Edmund White - Our Young Man

“So where are you coming from?” Kevin asked brightly. “Boots & Saddle, or, as we say, Bras & Girdle?”

“Ha-ha,” Pierre-Georges said as words, not a laugh; he was clearly irritated. The overweight trick, pockmarked and reeking of beer, put his arm around Pierre-Georges’s waist as if Pierre-Georges might go off with his friends — or maybe to steady himself. “We were at Ty’s, if you must know.” Then to Guy: “What’s with the stubble? The long hair? The bandage?”

“I just got back today. As you suggested, I’m trying for a new image. Stubble — something hypermasculine. Pietro Whatsit in Milano was all stubble in the Armani défilé and all the photographers went crazy over him.”

“You might have consulted me before you took such a drastic step — and the bandage?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I nicked myself. Je me suis blessé en rasant .”

“You were shaving behind your ear? Both of you?” because he’d registered that Kevin had a bandage in the same place. “You don’t shave at all, I suspect,” he said to Kevin as a reproach.

The trick looked startled by the few words Guy had said in French. New Yorkers were used to Spanish, at least the Puerto Rican kind, which sounded normal if substandard to them, rapid-fire and familiar, especially when English words were constantly dropped in. French, however, startled New Yorkers. It was a serious grown-up language, and New Yorkers suspected Parisians considered themselves their equals if not their superiors. Pierre-Georges didn’t want to lose his trick, who just as easily might have lurched off into the night, heading back to the bar for a second strike, though Ty’s had looked pretty much fished out.

“They’re tattoos,” Guy said. “Tiny ones behind the ear.”

“Chic,” Pierre-Georges whispered with awe instead of exploding. “Come along,” he said to the trick; he obviously didn’t know his name. Pierre-Georges lurched forward for air-kisses on both of Guy’s cheeks.

When they were out of earshot, Kevin said, “He’s weird.”

“You mean rude? Don’t imagine he ever approves of my boyfriends. French, Spanish, American — he’s rude to all of them.”

Kevin found being one of many was troubling, not reassuring as Guy had probably intended. “Does he have any other clients?”

“Two. Both French. But since everyone knows me and likes me, he doesn’t book them often. Poor guys.”

“How does he survive?”

“He’s signed some very lucrative contracts for me, and my commercials keep bringing in big residuals for months. And remember a manager gets a bigger slice of the pie than an agent.”

“So you’re really his cash cow. Is that why he’s so possessive? Or is he in love with you?”

“You saw the kind of brute he goes for. No, let’s just say he’s my Chris, not in love but jealous anyway.”

They were sitting on their stoop, speaking in low voices, watching these huge behemoth American cars lurch by. (There was a stop sign on their corner.) A tall, prissy young man strode by, belting out show tunes to himself at midnight. Oh, he was wearing earphones, Guy noticed, and probably had no idea how loud he was singing. It was an old one, “New York, New York, it’s a wonderful town, the Bronx is up and the Battery’s down.” The man’s voice was operatic, his diction was as fruity as an old diva’s, and his pitch was wobbly. Guy thought, These absurd showbiz queens are as much a part of New York street life as sirens, steam from manholes, or ghostly Asian deliverymen ferrying chop-suey-to-go on unlit bikes going the wrong way.

The next morning Guy and Kevin pulled off their bandages and Guy applied antibiotic cream to their tattoos. Lucie came by for coffee.

“I like your new look,” she said to Guy. “Stubble, jeans, and a wife-beater.”

“Is that what you call a débardeur ?”

“Yes, or a Guinea T-shirt.”

“That’s a riot,” Guy said. “A wife-beater.”

“And you, sweetheart?” she said to Kevin. “Is it true you’re going to try modeling?”

“No, Pierre-Georges said I was too short and not virile enough and not a perfect size-forty.”

Lucie said, “I guess compared to the thugs he goes for, big smelly guys with guts. So what are you going to do?”

Guy listened attentively to Kevin’s answer. So often the unspoken etiquette of the couple forbade direct questions and clear answers and an outsider’s chance inquiry was more likely to flush out plans than any discussion (or silence) between lovers.

“I’m going to get my B.A. in poli-sci at Columbia and then a master’s at Georgetown or wherever and take the civil service exam and hopefully become a career diplomat. Chris wants to go back to Ely and take over Dad’s business and become an outfitter, though he’ll have to wait, because Dad’s just forty-five now.”

Five years older than me , Guy thought.

“A diplomat, huh?” Lucie said.

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “I’ve always wanted to travel. And I’ve always liked history and politics. And I’m polite and diplomatic, people say.”

“You’d be a very handsome ambassador.”

“Thanks, but ambassadors are used car salesmen who made big contributions to the party coffers. I want to be a cultural attaché or something — that’s why you two guys have to teach me French! Let’s speak French at least one hour a day. Well, after I’ve had a semester. Right now it’d be useless. You’ll see, I’m good at languages, at least we were stars at Norwegian camp back in Minnesota.” Kevin realized instantly he’d said “we” and hoped that Guy wouldn’t be jealous or even notice.

When they were alone, Kevin said, “That Lucie is so sweet. Finally a friend of yours I can reach out to.”

“You would have liked Fred, too. Very down-to-earth.” Guy was proud of that expression, “down-to-earth.” Americans used it all the time, though he wasn’t quite sure what it meant— terre-à-terre ?

“What kind of movies did he make?”

Guy stumbled over the unfamiliar word: “Blaxploitation.”

“Oh, dear.”

“What? I think it was kind of him to make movies for Africans. Well, let’s not argue. So you want to be a diplomat?”

“My adviser at Colombia thinks I’d make a good one.”

“But wouldn’t that take you far away — to Peru?”

“It’ll be years from now,” Kevin said, smiling, “if ever. Maybe you’ll be … tired of modeling and can come with me.”

“Tired or fired or retired.”

“I want to support you, for once. It’ll be my turn. I’ll try to get us a French-speaking country.”

“The Côte d’Ivoire? They have nice beaches. I was there once for a swimsuit commercial.”

“I want to see your reel sometime!”

“We’ll get it from Pierre-Georges. He keeps it up-to-date.”

And so the charms of their lives, their futures, were changed in a casual conversation led by a third person. Would he and Kevin stay together? How many years? Guy felt he should provide for his old age, but he was hooked on the present. With any luck he’d die ten years from now or twenty and leave a beautiful corpse. He had his two houses and his apartment in Paris. Some models were making exercise films or even getting into the business as agents. Others were buying real estate unless all their money was going up their noses. Guy had heard of one Bruce Weber star who’d bought a prewar apartment near Borough Hall and rented it out to visiting models, male and female, four units, cheaper than a midtown hotel, and they could share the kitchen, and no ordinary person was around to complain about the sound of hair dryers blowing all day or the sound of the phone ringing off the hook. Not too convenient for Manhattan clubbing, but usually there was a limo someone had sent for one of the girls.