a long time with his toilette. His Armani suit, his lace-up Churches, his classic white shirt, and the solid maroon silk tie—and, of course, the emerald. He felt sure the baron would melt when he saw the emerald. It would bring back so many memories.
But the party was a rout, all Belgians (mostly speaking Flemish), toasting the king with American champagne, none of the usual crowd of hot guys, nothing to eat except pretzels (which for some reason the baron thought elegant), several awkward conversations with slow-talking businessmen who wanted to find out how Guy knew the baron and did he work for one of his suppliers, then a sudden general departure at eight engineered by the hateful, tight-lipped butler (the invitation had specified six to eight), and Guy had only caught a glimpse of Édouard, and when he tried to talk to him, the baron had brought forward a fat man in a sports jacket and said, “Oh, good, you two can speak English. Fred, Guy,” and the baron rushed off to kiss an old woman’s hand as she entered the room. Guy waved at Walt, who pretended he didn’t see him.
It turned out this Fred was a very nice man, not a Belgian, not even linked to the baron’s brewery, like all the others, but a film producer from Hollywood who invited Guy out to dinner. They went to Casey’s, a place in the Village, all candles and mirrors, which Guy had walked past a million times but never entered, though it was only four blocks away from where he lived. After the cold douche of the baron’s reception (he hadn’t even said goodbye as Guy was being ushered out in the general stampede), this Fred’s kindness and obvious interest and openness was a balm. Guy felt he’d been slapped in the face and looked at the mirror almost expecting a red hand mark on his cheek, but no, his skin was perfect. Never had Guy been insulted like that, but was the baron, he wondered, freezing him out for his thoughtless kindness? Would he give Guy a second chance? Maybe he was just provoking Guy, hoping to be punished later. (Guy had heard masochists were good at needling their tops.)
At first Guy didn’t say much, nor did he have to. Fred wasn’t exactly a braggart, but he was quick to fill Guy in on his life and work.
“Where are you from?” He’d learned that was the standard question in America, not an impertinence, as it would be in France.
“Oregon.”
“What kind of films do you make?”
“Blaxploitation.”
“Pardon?”
“Movies for black audiences.”
“Oh,” Guy said, losing interest.
“It’s mostly for export. Not something we’d go see, but they love it in Accra.”
“What are they about?”
“Get whitey.”
“Who’s Weddy?”
“Where are you from?”
“Paris.”
“What brings you to these shores?”
“Work. I’m a model.”
“Hands? You have beautiful hands.” Fred smiled.
Guy looked at his hands as if he’d forgotten them. “Oh, really? Do you like my hands?” Did he say hands because he couldn’t think of anything else nice to say? Then he was afraid of thinking like an airhead model and asked, “How do you know Édouard?”
“We have the same taste in boys,” Fred said, lifting his eyebrows significantly.
“You met in some dungeon?”
“Oh, no, I’m a romantic. I like to kiss. I’m looking for a partner.”
“A business partner? For a new African film?” Guy wasn’t paying attention—there were too many mirrors.
“No, a partner in love. A life partner. Someone to share my life with. You see, I just came out.”
“Really? What did you do … before?” The unfamiliarity of the topic made him focus for a minute and to raise his hand to his forehead to block out his own multiplied reflections. He couldn’t concentrate in front of so many mirrors.
“I was married. Three kids. You won’t believe this, but two grandchildren,” and he pulled out his wallet to show their pictures.
Guy didn’t like children but he smiled, not with tenderness at the pictures but
But the party was a rout, all Belgians (mostly speaking Flemish), toasting the king with American champagne, none of the usual crowd of hot guys, nothing to eat except pretzels (which for some reason the baron thought elegant), several awkward conversations with slow-talking businessmen who wanted to find out how Guy knew the baron and did he work for one of his suppliers, then a sudden general departure at eight engineered by the hateful, tight-lipped butler (the invitation had specified six to eight), and Guy had only caught a glimpse of Édouard, and when he tried to talk to him, the baron had brought forward a fat man in a sports jacket and said, “Oh, good, you two can speak English. Fred, Guy,” and the baron rushed off to kiss an old woman’s hand as she entered the room. Guy waved at Walt, who pretended he didn’t see him.
It turned out this Fred was a very nice man, not a Belgian, not even linked to the baron’s brewery, like all the others, but a film producer from Hollywood who invited Guy out to dinner. They went to Casey’s, a place in the Village, all candles and mirrors, which Guy had walked past a million times but never entered, though it was only four blocks away from where he lived. After the cold douche of the baron’s reception (he hadn’t even said goodbye as Guy was being ushered out in the general stampede), this Fred’s kindness and obvious interest and openness was a balm. Guy felt he’d been slapped in the face and looked at the mirror almost expecting a red hand mark on his cheek, but no, his skin was perfect. Never had Guy been insulted like that, but was the baron, he wondered, freezing him out for his thoughtless kindness? Would he give Guy a second chance? Maybe he was just provoking Guy, hoping to be punished later. (Guy had heard masochists were good at needling their tops.)
At first Guy didn’t say much, nor did he have to. Fred wasn’t exactly a braggart, but he was quick to fill Guy in on his life and work.
“Where are you from?” He’d learned that was the standard question in America, not an impertinence, as it would be in France.
“Oregon.”
“What kind of films do you make?”
“Blaxploitation.”
“Pardon?”
“Movies for black audiences.”
“Oh,” Guy said, losing interest.
“It’s mostly for export. Not something we’d go see, but they love it in Accra.”
“What are they about?”
“Get whitey.”
“Who’s Weddy?”
“Where are you from?”
“Paris.”
“What brings you to these shores?”
“Work. I’m a model.”
“Hands? You have beautiful hands.” Fred smiled.
Guy looked at his hands as if he’d forgotten them. “Oh, really? Do you like my hands?” Did he say hands because he couldn’t think of anything else nice to say? Then he was afraid of thinking like an airhead model and asked, “How do you know Édouard?”
“We have the same taste in boys,” Fred said, lifting his eyebrows significantly.
“You met in some dungeon?”
“Oh, no, I’m a romantic. I like to kiss. I’m looking for a partner.”
“A business partner? For a new African film?” Guy wasn’t paying attention—there were too many mirrors.
“No, a partner in love. A life partner. Someone to share my life with. You see, I just came out.”
“Really? What did you do … before?” The unfamiliarity of the topic made him focus for a minute and to raise his hand to his forehead to block out his own multiplied reflections. He couldn’t concentrate in front of so many mirrors.
“I was married. Three kids. You won’t believe this, but two grandchildren,” and he pulled out his wallet to show their pictures.
Guy didn’t like children but he smiled, not with tenderness at the pictures but
Similar Books
