my friend john lived in a village west of oxford. every year or so, when i made a trip to london to visit my publisher, i would tear myself away from the museums and the theaters—and the bars and the british men with their sweet and sexy accents—to visit him for a few days. after several weeks in the city, it was nice to get away and savor some quiet country life. and i did enjoy seeing john each time. we had known each other at oxford. i had been over doing research on chatterton, and he had been completing his studies in history. we had met at the library and struck up a friendship—after i had gotten through some of his typically british reserve and slept with him several times. when i visited him now, we would still sleep together, but only on the last night of my stay. it was english and odd and endearing. i always looked forward to his slightly-rough ivory cotton sheets. i usually stayed three or four days. last year, on the evening of my arrival he fixed dinner, and then we caught up on the people we knew, my writing, his teaching, and anything of interest that had happened to us. we didn’t correspond regularly, so there was a lot to say. the next morning he went off to college and i slept in late. the day was warm and pleasant—late may in england—so i took a walk through the countryside. butterflies were out in some profusion that year, i remember. after my walk i took a nap, then sat at his desk, writing until he returned. that evening after dinner we were relaxing in what he referred to as his “garden room.” it was a pleasant place, with comfortable chairs and couches, a worn persian carpet on the floor, and french doors that opened onto the lawn behind his house. he sat in his favorite rocker and i lay stretched out on the couch, propped up by several large pillows. we had exhausted most of our urgent topics on the previous evening, so there were stretches of silence as we sipped our brandies. john liked to travel when he was not teaching. he collected art and artifacts from all over the world. there was a small fireplace in the room, with a low mantle. something on the mantle caught my eye. “is that new?” i asked, gesturing toward the object. “what?” “that. is it a sword?” “oh, that. that. yes. it’s a samurai sword.” “i didn’t know you had gone to japan.” “actually, i got it in paris.” “paris?” “yes. i had gone over for a few days and found it while wandering through the antique shops there.” “is it real?” “oh, yes. early fourteenth century. it’s called a tachi. a samurai would wear it in a scabbard hanging from his waist.” “i’m sure it looked quite dashing.” “yes. well, it caught my eye in the shop.” “i would have thought something that old would be in a museum.” “i thought so too. when i asked the antiquarian its age, i was quite surprised. he explained that it was his personal possession. it had always been in the hands of private collectors. if he chose to keep it or not, it would be entirely up to him.” “and he chose to sell it to you?” john paused. “to be perfectly honest, michael, he gave it to me.” “he gave it to you.” “ah, well, yes.” “due to your irresistible personal charm?” he blushed. “it was a gift. i think that’s all i need say.” “although i’m sure it’s not the whole story.” “americans. have you no sense of privacy?” “i’m curious not because i’m an american, but because i’m a writer. and a drama queen. or i’m interested because i’m interested in what happens to you. in any case, it’s quite beautiful.” john looked at me. “yes. it is.” “for a weapon, i mean.” john sipped his brandy, and thought. “well, a sword is not only a weapon. it is . . . i don’t know if i can explain it. if i were to say to you that it is a way of life, you would accuse me of cliché, or pretension.” “not i!” he smiled. “don’t. what i mean to say is that the samurai sword is exemplary of the samurai ethic. it is a keystone in the understanding of that ethic. it is not only, or merely, a weapon.” “i thought the purpose of a sword was to kill. your enemy or yourself.” he grunted. “you know so little of history. firstly, if you’re going to perform seppuku, you would not use a tachi. you would use a tanto.” “excuse me.” “secondly, the purpose of the sword is not to kill.” “the purpose of the sword is not to kill?” “no.” “then what, pray tell, is the purpose of the sword?” john gathered his thoughts. “the purpose of the sword is the same as the purpose of the man. and the purpose of the man should be . . . honor . . . duty . . . and beauty.” “my goodness!” in spite of his english self-control, a trace of kind dismissiveness appeared on john’s face. “if you cannot take what i say seriously, i may ask you to stop drinking my brandy.” “i do take what you say seriously. i just didn’t realize we were going to get into such deep waters.” john mused. “deep waters? what do you mean?” “‘honor’? ‘duty’? ‘beauty’?” “oh, those aren’t so deep.” “not deep?” “no. they are . . . ,” he paused and laughed to himself, “as thin as a blade.” we passed on to other topics then. the brandy and the languor of the evening did not encourage deep philosophical examination. we stayed up past midnight, wandering aimlessly through topics. during one lull in the conversation i glanced over at john and found him contemplating me. i had difficulty interpreting his expression. it wasn’t lust. that had never been his style. i thought that perhaps it might have been desire. but although there was a concentration on me, there was no yearning in his eyes. there was a gentleness, perhaps, or a sense of protective concern. as if he were kindly wondering how this child with his ignorance had ever made it so far through the world. “what?” i muttered. he opened his mouth to speak, but then he hesitated, as if he were going to say something but then thought the better of it. “nothing,” he said. “i’m going to bed. i’ll see you tomorrow.” as he was leaving the room, he touched my shoulder. he leaned over and kissed my forehead. “goodnight.” “goodnight,” i said. after he had gone, i lay on the couch. i wondered about john. i wondered about myself. i wondered if i should slip into his bed that night. probably not. my glass was empty. i splashed the remainder of the liquor into it and continued to sit there, silently regarding the night through the opened windows. nothing to do but go to bed. when i stood up, my eyes were again caught by the sword. i walked to the mantle to examine it more closely. it was almost three feet long. the sword and its scabbard rested lengthwise on a lacquered stand. the scabbard was patterned with flowers. i thought that odd. the hilt of the sword was made of leather, with embroidered threads wound around. it definitely appeared old. i wondered for a second if i should handle it. it wasn’t that i was worried that john would object, but i didn’t want to damage it. but, then, i thought, this is still here after six hundred years. how much harm could i do if it had lasted that long already? i lifted it gently off the stand. it weighed less than i expected. i grasped the hilt and removed it from the scabbard. the blade was brilliant. i thought perhaps that there would have been some dullness after all that time, but it shone as if it had been forged and polished that same day. it seemed to collect all the light in the room and reflect it outward more intensely. i turned it back and forth, marveling at the brightness of the steel. the balance was perfect. i could scarcely feel its weight. those small motions gave way to larger ones. i stepped into the center of the room, where there was more space to maneuver. there, in my bare feet on the carpet, i made a few easy tentative passes, then larger, more sweeping ones. somehow, though, it did not feel as if i should be doing this. there was something inappropriate about it. i felt a little ridiculous. i stopped pretending to be a swordsman and examined the sword itself more closely. there were tracings etched into the blade. small wavy lines like representations of waves or the wind. above them and through them i could see my face reflected in the blade. yes, that is me. that is what i look like. that is who i am. i tested the edge with my thumb. the blade slid into the flesh with no resistance. before i realized what i had done there was blood on the sword. i had not realized that the edge was honed more sharply than any razor i had ever used. i gasped as i jerked my hand away. the cut was not too deep, but deep enough. i quickly put my thumb in my mouth. i held it there and inspected the sword. my blood was a transparent red smear on the edge. as i watched, the blood began to smoke. tentatively, at first. a few wisps arose from the red and reached out into the air. but as it continued, i saw that—while it was my blood that was evaporating—it was the sword itself that was smoking. the red of my blood disappeared, but the tendrils of gray continued to lift from the edge of the sword. and rather than ceasing once the liquid was gone, they began to spread, traveling up the edge of the blade. i watched in amazement as the entire edge began to give off a thin stream of smoke. i noticed it was not the smoke of burning wood. instead, it smelled like incense. sweet and spicy. i did not know what to do. i couldn’t drop it to the carpet, for fear that it might indeed start a fire. i was getting ready to run outside with it when i saw him. in the blade there was a face staring out at me. it wasn’t mine. he was in the blade and he was looking out at me. i dropped the sword. it lay there, on the carpet. as it lay there, its edge still smoking, it opened. it quietly divided itself through the blade, and opened, unfolding its mirror image from itself, until the two halves lay on the carpet in symmetry. the smoke, or incense, continued to rise from both halves. i stumbled away in astonishment. the smoke poured forth more intensely then. and as it rose it assumed a shape. the shape of a man. while i watched, he formed in front of me. then, after a few minutes, the smoke was gone. and he was there. how do i describe him? i could not tell you his age, except that he appeared to be somewhere past his youth. he was oriental, his skin amber and smooth. his eyes were dark. his long hair was shiny and black and tied behind his head, and he had a thin mustache. his shoulders were broad and well-formed, but his chest and torso were slim and lightly-muscled. he wore a dusty-rose-colored loincloth wrapped several times around his hips. below it, his legs seemed to be from a different body. they were thick and sturdy, almost bull-like in their solidity, with darker hair covering them. “have you hurt yourself?” he asked. he moved towards me, reaching out his hand for mine. i quickly stepped back. his eyes watched me. they were twinkling with good humor as i stood there before him speechless with wonder. “let me see,” he insisted. he moved closer. taking my hand in his, he examined my thumb. “it has stopped bleeding now,” he announced. he continued to hold my hand as he raised his eyes to meet mine. “who are you?” i managed to say. he smiled. “i am uetsu.” “who? . . . what? . . . “ “uetsu. i am here.” his eyes crinkled with amusement. “are you not glad to see me?” he was real. he stood so close to me that i could see individual lashes around his dark piercing eyes. i felt his breath on my face when he spoke. it was sweet and smelled like cinnamon. the warmth i felt emanating from his hand holding mine was real also. from his entire body i felt the warmth. “are you a ghost?” i asked. he laughed. “never. no, no, no. i am uetsu. i am here. i was there, in my home, and now i am here. it is not hard to understand.” “your home?” “yes, my home. look.” he led me by the hand over to where the divided sword still lay on the floor. there was no smoke rising from it now. its interiors lay open, shimmering like mercury. “it is there,” he said. i leaned over and peered inside the sword. it was as if i were somewhere else, gazing into a pool. in and through the gently wavering surface i could see a garden behind me. i could also see the corner of some building. and blue sky. “that is where i live,” he said, pulling me back. “but here is where i am now.” “what are you doing here?” he shrugged. “i am here with you. there is no ‘what’ or ‘why’.” “did i bring you here?” “you may have. you unsheathed the sword.” “i was just looking at it.” “ah, ‘looking’. have you not learned what may happen when you look?” “what?” he smiled again. “when you look, you may find.” i still felt some small fear. “but why are you here?” i asked. he did not answer me, but—releasing my hand—he turned around and studied the room. walking over to the french windows, he leaned out into the night and took a deep breath. i found myself looking at his back. “it is night here. i enjoy the sounds and smells of the night. there is so much mystery, so much romance.” he turned his head and looked at me over his shoulder. “do you not think there is romance in the night?” “yes.” “i like to walk in the night. to hear the wind. to feel the coolness of the air on my skin. to see the darkness. do you ever walk in the night?” i could not believe that i was having a conversation with him, whoever he was. but as we continued it seemed natural. i found that i was becoming comfortable with him in a way i could not have predicted. “yes, now and then.” “do you walk by yourself or with another?” “either way. usually by myself.” his voice dropped slightly. “when you walk by yourself at night, do you not sometimes meet someone?” i hesitated. “yes.” “a man?” “ . . . yes.” he spoke out into the darkness. “and is this not what has happened now?” i was about to answer that the man did not usually appear out of a cloud of smoke, but a voice in my head reminded me that—on occasion—he had. i kept silent. “you do not answer me.” “i . . . do not know what to say.” he glanced back at me. “when you meet this man, do you not talk?” “yes.” “and of what do you talk?” “i don’t know. we just talk.” “and then?” “then?” “when you are finished with your talking, what do you do then?” “different things.” a playful smile began to form in the corners of uetsu’s mouth. “you are very shy, do you know?” “me?” “yes. or deceitful.” “i’m not!” his smile broadened. “you act as if you did not know of what i speak. but i think you do. i think you know of what may happen between two men in the night.” “ . . . i know.” “but you will not speak of it?” “i don’t know you that well.” he chuckled. “ah, i see. but you know them so well!” i winced. his exclamation had hit the mark. “i know them well enough.” “well enough, i think, to invite them to your home?” “yes. sometimes.” “and do they come to your home?” “yes. sometimes.” “and then . . . ?” surprisingly, i found it hard to say to him what i usually took as a matter of course. “then . . . they stay with me.” “they stay with you!” i felt bolder. “yes. for the night.” he was leaning against the doorframe. his arms were crossed before his chest and a mocking smile kept playing across his face. “have you not noticed that i am a man. and i am here with you.” “i’ve noticed.” “and is that not good?” he winked at me. he was flirting with me! i laughed. “oh, this is better!” he said. “you are not afraid of me now. and now that you are not afraid of me, i see how you are. there is a light in your eyes.” “a light in my eyes?” “yes. the light of a man who sees something that interests him. uetsu interests you.” i smiled. perhaps i was being a bit coy. “yes.” “yes? i interest you, and yet you say you do not know me. how do you explain this?” “i can’t.” he sighed. the smile disappeared and a slightly puzzled pout took its place. “i cannot explain it either. but i know that it is so. it is a mystery of men. it has always been so to me. it has always been so.” he lowered his eyes and thought. i had opportunity then to observe his chest, his groin, and his legs. he was muscular and yet soft somehow. his muscles were not those that had been developed for appearance. they had been fixed and firmed through the natural course of his life, retaining their human character underneath. his stomach curved just perceptibly outward as it would in a man of his forties. and his confidence and grace was that of a man of experience, who had learned and yet gained from the knowledge. i realized then that i wanted it all. and shortly afterward i realized that he had caught me staring at his body. “your interest has grown,” he said, roguishly, watching me from underneath his eyebrows. “yes,” i said. “i think,” he said—so very quietly—“that you wish me to seduce you.” my breath stopped and my heart began to beat quickly. “seduce me?” “yes. you wish me to run after you. you want me to talk sweetly and persuade you. and then you wish me to take you as if you had no choice.” he said all this in a soft, caressing, insinuating baritone. we stood there—i on the carpet and he in the doorway—and watched each other. “yes,” he said. “i know that expression on a man’s face. i have seen it as many times as i have seen the night and day turn into one another. your eyes have desire in them. i know that expression. i do not know how it would show on my face, because i do not see it when i stare into a mirror. but i know that expression on another man’s face. i know when a man desires me. and i know that i am a man also, and a man knows desire. i know desire.” he turned from the window and walked back toward me with a sexy swagger to his hips. i found myself staring at his chest, beginning to wonder about the uncontrollable attraction i was feeling for him. he stopped before me. placing his hands on his hips, he cocked his head and continued to speak suggestively. “i now see who you are. you are one who wishes to desire and be desired. you are the one who wishes to stand before me. very well. stand there. and i will stand before you. look at me. look at these arms. look at this body. look at this face. do you like what you see?” i could not help myself. “yes,” i whispered. “yes. you do like these things. you like to gaze upon me. do you like to see me when i do this?” he raised his hand to his stomach and lightly rubbed the surface. prickles arose on the back of my neck. “yes.” “yes. it feels good to touch myself. but there is something better. can i show you something better?” “yes.” ever so slowly, he moved closer to me. very delicately he unbuttoned my shirt. pushing the fabric aside, he placed his hands on my sides. he lightly ran his hands upward. i shivered in ecstasy. he tilted his head slightly to one side and spoke softly. “do you like that?” “yes.” “does it give you pleasure?” “oh, yes.” he ran his hands over my skin. i had to close my eyes, it felt so intense. he continued to caress me as he spoke further. “you are giving in,” he said. “yes,” i whispered. “you are surrendering.” “yes.” “an easy victory,” he murmured. “you have given up the castle and i have not even had to lay siege.” “no.” “still. i must take my prisoner. i must take that which i have conquered.” “yes.” “how should i treat my prisoner, i wonder. should i trust you? if i do not watch you, will you run away?” “no.” “no? i am not sure. i must make certain. remove your clothes.” he stepped away. as his hands left my body, i involuntarily swayed toward where he had been. then i regained my balance and undressed. he stood there, watching me. when i was done, i stood naked before him, with an erection. uetsu smiled. “i can see my prisoner now. i can see that you are mine. i wonder, should i bind you? should i . . .” he undid his loincloth. the soft folds of the fabric unloosed beneath his fingers until he held one long strand of rose-colored silk. now i could see his penis. it hung thick and graceful. “when you bind someone, you know, you should always bind them with silk. do you know the feel of silk on your skin? this is how it feels.” he stood closer. holding several folds of the silk in his hand, he rubbed it across my chest. i could feel it texture, the smoothness, and the roughness of the unfinished edges. he ran it slowly back and forth across my chest. “this is what silk feels like. do you enjoy this?” “yes.” “yes. and do you enjoy this?” he drew the cloth out and lay it back over my shoulder. then he passed it behind my neck and forward over the other shoulder. slowly pulling it forward, he drew it across the surface of my body. it was exquisite. it was like a slow cold flame licking my skin. i groaned. “yes,” he said. “that is the pleasure of silk. that is why i wear it. because it kisses my body all the time. it holds me and lays its soft tongue against me. i wear it down there, and i wear nothing else. i wrap it around me so that it holds those parts of me that need to be held so gently, so softly, when there is no one else around. let me show you.” he shook out the silk into a rectangle. he reached behind me, wrapped it around my hips, and then tied it so that it hung from my waist like a sarong. i could scarcely feel its weight, but there was a touch there that invested my hips and thighs with presence and with power. my erection stuck out between the fold at the front. i could feel the silk lying on each side of the base of the shaft. uetsu continued to murmur, softly. “there. it is holding you. it is holding you in its soft embrace. it is holding you as its prisoner. before, it was holding me. i was the one who gave up to its power. but, now—this time—it is you.” i shifted my hips. the silk shifted also. i grew harder. “now i am free. i am free of any constraint. and now that i am free, i will be able to make you my prisoner completely. you see, the silk has strengthened you, has it not? but it has also weakened you. it has strengthened your desire, and so it has weakened you. now i can take you. now you will be mine. now i will bind you, forever, to me.” he sank to his knees and took me into his mouth. i gasped and closed my eyes. the sensation of his mouth on me made that of the silk fade far away. the silk had not been so warm. or so wet. it did not have uetsu’s muscular tongue, which wound itself around me. or his lips, which tightened as he moved the shaft in and out of his mouth. the severe edges of the fabric were nothing compared to the hard line of his teeth as they nibbled at the sensitive head of my cock. his hands cupped my balls and pulled gently on them. i opened my eyes and looked down. he was totally concentrated on what he was doing. his eyes were closed, and he was not using his free hand to massage his own organ. i could see it hanging between his legs. as i watched, it grew and hardened, curving upward, dark and full of blood. i closed my eyes again and gave up my thoughts, knowing only the sensation. at first there was nothing but a warm blackness like that of the night outside. then, behind my eyelids, there was motion. golden lines slid past, curving sinuously. there were whirling patterns of color. or glittering dots of silver then rained down like snow. flowers—yellow, white, red—bloomed and disappeared. i opened my eyes. i felt as if my cock was a pillar of iron and fire. i needed not to be passive anymore. i needed to obtain that from him which he gave—or took—from me. i undid the silk and let it fall to the floor. when i did that, uetsu opened his eyes. he released me from his mouth, looked up at me, and smiled. i eased myself down to the carpet. i gently pushed him by the shoulder, so that he would lie down also. he resisted, for a second. i put both hands on his shoulders and forced him onto his back. i lay on top of him and we kissed. eagerly, passionately. the taste of cinnamon passed from his mouth into mine. our hands roamed. i held his head and pressed it into mine. he grasped my waist and lifted me a little so that he could rub his groin against mine. his sighs and gasps echoed mine. i moved down and took his cock into my mouth. i don’t know that—until then—i was convinced that uetsu was real. really real. but when i took him then, i recognized the taste of flesh, of meat. this, i knew, was what men taste like. this—if anything—was what i knew. i held it tightly around the base and covered it with my mouth. uetsu let out a long slow breath, as of relief. that made me happy. i did not need to think, to plan, or to perform. all of my inclinations and actions were spontaneous as i let myself give in to my hunger. and he let me. he let me serve him. a gentle pressure from his hand, and we turned about so that we could have each other. we sucked each other. there was no haste, no frantic activity. a slow rhythm set in of licking, nibbling, and swallowing. sometimes we would hear each other catch a breath. i remember that the first time i heard uetsu groan, the first time that i made him groan by pushing my cock completely into his mouth, i felt like something had been accomplished. that it was no longer i at his command. that we were—then, at that moment—equals. he responded by trying to push further into my mouth. i opened up my throat and took him in. sometimes that can be difficult, especially when the cock was large, as uetsu’s was. but this time there was no resistance. i took it all the way down and held it. i breathed around it. i held it there as i embraced his back and his thighs. he did the same. how long did this go on? it doesn’t matter. it really doesn’t. we lay on the carpet serving each other, until we felt that we were both ready. then we took each other as far down our throats as we could, and slowly moved back and forth. by the sounds of sighs and breaths, we were able to time it so that we came together. we held each other tighter, and emptied ourselves into each other. for a moment, we lay there, still down each other’s throats. i could feel his liquid inside me, like a golden warmth above my heart. and then we rolled back, and sat up. the expression on his face was different then. it was an expression i had seen on so many faces, on so many men, in my lifetime—slightly sleepy, slightly dazed. i reached over and touched his arm. he laughed. i moved around him, embracing him from behind, and we sat on the carpet. “who are you?” i asked. he sighed. “i am uetsu.” “but who are you? where did you come from?” he was silent for a moment, then spoke in a soft ruminative tone, as if it were a story he were telling of someone he scarcely knew. “i was born—in a way—many years ago. i grew up on a farm. we were peasants. after many years, and many experiences, i realized i was samurai. i traveled. i learned. i served a master for a while. but . . . there was no honor for me in that. i had learned more. about myself. and about men and their ways. i realized that i was uetsu. i was not meant to serve him, or the empire. i was meant to be myself. and to serve other men. that was not acceptable then. you had to be samurai in the way they said. so i left. to the mountains. there i became who i am. i was . . . known. i was sought out by men. men who were samurai but not the ones that were wanted. that is where i live still.” i didn’t know quite how to put my next question. “so . . . are you . . . didn’t you . . . ?” uetsu appeared puzzled. “what?” there was no other way to ask. “didn’t you die?” he waved the question away. “oh, that. that did not matter. not to me. it was not . . . it was like a leaf falling onto the water. do you understand?” “no.” he paused. “you will understand.” what else could i ask him? “are you there alone.” he laughed. “no, i am not alone. the men still come to visit. like you.” “but, i mean, do you have one man? one man who is more special than the rest?” he sighed. “i cannot. because then, if i were to be with someone else, someone like you, i would be unfaithful to him. and that would not be honorable.” i thought of what he said. “some would say . . . , ” i began. he nestled closer into my arms. “yes. go on.” “some would say it was not honorable to be with many men.” after a moment, he spoke. “i have found that there are many things to be said. what some say is what they say. i found—after many years—that i must only listen to uetsu. i must only listen to what i hear inside me. in here.” he pressed one of my hands against his heart, and continued. “when i am calm, and i listen, sometimes i hear it say ‘yes’.” i held my arms around him and leaned against his back. he rocked back and forth a little and stroked my hand. i never wanted time to move again. we sat in silence a while longer, until he spoke. “i must go.” what could i say? i didn’t know there was anything at all that i could have said. we stood. he wrapped the silk into a loincloth again. i had to say something. i had to try again to make contact. i didn’t want him to leave yet. “what is it like there, in your world?” and then i found him considering me as i had found john looking at me earlier in the evening. it was exactly the same expression. only this time i was answered. “oh, my innocent one. do you not yet see? it is the same world.” he came forward. he took my head between his hands. i closed my eyes. he kissed me. and was gone. when i opened my eyes, i saw the sword—undivided, whole—lying on the carpet. i picked up the sword. as i slid it back into its sheath, i thought i heard a soft trace of sound behind me, like a step. i turned, but all i could see was the gray light outside, and the mist settled on the grass. i replaced the sword above the mantle. then i lay back down—still naked—on the carpet. i didn’t want to leave that spot. i imagined that it was still warm beneath me. i thought about uetsu, and what we had done there. deep inside, somewhere below my heart and above my stomach, i still felt a warmness. i lay there awake for several hours, thinking. the day lightened outside, and then i heard john moving about. he came into the room, sleepily walking towards the french windows to close them. when he saw me lying there, he paused and appeared surprised. instead of closing the windows, he perched on the edge of the couch and considered me lying there. i turned my head to see him. he was wearing a white cotton robe. he softly spoke. “you’ve met uetsu.” it was a statement, not a question. “yes.” john smiled gently. “i recognize the signs.” i did not even want to lift myself from the carpet to express my surprise. i was not surprised, really. i don’t think anything was going to surprise me anymore. “he’s very nice,” i said. john looked rueful. “oh, yes,” he murmured. “he is very nice indeed.” we relapsed into silence again. john said, “ i think i’ll go make some tea.” he shuffled out of the room. i lay there longer. when he returned, he sat the tray on the table next to the couch. i rose and sat there. as we sat there at opposite ends of the couch, my nakedness seemed—somehow—no more out of place than his white robe. “two sugars, yes?” “yes,” i replied. the tea was strong. it poured down my throat. the heat of it covered the warmth that i had been holding safely down there inside me. i had a small moment of panic. was the feeling finally leaving me? “have you seen him often?” i asked. john hesitated. “no. only once.” i looked at him. “so i will not see him again.” john returned my look. “i think not.” did i feel sad at that moment? i don’t remember. i took another drink of tea, and considered the sword. a curious thought struck me. “do you know if anyone else seen him? i mean, besides you and me?” john softly laughed. “yes. two others, here, that i know of. well, i would know anyway. you can recognize it in others once it has happened.” i knew that, then. that i would be able to see it in others. i realized then that i could see it in john. what it was, i could not put into words. but i saw it. “i don’t . . ,” i began, but then i trailed off. i couldn’t tell you now what i was going to say. i felt anxious. a mild pressure grew behind my eyes. i could see the early signs that i might cry. john sensed this, i believe, as he watched me. “do you know auden?” he asked. i was distracted from my melancholy. “some,” i replied. he put down his cup and went over to the bookshelves. after a brief search, he returned carrying a red paperback. it didn’t take him long to find the poem he was searching for. it seemed to me that the book fell open to the place as easily as the sword had divided. “this is from the end of ‘september 1, 1939’.” he read to me. “all i have is a voice to undo the folded lie, the romantic lie in the brain of the sensual man-in-the-street and the lie of authority whose buildings grope the sky: there is no such thing as the state and no one exists alone; hunger allows no choice to the citizens or the police; we must love one another or die. defenceless under the night our world in stupor lies; yet, dotted everywhere, ironic points of light flash out wherever the just exchange their messages: may i, composed like them of eros and of dust, beleaguered by the same negation and despair, show an affirming flame.” he closed the book, and laid it down. i heard the clink of his cup against the saucer as he picked them up again. we sat there and drank our tea. “yes,” i said. we listened to the morning.
