Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

“His mentor?”

“A mentor , yes. One who teaches you, guides you through life. Helps you with problems … that sort of thing.”

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

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

“Could you explain?” 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 photograph for commercial purposes, as I said before. Such pictures 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. The State raised me. And the State takes a lot of pictures—they’re called mug shots .

“It is capturing a moment in time,” the man said. “A way of keeping perfection with you always, 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 … toward young boys, specifically.”

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—therefore, you assume I am a homosexual, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” I assured him. The truth, that time. Homosexuals were grown men who had sex with other grown men. Some of them were stand-up 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 orientation to be so unusual? Let me say this to you: some of the highest-placed men in this city share it. 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 begin to 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. Thinking I finally knew what to call Mr. Cormil after all these years. A “mentor.”

“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 your pictures?” I asked him .

“Nobody outside my circle,” he replied. “On some rare occasion, I might exchange pictures of my boys with others … like myself. 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 hasty 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 others. I am proud of my … achievements. But—and I am sure you understand—one must be very discreet at all times.”

I gave him another nod of agreement. I sure as hell understood that part .

“There are those who produce pictures of children for purely commercial purposes, ” he continued. “Not those who share my … life-style, if you will. But no true boy-lover would buy such pictures. They are so impersonal, so tasteless. One knows nothing of the boy in such a picture. Not 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 Satan could quote Scripture, 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 boy-lover would never do that, no matter what. 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 is worth anything and everything,” he said, rapt in the purity of his love .

“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, tilting 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 identities. And photographs can be transmitted the same way.”

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 .