned away as though he were turning from a mirror and walked to the kitchen door. “You really think it makes no difference?”