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I would like to take him through the Pale, Charles thinks. He stares at him through the door. Cold winter air fills the room. He watches cigarette smoke cling to his broad shoulders.
Here’s an urge he can’t repress. There’s just something so glorious about having a beautiful boy by your side. Charles is old enough to be his father, so such company wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows, they wouldn’t suspect a thing. There’s something about him that moves everyone, man or woman, a certain beauty and a certain loneliness only available to someone of his affiliation.
The entire procedure of smuggling him in would be tedious, Charles would abandon the endeavour after a day or two, unable to submit any documents supporting his petition to put this young man in particular through necessary training. To make matters worse, knowing youths, he would turn down his generous offer, not realizing how rare of an opportunity he’s facing. He doubts he would be even able to obtain his papers. The boy is secretive and elusive, he doesn’t give out any names, all he carries with him is a foreign accent and an arsenal of names he’s found in books. Charles likes that about him. There’s no bureaucracy involved. Of course, he likes bureaucracy as well. It just doesn’t mix well with men.
But he can imagine him aboard one of the Entroponetic Business Class ships, his eyes half-closed, his entire being tuned into the deafening storm outside. He would hear all the conversations men like them have had before, the sounds of Kedra, feel the touch of everyone he has ever met and will ever meet. Maybe, Charles hopes, he would grasp his hand tightly – it’s just a silly fantasy though. The boy wouldn’t bare himself for him like that. Not even when his entire mind is exploding under the influence of all of history.
‘I’m going to be leaving soon.’ The boy says, putting out his cigarette.
He really is a splitting image of the Perikarnassian, Charles thinks. All he speaks is gold.
The Perikarnassian was, in a way, reclaimed by men like themselves. The allure of a boy so pious, so devoted to worship, so in love with A Great Man above – it’s moving. It moved Charles back in high school, where he’d stare at paintings of him longingly and it’s moving him now, that the young man’s eyes seem so boundless.
I want to see you more often, he wants to say. He doesn’t mean it. He is sure the boy would lose all his appeal when taken in too greedily. Their union in this run-down apartment would become less sacred. Less of a ritual and more of a routine. Charles grins, nods his head.
‘Going clubbing again? Do you need a lift?’
The boy doesn’t even have to think of an answer. A quick smile, more to himself than to his guest.
‘No, thank you.’
He is cruel like that. Charles likes that about him, too.
‘I will be going away for a while.’
‘Oh?’
He isn’t upset, obviously. Charles can appreciate the honesty. The boy gives him a quick glance.
‘Diplomatic trip. Few weeks of just constant talking and talking.’ The older man rolls his eyes dramatically.
‘Oh, so you’ll feel right at home!’ The boy smirks. ‘I’m joking.’
Charles laughs.
‘I’ll visit as soon as I’m back. You can’t find men like you that easy, you know. You’re one of a kind. A precious collectible, one could say.’
Now the boy laughs, too. He looks very nice when he does, especially when pleasantly startled like that.
‘Hm, I would prefer you never say that again.’
He probably has a lot of friends. They probably would all love to get with him. He can envision the orbiters. Maybe they’ve seen Charles leave this apartment building, spitting at the filthy floor tiles after him, mumbling to themselves about lackeys of the Capital. Not that Charles cares. In the end, he comes out on top. He doubts the boy lets the admirers any closer than him. All they can do is shower him with gifts, he imagines, bad poems and naïve glances, falling over themselves to serve him, only to be dismissed. They don’t get to undress him, to touch him; they don’t even get the fuzzy satisfaction of knowing they can sponsor the ephebe’s lifestyle.
Well, they might not be into that. Charles is and that’s all that matters to him. He’s the one beaming every Sunday evening.
He watches the boy get dressed into an orientalist – probably offensive to some degree – robe. He wears it very well. He wishes he could take pictures of him. Those new instant cameras… Charles can fantasize about carrying a photo of his special lover in his wallet. He wouldn’t ever actually do it, of course. It would be highly unprofessional. And kind of pathetic.
But he an effect on Charles. He would like for him to never change. It feels so good to touch this beautiful, beautiful man and to be let into his odd world of sketches and cigarettes. He finds it all a little silly; after all, everyone knows it’s not really a viable career. Nor an important one – at least when you keep resisting help from your affluent friends.
The boy lights another cigarette. He pulls garters up his calves.
‘Maybe I should start charging you for staring at me.’
‘If you want to bring me to bankruptcy, then sure.’
‘You’re in a mood today, aren’t you?’ The boy remarks, not expecting an answer. A relaxed smile flickers on his face. ‘I’m leaving. You know where the keys are.’
‘No, no, I’ll get going, too.’
They exit the flat. The boy fumbles with the keys. A half-burnt cigarette dangles in his free hand.
‘It was very nice.’ Charles says. ‘I’m going to miss you on my trip.’
‘Aw.’ The boy manages to close the door. ‘That’s nice. I’ll think about you.’
If that’s true, Charles thinks, I’ll hear your thoughts in the Pale. Or slivers of your conversations. Maybe I will even feel you next to me, if I hope hard enough.
(That won’t happen. Charles knows the Pale isn’t a ghost-summoning service. It just always makes him strangely good. He’s reminded of music he listened to when he was young, simultaneously singing and listening to the records. He hears all his now-distant friends, and he can see the way sunlight fell into his numerous hotel rooms, how it fell over the sleeping bodies of lovers. The Pale has been nothing but kind to him.)
‘Shall I bring you something? A souvenir?’
He won’t even ask where he’s going. Charles smiles at the thought.
‘Why not. Find me something nice.’ The boy takes another cigarette out of the pack. He slips it into the man’s mouth. ‘Have a nice trip, Charlie.’
Charles doesn’t smoke. The boy just really likes precisely timed exits.
He watches him walk down the stairs and listens for the door closing.