Like People in History (21 page)

"I was down in D.C. with Julian when the other members of the band called and said they were coming here. So we came too."

I had all sorts of questions I wanted to ask Alistair. But he simply walked away, looking, he said, for a place to urinate—"I'll find some bushes; I'm not waiting on line," he commented. "See you down there."

As though on cue, the limo lurched forward, and it was all I could do to hold on as we descended bumpily toward where the stage had been set up.

Any doubts I might have had about the rich hippie being Julian Gwynne were blown away the second we reached the performers' area, which had remained successfully fenced off from the crowd. The show's producers and the guards who worked for them knew him. The rest of his band had arrived not an hour before in the big van, and they and their girlfriends had instantly become the center of a general party which we instantly joined. I was introduced all round by Julian. I must have looked as goggle-eyed, as starry-eyed as I felt. "This your new doll?" Jimi Hendrix asked Julian at one point, and though I vigorously denied it, just being among them all I felt as though I'd died and gone to heaven.

Alistair arrived at the party a short time later, and he too seemed to be known among the various performers. References were made by some to a lavish party he'd thrown in L.A. at which certain deeds far too perverted for mixed company had been performed by various participants, as well as another, more staidly public party, attended by seemingly everyone in the music "Biz" in London. When it became known among the hangers-on that I was Alistair's cousin, my own status rose instantly. "He's rolling in it," a girl with a pentagram painted silver over one eye assured me of Alistair. "Great-looking, money to burn, terrific connections, always has good drugs, shame he doesn't go with girls!" she concluded with a sigh.

From this I assumed that (1) my cousin's real estate development of a decade before had paid off as handsomely as he'd hoped, and (2) he'd moved on from assignations in garden rooms with the staff to become fully, openly homosexual, and now associated with other homosexuals— such as Julian Gwynne, who not only was a famous rock musician, but who also appeared to be very much interested in me, even though I wasn't altogether happy about the nature of that interest.

I was really flattered by his attentions. But I was at this party under what I felt were false pretenses, and the longer I remained here, the worse it would be.

"I've got to get back to the people I'm staying with," I told Julian as soon as I found him. We were at the van door, already mostly open, someone's Siamese cat stretched out on the top step. Outside it had begun to rain.

"Why?" Julian asked.

"I don't know," I said. "Because they're the people I'm with."

"We're
the people you're with now. Your cousin and I," Julian argued.

"I know, but I came with—"

"Wouldn't you
rather
be here with us? With me?" he asked, sadly.

"Well, sure, but—"

"I know what it is: you're disturbed about that little bet I made with Alistair, aren't you? You think it was frivolous."

I tried to tell him that its frivolity was hardly the point.

"Alistair told me I'd want you the minute I laid eyes on you," Julian interrupted. "A few months ago, when he and I were discussing why we'd never become lovers."

"Why
didn't
you two become lovers?" I had to ask.

"Too much alike," Julian said, opening the van door all the way and pulling me down to sit on the step between him and the purring, unmovable Siamese. "'What you need,' Alistair lectured me in that tone of voice of his," Julian went on, "'is someone who
looks
like me but
isn't
me. My second cousin Roger would do perfectly. If it weren't for the fact that he's impossibly hetero and you'd have to bust his cherry.'"

"You're making this up," I said and pushed his arm away. He'd draped it over my shoulder as he spoke.

"Scout's honor." Julian put up three fingers in some arcane gesture. "I mean, why should I make it up? Just to explore the delights and manifold mysteries of your undergarments?" He began to illustrate by poking those same fingers beneath my belt, pulling at my B.V.D.s. "Well, perhaps I would. But I'm not."

Behind us, the party was in full swing. Next to me, the Siamese was pretending not to listen to a word of what we said.

"You're not, are you?"

"Not what?" I asked, knowing full well what he was asking.

"That would be
too
grotesque if you were." Julian had wrapped both arms around me, and I had to pick them off finger by finger and yet not push over the cat, who was now looking at us with that mixture of annoyance and contempt cats do so well..

"You know, of course, that no one
is
anymore? Or at least if they are, they pretend not to be."

"Don't you think you've got that mixed up?" I asked, laughing at the faces he was making, delighted to be entertained by him.

"No, luv, you're the one who's a bit mixed up. C'mon, admit it. You find me devastatingly attractive, and you know you'll do anything to have me rip your clothing off and lick your nubile young body from head to toe. Yet you're held back by some nineteenth-century ideas of sexuality. Am I right or am I right?"

"Both," I admitted.

"Well,
that's
a relief!" he said, and grabbed me again even though I'd just managed to pick his hands off me altogether. "I thought you might actually be foolishly unreasonable and not admit the truth. Believe me, luv, I'll respect you as much in the morning as I do now."

"Which isn't much," I said.

"Isn't?
Why, go find that cousin of yours and ask him if the minute I laid eyes upon you I didn't completely melt like an old plum jam left in the sun? Go on. There you were, walking all bare-chested through the crowd in the noon mist, exuding obvious pleasure not to mention delicious pheromones, and being so charitable. You looked like some apostle distributing fishes and loaves. Honest, you did. That's actually what I told your cousin. I did! Where is he? Alistair! Didn't I tell you young Rog here looked like that litho of St. Philip torn out of my tattered old Bible and tacked upon the wall of my bedroom in Southwark that I used to gaze upon daily and wank off to?"

"God!" I said. "You're such a liar!"

"Am not. Also I was hungry and wanted the food you were giving out. Give us a kiss, luv."

I pulled back. "No way."

"C'mon, don't be like that! This sodding bunch don't care what you or I do. Just a little..."

He managed to smudge his face across mine before I could pull back.

"Well, that's not very professional. I suspect you need a bit of training in that area;"

"I do not."

"Well, then show us a professional one."

"No."'

"Maybe later on," he suggested. "When there's not so many other sods around?"

"Maybe," I allowed. "Look, I really do have to get back to the house and tell them I wasn't stolen away by aliens."

"The day is still young," Julian said naughtily, his hands all over my body.

"C'mon! Let go," I said.

"Tell you what," he temporized. "I'll let you go under one condition: that Alton, my driver, takes you wherever you want. So long as you promise to come back with him."

"I don't want to miss your set. When do you go on?"

"We were slated for fifth this afternoon. But at this rate, who knows?"

It was indeed raining much harder now, with occasional rumbles of thunder. While I'd been in the van—and so very distracted by Julian— I'd not given a thought to what the rain would be like for the enormous crowd stuck out in the open. As the chauffeur drove out of the performers' area and around the throng, I wasn't surprised to see people huddling under makeshift covers and blankets; nor, I guess, was I surprised to see others naked, holding hands, singing and dancing around in the rain and mud.

I was certain the others had returned to the house. Even so, I asked Alton to drive near the orchard where Edgar had twice before parked. No, the pickup wasn't there, although the trees were rather sodden and bare of fruit.

The roads were more clogged than earlier in the day. People were still arriving, remaining in their cars because of the lashing downpour and frequent bolts of lightning.

"It won't last," Alton decreed. "Be over in a hour. Jes' a summer storm."

He negotiated the difficult passage out to the main road and followed my so-so directions to Edgar and Sarah's house, all with good humor.

I expected them to be together when I arrived, sitting around the trestle table in the big kitchen. In fact, I'd been looking forward to having them see me arrive in the limo and me having to tell them that I was going back to be with my millionaire cousin and Julian Gwynne. I had been especially looking forward to watching Michelle's reaction to that news. She might have been invited to stay here with Edgar and Sarah, but I was being driven by Gwynne's driver and returning to his party, and who knew, I might remain all night with him, if I wanted—spending the night in a hotel in Rhinebeck with Julian and Alistair and the entire rock band and its entourage. I thought this constituted revenge of a fairly high order, thought it all out in advance.

When we drove up to the house, Alton shut off the motor. "Boss said not to come back without you," he explained.

"I could be a while," I argued, not liking having my freedom curtailed, since I'd not yet made up my mind what I planned on doing.

"He ain't goin' anywhere without me," Alton argued back. "'Sides, I can catch me some Z's here as good as dere."

I was even more irritated when I got indoors and the house was empty. Or rather looked empty. Then I realized that both bedroom doors were closed. They hadn't been closed earlier. That meant... The tin pot of coffee was still warm, and I poured a cup. I'd been smoking grass with Julian for the past few hours and was starving. Lucikly, some bread had been kept, and I smothered chunks with honey and butter. It was one of the best meals of my life.

Maybe they weren't all asleep, but out. No, Edgar's pickup and Tom's mustard-colored Datsun were still parked outside.

Well, maybe they were sleeping. Just sleeping.

How many to a bed? How many to
which
bed?

Thinking of the combinations possible sent me into giggles. Then I thought about where Michelle was sleeping. And with whom. Whoever it was, it clearly wasn't me. As she'd planned for me to find out. Well, wasn't that too bad! I thought. Maybe I didn't need Michelle. After all, I
hadn't
needed her until she moved in. Hell, I hadn't even known she existed until a few weeks ago. And while she'd been interesting, she'd never been
that
interesting. I could easily live without her. Had for how many years already? But just so she didn't get the impression I couldn't, I decided to write a short note:

Hey you guys! No one was home. And I thought it would be uncool to keep Julian Gwynne's limo driver waiting for me. So I'm splitting. See you sometime. Don't know when I'll get back to Manhattan. Better mail the keys.

Then I couldn't resist adding one more touch, a postscript for Michelle:

P.S. I guess it was just
meant to be!

Much later that night, following the performances, I told Julian what I had written. I didn't explain who Michelle was, only that we'd come up together. But when he heard about all the bedroom doors being closed against me, he couldn't help but protest. "It's a good thing I took you away from those people."

He'd finally located a room in the Rhinebeck Hotel that had a lockable door, and had at last managed to pull me out of the enormous, noisy, messy performers-and-hangers-on party the entire place had erupted into several hours before. He'd also managed to locate an empty bed, and we were in it together, I quite stoned but by no means as stoned as I was pretending to be. "Why?" I asked, all innocence.

"Why?" Julian asked. "Why? Just think of the ghastly debaucheries they might have subjected you to," savoring them in his mind if not on his lips. "Here, let's get these off you," he added, giving my denims a great pull. "My, you American lads just wear underwear no matter what the situation, don't you?"

"Stop!" I protested and weakly batted away his prying fingers, so he had to use his teeth to grasp the elastic band of my underwear, which meant his hair was tickling my tummy and so I was laughing and rolling around.

"Who
knows
what perversions I might have fallen prey to," I replied, feeling, if truth be told, like some character out of Congreve, or was it Richardson? "Stop, vile ravisher!" I attempted.

"Don't be daft," he replied, having gotten my underwear mostly off by dint of his teeth and fingers. "You known damn well how extremely tacky it
would
have been, whereas here... with me..." Julian continued stripping off my socks and then looked me over as though I were a very welcome late snack brought up by the hotel's so far mythical room service. "Here, the perversions are perfectly ordinary ones. As I shall proceed to illustrate."

"What do you mean 'How is it with Julian'?" I asked. "It's completely impossible. As you very well know."

Alistair sighed and handed me the bong for another deep hit of Michoacán grass.

We were sitting on the terrace of his penthouse in Chelsea, only a few blocks from my own West Village apartment, yet light-years away in rent, decor, glamour, not to mention the amounts of time and cash lavished on the place.

It was a warm mid-October night, two months since Woodstock. On either side of us stood two perfectly trimmed orange trees, their light citrus oils flavoring the still night air. From inside, we could hear on the stereo the electrified guitar and ghostly vocals of a group called H. P. Lovecraft: their current hit, "The White Ship." A glance into any window off the enormous, wraparound terrace would show a dozen people within, still at the dinner table or stretched out upon divans built into the living room. The refectory table still hadn't been cleared: remnants of Alistair's huge Indian feast lay scattered about, despite the presence nearby—necking heavily with a guest—of Kenny, Alistair's soi-disant houseboy.