thinking about his business or some nighttime escapade or something else entirely. But never of Rafael Molinet.
“Reizzah darling, I wonder if you might do me a little favor. Nothing important, just
une petite chose.
”
He was sitting back in his easy chair, with young Reza standing very close by, just a few paces away. If he looked straight ahead he could see only Reza’s bottom half, clad in jeans so tight that it became rather difficult to look any higher.
“Whatever you say, chief,” young Reza said, smiling.
“Listen, Reizzaah. I am finally going to go on the little vacation I mentioned to you the other day. And I would be so grateful if you’d look after Gomez while I’m gone. It will only be for two weeks.”
“To Morocco?”
“Yes, to Morocco.”
Young Reza had knelt down and was now straddling the arm of the sofa, so close that Molinet could have reached out and touched the knee trapped in those piercing blue jeans.
“I also have to ask you a favor, chief.” And those Persian cat eyes shone with a brilliance that was not unfamiliar to Molinet.
“How much money do you need?”
Reza’s hand, the same hand that so assiduously stroked the bodies of domesticated animals, the hand that delivered such skillful caresses, had moved perilously close to Molinet. It slid across the back of the sofa and Molinet watched as it came to a stop near a tiny speck of dust resting against his neck. Only once before had Reza’s hand come this close to him. It had taken place a few weeks earlier, when they had met for the first time following Molinet’s arrival at the flat. Reza had been kind enough to help him arrange his furniture, and when they were finished, Molinet had felt obligated to give him a tip—twenty pounds, a fortune—but he was such a very friendly neighbor.
“You know what, chief? I think it will do you very good to leave this dump for a little while. Really. Tooting Bec is no place for a gentleman like you. Take it from me.”
“How much money do you need, Reza?”
The young man shrugged; his abusively green eyes answered the question.
“Twenty, thirty pounds? I can’t give you any more than that, but you know I am your friend, Reza—I told you so the other day. I don’t want you to have to go around asking other people for money. What is it this time?”
“Nothing serious. I owe a friend some money.”
It was always the same story. He had heard it a thousand times, from so many other Rezas. The only thing that changed was the name and the country of origin. The blue-eyed René. Gustavo. Gianfranco. Timothy, the waiter with the strong hands. He was never able to save them from danger, and only rarely did they ever truly acknowledge his friendship, for which he requested nothing in return. Occasionally, of course, one of these boys would compensate him with an ambiguous, careless brush of the hand or, if they were feeling generous, perhaps a couple of pats on the lower back. Nothing much, but after all, a destitute, dirty old queer couldn’t really expect much more than a few crumbs of affection. He had a special weakness for macho types, exceedingly masculine queers, and with each and every one of them he would relive his old, worn-out dreams, as he did now with Reza. But Reza seemed different from the others. He really did. He loved animals, didn’t he?
“Thirty pounds. Not much, but it should do.”
Molinet handed over the thirty pounds, and Reza reciprocated with nothing but a pat on the arm, dry and manly.
“Wait, don’t go just yet. Now, would it be all right for me to leave Gomez with you?”
“I’d love it, chief—you know how I adore that little pup—but I can’t do it. My boyfriend is coming down this weekend. I told you about him, didn’t I? He lives in Liverpool, he’s got a laundromat there. Oh, he’s such a good boy. You know how it is, chief. There’s no way. Mohammed hates my animals.”
“What happened to your other friend, Reza? The one that was
“Reizzah darling, I wonder if you might do me a little favor. Nothing important, just
une petite chose.
”
He was sitting back in his easy chair, with young Reza standing very close by, just a few paces away. If he looked straight ahead he could see only Reza’s bottom half, clad in jeans so tight that it became rather difficult to look any higher.
“Whatever you say, chief,” young Reza said, smiling.
“Listen, Reizzaah. I am finally going to go on the little vacation I mentioned to you the other day. And I would be so grateful if you’d look after Gomez while I’m gone. It will only be for two weeks.”
“To Morocco?”
“Yes, to Morocco.”
Young Reza had knelt down and was now straddling the arm of the sofa, so close that Molinet could have reached out and touched the knee trapped in those piercing blue jeans.
“I also have to ask you a favor, chief.” And those Persian cat eyes shone with a brilliance that was not unfamiliar to Molinet.
“How much money do you need?”
Reza’s hand, the same hand that so assiduously stroked the bodies of domesticated animals, the hand that delivered such skillful caresses, had moved perilously close to Molinet. It slid across the back of the sofa and Molinet watched as it came to a stop near a tiny speck of dust resting against his neck. Only once before had Reza’s hand come this close to him. It had taken place a few weeks earlier, when they had met for the first time following Molinet’s arrival at the flat. Reza had been kind enough to help him arrange his furniture, and when they were finished, Molinet had felt obligated to give him a tip—twenty pounds, a fortune—but he was such a very friendly neighbor.
“You know what, chief? I think it will do you very good to leave this dump for a little while. Really. Tooting Bec is no place for a gentleman like you. Take it from me.”
“How much money do you need, Reza?”
The young man shrugged; his abusively green eyes answered the question.
“Twenty, thirty pounds? I can’t give you any more than that, but you know I am your friend, Reza—I told you so the other day. I don’t want you to have to go around asking other people for money. What is it this time?”
“Nothing serious. I owe a friend some money.”
It was always the same story. He had heard it a thousand times, from so many other Rezas. The only thing that changed was the name and the country of origin. The blue-eyed René. Gustavo. Gianfranco. Timothy, the waiter with the strong hands. He was never able to save them from danger, and only rarely did they ever truly acknowledge his friendship, for which he requested nothing in return. Occasionally, of course, one of these boys would compensate him with an ambiguous, careless brush of the hand or, if they were feeling generous, perhaps a couple of pats on the lower back. Nothing much, but after all, a destitute, dirty old queer couldn’t really expect much more than a few crumbs of affection. He had a special weakness for macho types, exceedingly masculine queers, and with each and every one of them he would relive his old, worn-out dreams, as he did now with Reza. But Reza seemed different from the others. He really did. He loved animals, didn’t he?
“Thirty pounds. Not much, but it should do.”
Molinet handed over the thirty pounds, and Reza reciprocated with nothing but a pat on the arm, dry and manly.
“Wait, don’t go just yet. Now, would it be all right for me to leave Gomez with you?”
“I’d love it, chief—you know how I adore that little pup—but I can’t do it. My boyfriend is coming down this weekend. I told you about him, didn’t I? He lives in Liverpool, he’s got a laundromat there. Oh, he’s such a good boy. You know how it is, chief. There’s no way. Mohammed hates my animals.”
“What happened to your other friend, Reza? The one that was
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