Edmund White - Our Young Man

“Bad actors, if they want to look anxious, wave their arms a lot, which feels right but looks absurd.”

“And models?”

“You might hold up your hand to suggest protest or resistance, but an open hand thrust forward is the size of a head — it feels right but it looks wrong. A hand should never be seen except in profile.”

“How interesting,” Fred said, looking uninterested. He wants to talk only about his love for me. “Go on.”

“A model selling a new typewriter might look directly at the camera, especially if he’s been told he has beautiful eyes.”

“You have beautiful eyes,” Fred said sadly, possibly anticipating Guy’s indifference.

“But a model, if he’s selling a product, should look at it , never the camera.” Suddenly Guy felt shocked by the childish insistence in his voice and disheartened by how trivial the knowledge of his “craft” sounded. For different reasons both men were sad, and they lapsed into silence.

Suddenly Fred brightened and said, “You know, that house on Fire Island you keep mentioning?”

“That I’m chanting for,” Guy corrected, smiling.

“I think we should go out there this Sunday now that it’s getting warmer. I’ve lined up a real estate agent who could show us some houses.” Fred smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to chant in vain. We can stay over Sunday night.”

When Guy told Pierre-Georges that night his news over the phone, Pierre-Georges exclaimed, “You see! I’ve always claimed you get more if you’re a man by not putting out. Women succeed by sleeping with men, but men do better by not sleeping with them.”

“Have you always said that?” Guy said, teasing him. “I’ve never done anything through calculation. I just chant.”

“She just chants — Little Miss Innocent.”

“It would be nice to have a house right on the beach. Wake up at noon, pull back the blackout curtains, open the glass doors, cross the dunes … just wear a smile and a Jantzen.”

“That dates you!”

“You’re right. I wish we could just wash our brains clean of everything from the past. What are you eating?”

“White beans and sardines and chervil.”

“I love that! But it’s better with red peppercorns.”

Lucie came by to show off her new burnt-orange sweater, which stretched attractively across her tits and looked like a radiant mango against her light brown skin. She twirled around to show it off but she was so little an exhibitionist that she ran out of steam after a half turn and deflated self-consciously onto the couch.

“Look, I’ve only got ten minutes,” Guy said, “before I go off for a Banana Republic go-see way uptown, but I want to talk about something with you. Then I have a Bacardi rum shoot midtown.”

“Fine,” she said. “Tell me.” He was never this serious and she felt flattered and hoped to be worthy of his confidence.

“This chanting thing is sort of creepy.”

“How so?” She chanted, too, and always defended Buddhism.

“Just for fun, I was chanting for a beach house in the Pines, and now this old guy seems to want to offer me one.”

“Bravo!”

“Do you think I’m just a big whore?”

“None of us is getting any younger.” She reoriented herself and said, “Americans are always so cheap. They always want to split the bill. Of course, the younger girl models never pay for anything, but they have to go out with horrible Russian gangsters. You’re the only one who gets an apartment”—she looked around—“or a house out of the deal. How do you do it?”

“Chanting.”

“I’ve been chanting for a Cadillac convertible and I’m still taking the IRT.”

They laughed. Guy took her hand between both of his. She was surprised by the gesture. “Do you think I’ve become a gold digger? I’ve already got plenty of money saved up. But I can’t stop myself.”

“Look, it’s nothing you’re doing. You’re gorgeous — that’s your only fault.”

Guy decided to believe her. It was simpler.

But what was he going to do Sunday night when Fred would want to share his bed? He could always say he had a big job Monday early, that he was doing a whole shoot for Perry Ellis.

It was a cool March day in the Pines as they crossed the bay in a powerboat Fred had hired in advance. (The ferry wasn’t running yet.) Big gray clouds chased one another like fat, playful puppies in a pet store window, except the enclosure was immense, all of outdoors. It was fairly cool and there was a stinging hint of rain in the air, what the French call “spit” ( crachin ). Fred squinted at the wind and rain reproachfully, as if it were conspiring to ruin their day, but Guy said, “I love it. It reminds me of Brittany.”

They were shown a gray-shingled house from the 1950s a block from the beach with a rotting wood staircase. Inside, the house smelled of kerosene and septic tank. “Did some old couple just live here and die?” Guy asked.

“How much does this cost?” Fred asked, raising and lowering his jacket zipper nervously.

The agent — a prematurely tanned middle-aged man — smiled and held out his hands jokily, miming as if he were trying to juggle several balls or answer both questions at once. “Yes! An old couple lived here. They haven’t died but they need the cash. Their winter house is in Sayville. This is a fixer-upper; that’s why it’s only a million and a half.”

“Only!” Fred shouted. “It’s run-down, it’s off the beach; even fixed up, the rooms are too small. And you can’t get flood or hurricane insurance out here, you told me that yourself.” The agent shrugged and Fred zipped his blue windbreaker shut so it held his stomach as in a sling. He walked out on the stairs and flicked open his chrome lighter, cupped the flame, and lit a Camel, squinting into the blowback. His jaw muscles were working; maybe he hadn’t expected such high prices.

Next they saw an architect’s house right on the dunes with glass doors and turrets and a great room two stories high, but a screen door was banging in the wind, the rubber insulation around the kitchen windows was rotting, and the parquet floor was buckling. “How much is this one?” Fred asked.

“Just three million. You’d pay that much for an empty lot in this location.”

“We’ll take it,” Guy called out, then looked at Fred and said, “Right, Daddy?” Then he bent over laughing at his little joke.

Fred smiled a sour little smile.

As they walked along Atlantic, they battled a cold wind, which raised goose bumps on their legs. They were both in shorts. “I know some of these kids get into calling their older boyfriends ‘Daddy,’ but I think that’s sick.” Fred was holding on to Guy as if to keep him warm and grounded in the wind. He had a strong arm across Guy’s back and was whispering into his ear, “I don’t want to be anyone’s daddy. I already have three kids and two grandchildren — you’d never guess it, would you?”

“No, you don’t seem the type.” But then Guy realized Fred was referring to his youthfulness, not his paternal image. “You look too young.”

Fred brightened. “I do? Honest?”

“Honest,” Guy echoed, feeling depressed.

Because he’d inadvertently cooperated with Fred’s sense that he was an A-list gay, Guy went to bed with him that night in the suite he’d rented in some Potemkin-village “palace” an old queen had pieced together according to her fantasies of luxury and history. It was all falling apart, but at first glance it did seem baronial-Liberace, especially compared to the humble dwellings that surrounded it, with names like “Lickety Split” and “Atta Gurl.” It was all gray and white like some comic-book version of a stately home, except inside it smelled of Kools and roach spray and the potted ferns were turning brown. The “velvet” bedspread was some flimsy synthetic that clung to their bodies and didn’t breathe.