Andrew Vachss - Strega

"I see. Tell me about this picture."

"A picture of a kid. Little chubby blond-haired boy. About six years old."

The man sat behind his desk, patiently waiting. I hadn't told him enough.

"A sex picture," I said.

"Um" he mumbled. "Not such an unusual picture. Little boys in love do things like that."

Something burned inside my chest. I felt the Mole's eyes on me, got it under control, took another drag on the cigarette. Who would have a picture like that?"

"Oh, just about anyone . It all depends on why the picture was taken."

"Why?"

The man made a tent of his fingers, his English accent making him sound like a teacher. "If the picture was taken by his mentor, then it wouldn't be circulated commercially, you understand?"

"His mentor?"

"A mentor, sir, is one who teaches you, guides you through life. Helps you with problems…that kind of thing."

I just looked at him, picturing a little dot of cancer inside his chest, keeping my hands still. I raised my own eyebrows-a question.

"Men who love boys are very special," the man said, his voice reverent. "As are the boys who love them. It is a most unique and special relationship. And very little understood by society."

"Tell me," I said, my voice flat.

"When a boy has a sexual preference for men, he is at grave risk. The world will not understand him-many doors will be closed to him. It is the task of a dedicated mentor to bring the tiny bud to full flower. To help nourish the growth of the boy into manhood."

"By taking pictures of the kid having sex?"

"Do not be so quick to judge, my friend. A true mentor would not take such a picture for commercial purposes, as I said before. The pictures are taken to preserve a unique and beautiful moment. Children grow up," he said, his voice laced with regret for the inevitable, "they lose their youth. Would not a loving parent take pictures of his child, to look upon in later years?"

I didn't answer him-I didn't know what loving parents did. Mine took a lot of pictures of me-they're called mug shots.

"It's capturing a moment in time," the man said. "It's a way of keeping perfect times always with you, even when the person is gone."

"You mean people…people like you…just want to keep the pictures? Not sell them or anything."

"People like me…" the man mused. "Do you know anything about 'people like me'?"

"No" I said. The deal was I couldn't hurt him-nobody said I had to tell him the truth.

"I am a pedophile," the man said. The same way an immigrant would one day say he was a citizen, pride and wonder at being so privileged blending in his voice. "My sexual orientation is toward children-young boys."

I watched him, waiting for the rest.

"I am not a 'child molester,' I am not a pervert. What I do is technically against your laws…as those laws now stand. But my relationship with my boys is pure and sweet…I love boys who love me. Is anything wrong with that?"

I had no answer for him, so I lit another cigarette.

"Perhaps you think it's simple," he said, his thin mouth twisted in contempt for my lack of understanding. "I love boys-you probably assume I'm a homosexual, don't you?"

"No, I don't," I assured him. It was the truth-homosexuals were grown men who had sex with other grown men; some of them were standup guys, some of them were scumbags. Like the rest of us. This freak wasn't like the rest of us.

He watched my face, looking for a clue. "You believe my preferences to be unique? Let me say this to you: some of the highest-placed men in this city share my beliefs. Indeed, were it not for my knowledge of such things-of powerful men with powerful drive-forces in their lives-I would not have the protection of you people," he said, nodding his head in the Mole's direction.

The Mole looked straight at him, expressionless.

"Any boy I love…any boy who returns that love…benefits in ways you cannot understand. He grows to youth and then to manhood under my wing, if you will. He is educated, both intellectually and spiritually. Prepared for the world at large. To such a boy, I am a life-changing force, do you understand?"

"Yes," I said. It wasn't a lie this time.

"And I would…I have taken pictures of my boys. It gives us both pleasure in later years to look at this icon to our love, as it once was. A boy is a boy for such a short time," he said, sadness in his voice.

"And you wouldn't sell these pictures?"

"Certainly not. I have no need of money, but that is not the point. It would cheapen the love…almost immeasurably so. It would be a violation of the relationship…something I would never do."

"So nobody would ever see the pictures you have?" I asked him.

"Nobody outside my circle," he replied. "On some rare occasion, I might exchange pictures of my boys with others who share my preferences. But never for money.

"You mean you'd trade pictures? Like baseball cards?"

The man's eyes hooded again. "You have a crude way of putting things, sir. I know you do not mean to be offensive"

I nodded my head in agreement. I didn't want him to stop talking. The Mole's head was buried in his papers, but I could feel him telling me to watch my step.

"My boys enjoy knowing they give me pleasure. And it gives me pleasure to show their love for me to other men who believe as I do." He took another sip of his drink. "To be sure, there may be an element of egotism in exchanging photographs with othersI am proud of my success. But-and I'm sure you understand-one must be very discreet at all times."

I understood that all right…gave him another nod of agreement.

"There are those who produce pictures of children for purely commercial purposes. Not those who share my loves…my life style, if you will. But no true lover of boys would buy such pictures. They are so impersonal, so tasteless. One knows nothing of the boy in such a picturenot his name, his age, his little hobbies. Commercial photographs are so… anonymous . Sex is only a component of love. One brick in a foundation. Do you understand this?"

"I understand," I told him. It was true that the devil could quote the Scriptures, as the Prof was always saying. "Would a person ever destroy his pictures…like if he was afraid there was a search warrant coming down or something?"

"A true pedophile would never do that, my friend. I can assure you that, if the police were battering down my door at this very instant, I would not throw my memories into that fireplace."

"But the pictures are evidence…"

"Yes. Evidence of love ."

"People get convicted with evidence of love," I told him.

A smile played around his lips. "Prison is something we face all the time. A true believer in our way of life accepts this. Simply because something is against the law does not mean it is morally wrong."

"It's worth going to prison for?" I asked him.

"It's worth anything ," he said.

"The people who…exchange…pictures of boys. You'd know how to get in touch with them?"

"We have a network," the man said. "A limited one, of course. You see the computer?" he asked, nodding his head toward the screen.

I nodded.

"The device next to it, with the telephone? It's called a modem. It's really quite complicated," the man said, "but we have something called an electronic bulletin board. You dial up the network, punch in the codes, and we can talk to each other without revealing our names.

I gave him a blank look.

"As I said, it's really quite complicated," he said smugly. I could feel the Mole's sneer clear across the room.

"Can you show me?" I asked.

"Very well," he sighed. He got up from behind the desk, bringing his glass with him. The man seated himself before the computer. He took the phone off the hook and placed it face down into a plastic bed. He punched some numbers into a keypad and waited impatiently, tapping his long fingers on the console. When the screen cleared, he rapidly tapped something on the keyboard-his password. "Greetings from Santa" came up on the screen in response, black letters against a white background.