Allan Stein Page 4

Hank paid no attention to Herbert's offer. He smoothed the tie proudly against his chest. "I'm giving it to my son," he pointed out. "For his bar mitzvah."

  "Oh, hell yes," I let out. "He'll love it. Kids love goofy ties."

  An arcade ran around the periphery of this broad high-ceilinged room, with tiny shops full of gewgaws and magazines, sewing kits, tooth care and soaps, all the miscellanea of travel. The shops opened up both toward us—articulating glass walls drawn back like the flaps of a surgical wound—and outward to the surrounding streets (mere doors there) to encourage "flow-through." Dogan, my very erotic and beloved ex-student, flowed through, his two parents in tow. Then they flowed right back out again. A miracle of architecture!

  "Look, the important thing about the family, Allan's family, is that they are very sharp, and if they catch wind of any reason why I should be pursuing these particular drawings, if they even suspect I want them at all, for God's sake, the price is going to go right through the ceiling."

  "They're not priceless already?"

  "No, I don't think so. Picasso drawings aren't all that rare. He must have scribbled on every surface in Europe, like Napoleon sleeping. These are probably undated, maybe even unsigned. In any case, I've got to let the family believe there's no special value in them, that just by selling me the drawings they're taking advantage of me."

  "Maybe they sold them already—I mean, decades ago."

  "They might have. But the family is the only starting point, unless the Baltimore Museum turns up something."

  Hank held the photograph of Allan next to the color plate of Boy Leading a Horse. There was no similarity, per se. The face in the painting looked more like a mask than a face, a reduced emblem that seemed to hang in space before the body, not a rendering of something you might touch in real life. The genitals were a mess, so that he looked uncircumcised but you couldn't be sure. It might have been a poor reproduction. His slim chest and belly were achingly beautiful, warm and rounded enough to feel with your hand. I kept catching glimpses of Dogan in the shopping arcade (with Mom and Dad, apparently returned). His loose-limbed grace and elegant head would flash at me like a snapshot from the shifting crowd.

  "I wonder if Allan's classmates cared that he knew Picasso?" (Dogan's association with me, even when it was mere parental rumor, had lent him a glamour and worldliness that dazzled the mock sophisticates of Urban Country Day's upper school. The girls flocked around him—martyred sexual decadent, grown-up seducer of men—and began to pursue this slim little boy who just weeks before had been nothing more than a charming but infantile halfback on the soccer team. Dogan had sex with many of these girls, seduced by the rumors of his homosexuality, and I could only swallow the bitter reports of my jealous heart.)

  "You know, Herbert, if you're not going to finish that lamb—"

  Herbert slid the tepid plate to Hank, who smiled and asked me, "How is that school of yours?" deflecting attention from the flap of meat he then slipped into his mouth. Hank took a great interest in my school but thankfully had no information except what I gave him. He'd even met Dogan once, when I took the boy to the local sports palace to join Hank and his teenage son in an opulent sky box, replete with swiveling chairs, nifty curtains, sniveling help hauling beer and snacks, plus a huge TV, which was a big hit all around.

  "My school?" It was doubtful Hank knew anything. "Actually, I've quit teaching." Herbert glanced at me, then, pointedly, away. 'Tm working with Herbert now, helping him out at the museum." I could have caused two deaths with this single utterance, as it caught Herbert in mid-swallow of a glass of water, on which he began to choke, and Hank in the depths of chewing a tongue-sized lamb chunk, through which undercooked sinew he tried exclaiming, "Why, that's just terrific!" A long draught of wine dislodged the meat and kept us from the ugly exertions of the Heimlich maneuver (invented by Dr. Henry J. Heimlich of Cincinnati, whose charming twin daughters I have met and enjoyed).

  "That's just terrific," Hank repeated, after the wine. "Working together like a team. There's nothing better." Herbert didn't seem to think so. "Herb kept mum about it the whole day."

  "Yes," Herbert said. "I didn't want to spoil the surprise."

  "What are you now, an assistant or a consultant of some sort?"

  I was silent.

  "He's my assistant," Herbert said, drinking my wine because his was empty. "I let him fiddle with all the machines, the faxes, the mimeographs, and all that."

  "Herbert's no good with machines," I explained.

  "That's right. It's really very helpful having an assistant around to take care of them."

  "Sometimes I make the coffee." I added. Hank laughed because this was obviously a joke. "Actually, I'll be doing a lot of the footwork on these Stein drawings."

  "That's right." Herbert smiled at me. "Which is why I was so glad, Hank, that you were interested in seeing both of us for dinner tonight, because that is precisely the project we need your help on."

  "I'm always interested in helping," Hank allowed. "Particularly if it's going to be some kind of fun."

  "It will be fun, Hank. I want you to buy the drawings and donate them to the museum."

  Hank looked a little unhappy. "Just buy them?"

  "Uh-huh, and donate them to the museum."

  "It sounds pretty dull to me."

  Poor Herbert. He looked completely undone by this small defeat. "Actually"—I rallied for my new boss—"the way, uh, Herbert has it all worked out"—here I smiled broadly at brooding Herbert— "we need you to go to Paris, Hank, for the whole . . . arrangement to work, am I right, Herbert?" Herbert nodded glumly. I went on. "Well." I rattled the empty wine bottle, then sipped my water, while thinking. "We 're going first, or Herbert is"—I tipped my fork to him—"to poke around and see if these drawings are even what we think they are, and then, if they are, Herbert will insist on their worthlessness and make his pitiful little offer."

  "Which of course they'll reject." The curator spoke.

  "Right, which of course they'll reject. . . which is when you show up, Hank, and buy the pieces right out from under us. You see, this will give the family the pleasure of thinking they've taken you to the cleaners, because Herbert will have established that the drawings are nearly worthless except as wallpaper for some children's hospital, and then you sweep in, the big rich bumbling American who doesn't know his ass from his elbow—that's the masquerade anyway, the part you'll be playing—and the family sells to you at twice what we offered, thinking they've hit the jackpot. And voila! you've got the drawings!" Herbert rolled his eyes.

  "Voila!" Hank echoed, smiling. "That sounds like fun."

  "Oh." Herbert sighed. "I'm sure it would be."

  "I can do that," Hank announced. "I mean, why not? April in Paris." Herbert looked strangely disappointed. "Say, isn't that one of your students?" Hank pointed his bent fork tine toward the crowded windows of the Hair Health and Vanity store, and there was Dogan, Mother beside him clutching a fresh wig bag, with Daddy evidently gone. "Donald, wasn't it, or Doogie, that kid you brought to the football game?"

  "Hank, have you seen the Grand Marble Bar yet?" I asked. "It's really the highlight of the whole hotel."

  "Noah certainly did have a good time with him." Hank strained to follow the swiftly moving boy but was distracted by his bladder.

  I turned toward Herbert. "Herbert? The Grand Marble Bar? We seem to be out of wine in any case, and I'm sure Hank is sick of this dreary emporium."

  "I'll join you two in a sec," Hank offered, rising. "Gotta go to the pisser." We waved a feathery good-bye, and Herbert glared at me.

  "Are you mad about something?" I asked. Dogan, fragmented, drifting, afflicted my periphery.

  "Where do you come up with these fantasies?"

  "With what?"

  "You certainly improvised well. I just can't believe Hank swallowed all that garbage, flights to Paris to hobnob with the rich."

  "Come on, you'll have a great time."

  "Look, Miss Double-oh-seve
n, the sort of espionage you described has nothing to do with art acquisition. One buys drawings at galleries. You know, like at a store?"

  "You made these sound like the Dead Sea Scrolls."

  "Did I? Well they might be worth a small fortune, but I'm afraid the chances of their being at all important are remote to none. I was just fishing around to see how far Hank was willing to go with that checkbook of his."

  "Do you always rely on swindling the rich?"

  "I wouldn't say 'rely.' I'd say I 'delight' in it."

  "Well, Hank's willing to go to Paris."

  "Going to Paris on this kind of wild goose chase—with Hank, no less—would be sheer torture."

  "It looks like you're either going or backing out."

  "I can back out easily enough. Hank won't mind. I would just appreciate it, Madame Assistant, if you would leave the whole affair alone for a while, the rest of the evening at least, and let things settle."

  In the bar, the Grand Marble Bar (massive countertop hauled from Firenze, installed on broad cedar stumps with a rough fir trim, brass fixtures from Berlin—spoils of the last World War—all this from the napkin supplied with my drink), we found Hank, and voila! Dogan, without his mom or dad. The pair was installed at a small round side table with two beers, Dogan's in a tall pewter stein (Hank's largesse, no doubt, plus a nimble bribe of the waiter). The boy watched me.

  "Look what the cat dragged in," Hank announced. "Doogie's here." I smiled at "Doogie" and Herbert shook his hand, introducing himself as my new colleague. Sweet Herbert.

  Dogan sipped from the beer, leaving a mustache where no mustache could be. "I saw you eating."

  "Yes, that was me. Hello, by the way."

  "Hi. My mom and dad left."

  "I saw you shopping."

  "Yeah, Mom got her wig and they both had headaches."

  "Well, long time."

  "I guess so; I mean, a month."

  "A month's a long time, though you must be busy with studying and sports and all, so it wouldn't seem so long to you."

  "Doogie tells me the soccer squad has made it to the playoffs this year," Hank put in, hoisting his beer. Herbert, utterly bored by the soccer squad, ordered himself an expensive scotch (Day-Glo money) and a Bombay for me.

  "Oh?" I was surprised. "That's terrific. It's hard for me to keep track, you know with all my work at the museum." Meaningful glance at Dogan, met, puzzled, returned. "I'll probably be seeing them on TV before long." The round table was minuscule, built for crowding onto the tiny sidewalk of a Parisian back street, and we were rather large. Getting anywhere near the drinks meant navigating an intimate slalom of knees and chair legs; I paid no mind to the press of Dogan (left thigh and calf) and Herbert (right knee).

  "There was a picture in the newspaper," Dogan announced, grimacing at the beer stein as he sniffed it and took a sip. "But I wasn't in it."

  "Hardly worth clipping."

  "Are you gonna be in the yearbook?" my little waif asked.

  "You know"—Hank leaned in, disturbing almost everything—"I don't know if you're on the yearbook squad or anything, Doogie, but I recall in fifty-three, my senior year, when Professor Schmatza—you're a senior, right?"

  "Sophomore."

  "That's right. Well, when Professor Schmatza left our school midyear to join the Lucy expedition, the kids got together and dedicated the yearbook to him, just as a kind of tribute." Herbert accepted his scotch from the waiter and handed me my gin. "I'm sure someone's already suggested it in this case, I mean, it's probably a fait acompli." Hank smiled at me.

  "I'm not on the yearbook staff," Dogan said, but Hank wasn't really listening to him.

  "My goodness, Professor Schmatza was surprised—and pleased, of course. It was a terrific surprise for everyone."

  "As it would be for me," I added. I clinked my glass to Herbert's, Hank's, and, with some prompting, Dogan's nearly full beer stein.

  "They're putting extra pages in for soccer, if we make it to finals." Dogan spoke only of what he knew, a habit that always charmed me.

  "The I Love Lucy expedition?" Herbert asked. Like Hank, he didn't seem to notice that the boy ever actually spoke. "Or was it The Lucy Show already?" He and Hank laughed at the joke.

  "What are you drinking?" Dogan asked me.

  "Gin. You wouldn't like it."

  "I don't like this beer. It's warm." I looked into the tall stein and saw a dark well of stout, rimmed with scummy foam.

  "What is it?"

  "It's called Guinness. Your friend said since I'm a soccer player I'd like it." How cosmopolitan the Grand Marble Bar was, serving Irish stout in a German stein to an underage Turk.

  "You don't have to drink it. Hank was just being friendly. He likes to buy things for his friends."

  "I remembered him from the football game. He's really nice."

  "Did he see you shopping?"

  "No. I saw him so I said hi."

  "That's very nice of you, and nice of Hank to invite you along to the bar."

  "He didn't invite me."

  "That's not just Guinness, you know," Hank pointed out, thinking I cared about the beer, "that's a Guinness triple-X. This bar's terrific. I haven't seen triple-X since Hattie and I took Noah to Dublin for the horse races."

  "He didn't invite you?"

  "I told him I was supposed to meet you, and he said you were in the bar."

  "You don't mind, do you?" Hank asked rhetorically, taking the boy's beer and lifting it up to my face. "Just look at that foam, thick enough to raise kids on. You could build a house with that foam."

  "It's remarkable, Hank." Turning to the boy: "Is that what you told your parents?"

  "Oh, no way." Dogan dismissed this lunacy. "They didn't see you. I told them I ran into a friend from soccer camp who was staying at the hotel. They think I'm staying overnight with him. They don't care."

  "You don't mind if Herbert tries it, do you? Go ahead, Herbie, after a sip of the scotch it's a real high-class boilermaker." Herbert sniffed the stein suspiciously and then tried it. I was surprised he seemed to like it.

  "Tastes kind of like oatmeal, Hank. I mean with dirt and alcohol in it. That's very nice, a very fine beer."

  "Well, that was kind of dumb," I whispered to Dogan. "Now you can't go home, plus there's no 'friend' here to stay with."

  The boy rolled his eyes, then just looked at me.

  So that now, to the delight of many of you and the horror of some, Dogan and I are going to spend the whole night together in the same bed (my bed, by the ill-paned window at home) for the last time, and in some detail. We'll have unskilled, enthusiastic sex, minimal but valued conversation, and a snack at what was probably three in the morning. Those of you who can't stomach any more of this sort of thing can skip ahead to page 47, where the narrative resumes.

  We shared a taxi home, Herbert, Dogan, and I. The boy insisted I make a ruse to Herbert about some book I was lending him, which I did, halfheartedly, and which sweet Herbert led the boy to believe he believed and also found unremarkable ("Oh, he mentioned that book to me just yesterday, didn't you now, and how it must be lent soon; how convenient for everyone; I hope I don't miss the eleven o'clock news"). Since the narrative hounds have all skipped forward anyway, I'll just dispense with the clumsy linkages and survey some of the highlights of that night.

  The slight weight of Dogan's hand on my shoulder when we leaned in the doorway, worrying the lock open. The fact that he let the same hand drift along my back when the lock slid shut and we walked in. The ease with which he stood and peed and talked to me while peeing, and that I heard him through a bathroom door he hadn't bothered to close. The vista in the dark. Him still fiddling with the buttons of his fly when he came out. Dogan—I don't think I mentioned he was 5 feet 8 inches or so (two or three inches shorter than I), with a lanky floppiness that wobbled between puppy dog and deer, that his messy hair was fine and dark brown, that his eyes were large and deep beneath a single brow, or that he habitually kept his lips
slightly parted as if about to speak—looking out the window at the city's nighttime profile, then flopping back on the bed as if he lived in it. The elegance of his prone posture, like a poorly drawn swastika or a spinning ninja weapon that had tired and fallen in the midst of its long trajectory. These words: "Use both your hands." Because we'd only ever had sex before in a nervous hurry, how he lay on the bed talking to me not undressing or rushing himself at all. I didn't know what he thought, but I thought there were ruses ahead, long conversations or fidgeting, feints toward the couch or a sleeping bag, when in fact he lay down on the bed because he was there to sleep with me. I sat down so my hip touched his, and I let my hand drift onto his leg. "Use both your hands," was his final instruction.

  The spring of his puckered fly, when both my hands got there after traveling the length of the inseamed thighs. That he watched and smiled. His long arms fiddling against the window glass behind his head while he reclined. The crushed and folded paperback (Rousseau's Emile) stuck underneath him, produced only after five or ten minutes when the arching of his back to push a tremulous and exposed organ deeper into my mouth made it convenient, I suppose, to grab the book and toss it to the floor. At this point he was just a long baggy bundle of soft clothes with an engorged penis protruding from the middle; I had my shirt partly undone—hardly the picture of romance. There was traffic outside, honks and the late-night blatting of taxis, periodic bus roars, and the drunken chatter of partygoers returning home. The railroad tower became especially interesting for a protracted minute or two that is difficult to account for. I simply lost my focus on the great slobbery organ for a stretch. It had slipped from my mouth again and, poking haphazardly, had found my eye socket and brow so that I pulled it aside in one hand, still enjoying its remarkable heat in my fist, and stared across Dogan's pulled up shirt and long arms (drawn back behind his head) at the beautiful lighted masquerade of the window-framed city. The railroad tower, as I said, looked especially homely and real amidst the delicious fakery. It appeared, just then, to have an actual history and function. I wobbled the boy's organ like a joystick, absent-mindedly, then saw him in the dark, staring out from the hutch of his baggy shirt like a rabbit in the nighttime forest. I kissed the head of his cock, then pushed it down flat against his belly, where I smushed it for a while. He groaned some, thrusting like an infant trying to reach the taut nipple, only not leading with his face: thrust, groan, thrust-thrust, groan, which was endearing, so I petted him like a dog. He turned on his side, and this petulance aggravated me. Rolling him over I pulled at his clothes without explanation, dragging the unbuttoned jeans and boxers sharply down to his shapely ankles and slipping the baggy shirt over his head so that he was all just flesh and startled as I rolled my hairy head all over him and began kneading his body with both great grabbing hands like a panicked shopper unleashed in the midst of a monetary collapse. This was quite unlike our usual furtive blow jobs. He took to it like a boy to wrestling, tore my shirt, and tugged my trousers down, all the while smushing himself in acrobatic variations on and against me and whatever else got drawn into the maelstrom: pillows, sheets, clothing, and the like. His breathing became furious and uncontrolled, his brow and back wet with sweat, until, flopping me down against the twisted bedding and straddling my hips to drive his soccer-drenched open-air thighs and slobbery organ over my tummy, he let out a great fart. We both stopped, and then he laughed. I really shouldn't include this with the highlights at all, but it provides such a nice contrast to the idealized Dogan I've tried to preserve. Other contrasts: his chaste pucker when I whispered, "Can we kiss?" I don't know if he had never kissed with an open mouth, or if mine offended him, but his closed eyes and pert, expectant lips endeared him to me. I pecked his cheek and whispered "there." My alarm when, while rolling in our romp, I found myself on top of him, impressing the enormity of my body on the true prematurity of his; Dogan wasn't merely lithe or gangly or slim, he was a little boy, a nervous, pulsing envelope of flesh and growing bones whose sexual development had rushed in advance of the rest of him so that this great, potent organ was appended to the birdlike frame of a tall twelve-year-old (by the calendar he was fifteen). I had to hold myself slightly off the mattress with a well-placed elbow or two to avoid crushing him.