Late afternoon had been very oppressive, and the swallows had been shooting low across the courtyard. After the fall of night, a heavy rainstorm had burst out and raced now over the country. An insufficiently fixed shutter was banging against a window frame, and the rain slapped against doors and windows. On such an evening, I really appreciate a good chimney fire with dry vine wood, cozily wrapped in my Boberic, as my dear wife had called it with disdain: the thick morning robe, which my good old mama had made for me when I left for the first time to university. Some Senegalese incense was burning in an earthen ash-pot, in the warm light of a foot lamp, on the background of my red velvet curtains; and a Chopin disk was playing. It was really a very cozy evening. The curtains on the window-door of the living room had not been entirely drawn, and at a certain moment I realized from the corner of my eye that the motion detector had made the courtyard light go on. At the same time, I heard the gravel they had spread the previous week crunching, as if a light vehicle was being pushed inside. Steps were approaching, but instead of knocking on the door, the unknown visitor just bent over the gap between the two curtain pieces - I just saw a shadow moving - and then the steps and the tires retired again. I jumped on my carbine rifle, which always stands hidden behind the curtain; I turned the key on the door and jumped into the courtyard. The anonymous invader, entirely dressed in black, was shoving his moped through the open gate wing, when I yelled "Stoj! bo strzelam!" I never understood why I had yelled in Polish and why the invader immediately raised his left arm; with the other one he had to hold his moped. He turned his face to me, a mask of white plaster. With the barrel of the carbine I pointed to the shelter roof where I keep the wood for my chimney: "Put the vehicle there and close the steering lock." He did as I directed. Then I pointed to the open door of the living room: "Go on, get in there!" and I followed him, the barrel pointed to the ground. When we were both inside, I pushed him aside and locked the door behind us; I stuffed the keys into my pocket and placed the carbine back in its place behind the curtain. The few moments in the courtyard and under the roof of the wood shelter had been sufficient to soak my good Boberic; I took it off and hung it over a chair standing next to the wall. From a hook in the entry I took a fresh djellabah. I plunged into my armchair and had a close look at my invader, who had removed the hood of his black parka. He was a very young man; I did not give him more than eighteen years, with a pale complexion which was livid now, and with coal black, tousled hair. He showed the statuesque beauty of a noble Kabyle or an Andalusian, but his lower lip was agitated by an uncontrolled nervous tic. I could but think of the young white horses on the stud farm of Lipizza in Slovenia where they chose the best elements for the Spanish Equine Dance school at the Imperial Court of Vienna, curious with their blown-up black nostrils and ready to flee in panic to the other end of their enclosure at the slightest movement of their visitor. "Sit down here at the fireplace!" "I cannot, I am completely soaked." Indeed, he was standing in a small pool. I realized that he had spoken with the pure accent of the Briton country population. "Take off your parka and hang it over the chair; take off your shoes and approach that arm-chair near to fire! Hurry now, no fuss!" I now understood his reluctance: he smelled like a wet dog, but he finally obeyed. "Well, I think we can finally introduce ourselves, shouldn't we?" I looked at him with a curious but grim look. "I am Martial Vilalonga." "I see. Go on!" "I am a friend of Jean-Pierre." "Jean Pierre who?" "Jean-Pierre Dessalines, your grandson." "I see, and who am I?" "You are Monsieur Moran." "And?" "Jean-Pierre used to call you Papou, grandfather, it seems a little African boy had given you that name." "That's correct. You have identified yourself. Listen, I would like to be able to say, 'toi, ton' to you, but that would mean that you should also speak in terms of 'toi, ton' to me." In French, this would indicate the less formal address between friends; or even the more intimate. As this story happened in France and in French, this establishment of the form of address is significant. "You cannot call me by my first name: we are much too far one from the other; but you may call me Papou, and 'thou, thee, thine'. Is that ok with you?" "Oui, Monsieur." The boy however made a strange impression on me: he was obviously absent-minded, his lower lip was trembling with tics, and apparently he had no muscles in his face for a smile. "You need something to reinvigorate you; I'll bring you a Metaxa." If I had suggested something he knew, he would have answered just by yes or no, and I wanted to make him talk. Indeed he said, "What is that?" "That's a kind of Greek white wine, blended with natural tree resin. It has a very special taste and is somewhat bitter." As I was already in the kitchen, I continued to the toilet. When I came back, the boy stood near the curtain, the barrel of the carbine pressed on his breast, and he was fumbling on the lock. Poor darling! I could hardly refrain from laughing out loud. Quietly, I put down the bottle and the glass on the step of the stair, tore the gun out of his hands and slapped him a rather heavy one on the face. "Why do you do that, Monsieur?" "Who does that?" Another slap on the face, weaker that time. "Why do you do that, Papou?" He was sobbing, more with fright than from pain. I seized him by his pullover and threw him into the armchair. "First, you drink!" He obeyed, looking surprised at first and continued to sip obediently. I inserted a disk: "Musique andaluz du Maroc." The breath of the adolescent went slower; he began to calm down but it took a little time before the trace of my fingers had disappeared from his pale cheek. "Martial, do you know you are a big silly country-boy? Do you seriously believe I'd leave a loaded gun in reach of a mad youngster who has just tried to invade my home? You certainly have seen enough American B-movies where the cars have no ignition key and the handguns are always ready to shoot 50 bullets without reloading? "Look, there is never a bullet in the barrel. The magazine is in my pocket; the security lock is down and how I have blocked the lock is my secret." I continued. "You have committed a surreptitious, unauthorized irruption into a private property, and the law calls that unlawful trespass. Are you aware that there are lots of madmen outside with a gun who just wait for a burglar to bump him down; after that, it's an easy thing to explain that to the gendarmerie. Do you see how dangerous your little affair could have been? I could have shot you down. I could have." Again I went on. "But now you are going to tell me exactly for what reason you have invaded my property without so much as knocking on the door?" Before he could answer I said, "Wait a moment. Before you tell me fairy tales, I'll reveal to you a secret of Jean-Pierre's. He is a happy man today, without sorrows, because when he was a little boy, he used to come running: 'Maman, I have broken a dish of the Sunday set; Papa, I got a five in Math!' For that reason, he never got reprimanded, just complaints. Now it's your turn, and no fairy tales!" "Well, Mons... no, Papou, there was an argument with my own papa; angry words, bad names, and Papa has thrown me out of the house, for definitely ever. I needed Jean-Pierre's help in this situation, but I have seen through the window that he was not at home, and his moped wasn't here either. Then I thought he might be here because he had told me he had his own room at his grandfather's house and that he spent there two or three days from time to time, leaving from here to go to the Lycée. In the café opposite the church they have explained to me how to find your house. But I have seen that you were sitting there alone, reading a book. I had not thought you might rush out and threaten me in Russian and with a gun! I understand now how wrong and stupid that was. That's all." "And what was the reason for the quarrel with your father?" "Papou, you have told me never to lie. So I just answer: I do not wish to talk about that." Not quite so stupid, the young fellow. "That's enough; for the moment, at least. Now I suggest you go to sleep. At the end of the corridor upstairs, there is the bathroom. You have to calm down, and so you are going to have a very hot shower: let the water stream on your neck and down the spine, the longer the better. In no case should you count the minutes: this is a medical therapy. The door before, on the right, is Jean-Pierre's room. Be so kind and fix me that shutter that is slamming against the wall. In the closet, you take everything you need to get dressed; and your own clothes, you throw them on the floor outside the door. On Monday morning, they will pass into the machine." Martial bowed his head down. "No, I cannot wear the clothes of Jean-Pierre. I'll keep mine, even if they are wet." "You are a strange person, Martial. You've never exchanged clothes with a friend?" "Yes. Things like jackets and parkas, even if our mothers do not like that. But our underwear? Never." "Oh, I see; you are blushing. You would not mind a jacket of Jean-Pierre's, but his underwear, a simple white cotton slip, makes you blush. The thought of Jean-Pierre's body excites you, thinking of his genitals excites you, because Jean-Pierre excites you. You are in love with Jean-Pierre and that's for this reason that you have spontaneously sought his help. Is this true, or am I right?" The eyes were nailed to the floor, and he finally uttered, with a toneless voice: "Yes, I am in love with Jean-Pierre, and I think he is in love with me, too." "At last, at last, now it is outspoken and you can go to sleep in peace. Hurry, my boy, under the shower, and the wet laundry on the floor, all! Good night, Martial." The boy ran upstairs, two steps at a time. The following morning, he did not show up at the time when ordinary college boys usually slam on the breakfast table with their spoons. I went upstairs to Jean-Pierre's room, which was his now, and entered. In my house, we never knock on the doors; we just push the handle down so slowly that the inhabitant can get a decent posture if ever necessary. Martial had drawn the coverlet up to his chin and looked at me with a faint smile. His eyes were glossy, his cheeks looked flushed. I understood. "Do you allow me, please, to touch you?" I put the back of my hand on his forehead, his throat and onto his belly with the well-shaped muscles; I had to suppress the sinful thoughts that threatened to seize me. "Listen, Martial, you have a high fever, as a result of your crazy excursion yesterday night. I'll bring you some sage infusion, which has a disgusting bitter taste but it is a superb medicine, and some aspirin with Vitamin C. After that, I'll call the Lycée. I'll ask the Headmaster he should not inform your father where you are right now; it is better that he does not know for two or three days. We'll make him stew a bit, and that will teach him to throw a degree candidate out of his house. You're going to sleep now until noon. That's signed Papou; that's signed Jean-Pierre." Leaving for downstairs, I took the laundry of the wet dog that was neatly piled up in the corridor. Shortly after eleven o'clock, I phoned the Lycée. "This is Moran speaking. Good morning, director, dear colleague. When the class books come back to your office, you'll state that Vilalonga, Martial, has not showed up in class this morning. Yesterday night, he has run away from home, for familiar reasons, and was about to do mindless things. He was searching for his friend Dessalines at my place, where he had a nervous breakdown with self-destructive tendencies. No, do not ask questions; medical secret - yes, I know I'm not a doctor, so take the secret of confession - yes I know I am not a Christian, either, but you'll trust me as you ever did. I need three or four days to soothe the evil spirits and to bring the kid and his family back on track. For this, however, I need the presence of his friend Dessalines, who'll have to watch closely over him for two or three days. Please set him free for tomorrow and Friday. I'll write a letter of excuse saying he has the bovine pest or something to that effect. On Monday, that man Vilalonga will be back again in class, and nobody will make comments. Please ask Darin Jérémie to take detailed notes during these two days, so that the boys can make up for the lost days. And please give instruction to Dessalines that he must come immediately to my home at the end of classes in one hour. Do not tell him why, and not one word to the Vilalongas to whom I'll pay a visit tomorrow. Oh, they have already called? That's good, so you need not lie to them. Thank you so much, Director. You have my heart as well." Martial was sitting upright in his bed. "Do you play chess?" "Yes, I try a little bit from time to time." I took the chessboard from Jean-Pierre's closet, and we began a round. I stated that his method was strictly defensive, so that I made intentionally a wrong move with my knight in order to let him win. He certainly needed such a small satisfaction, but he did not realize my stratagem. "Jean-Pierre should be here around 12:30 or so. Please get dressed then, but wait here upstairs until you are called downstairs." At the moment I expected him, Jean-Pierre came rushing in, as usual. "The Pontifex has stopped me when I left classes and told me to be here at once. I just saw Vilalonga's moped under the shelter. What does all that mean? Do you hustle now my little buddies, you disgusting old man?" "Now, hold it. You sit down and you call him. No: remain sitting. Just call him to come downstairs!" "Martial, Martiaaal!" yelled Jean-Pierre with all the power of his lungs. Martial must have waited upstairs in the corridor, because we heard at once a somehow hesitant step on the wooden stairs. Down in the living room, he sat down in a corner of the big sofa; he was wearing the red T-shirt of the Chicago Bulls, which is so popular with our boys, and a pair of blue jeans of his friend. Jean- Pierre sat down at the other end of the sofa. "Hello, buddy!" "Jean-Pierre, Papou knows." "Papou knows what? And how come you call him Papou?" "Papou knows all about us; the two of us." With a yell of joy, Jean-Pierre jumped on me and pressed me a loud wet kiss on my cheek. Then he threw himself on Martial and ploughed his mouth in ecstasy until both of them suffocated. That was such a beautiful scene, I could have cried. "Jean-Pierre, little miser, I have four cheeks..." "It is widely known that you lose your head for sexy lads as we two are, but in the utmost case there will never be more than two kisses! Two I say!" Martial was sitting there, a picture for the gods, with an open mouth and big, round eyes. "Close your mouth, mon chéri, or the flies will enter. What do you think? Papou is in it, I am in it, and you are in it. Maman knows I am in it, and my papa knows, too; he does not at all like the idea but I think he gets along with it. And now, Papou, unworthy ancestor, what news is coming from the kitchen?" Martial exploded in a roaring laughter, so he had muscles in his face to laugh with after all. And the animation did wonders for his countenance. After dinner, which I had taken particular care for, as Jean-Pierre did not miss to underline loudly, I finally could leave the house, Martial being in good custody. I did some shopping for the kitchen and had covered soon the 21 kilometers to Trois-Fontaines. Thanks to the concise road description by Jean-Pierre, I easily found the house, a nice pavilion with an immense bed of white roses in front. A small lady, all dressed in black, opened the door. She had tear-stained eyes. "Madame Vilalonga?" "Yes, what is it?" "I am Professor Moran. Is Martial at home?" "No, he is not here." A dark cloud was covering the face. "What do you want from him?" "At first, I would be grateful if you let me enter." "Listen, my husband is not here, and I am alone at home." "That is the reason why I have come right now. I have to talk at first to the mother of Martial. Don't be scared: yesterday he was stranded at my place; he is lying by now with a roaring fever. If you cling however to your Arabic or Spanish traditions, I'll go away at once and you may do whatever you want without me." "Oh no, Monsieur, no please, please come in!" She led me into the living room, shining with utmost petty-bourgeois luxury, heavily varnished oak furniture and plastic flowers all over. On the wall, I saw some framed photographs, among which a standing portrait of Martial wearing an old-fashioned dress and a Basque beret. "Well, Madame, yesterday night he was trying to find his friend, Jean-Pierre, who is my grandson. When he did not see him at his home because Jean-Pierre had gone to Brest for a regional Judo competition, Martial came to Bourbac, where Jean-Pierre has his own room and where he stays sometimes for two or three days with me. Martial invaded my property without authorization and without presenting himself. Imagine that, Madame: dressed in black all over, the night, the rainstorm. So I obliged him with my gun to enter the living room. No, Madame, don't be scared: I know how to handle weapons. I felt he was in panic and about to do something stupid, and also that he could not return to his family. You see, I know everything, and now you tell me the rest, as they say in those detective stories." "Well, there was a violent quarrel between Vilalonga and Martial yesterday night. Such bad words have been pronounced, and Marital has fled away on his moped. That's all I know." "Madame, this is positively not the moment to stand on ceremony or timidity. It is within our power to throw your son into despair and disaster, or else to help and save him. So now you tell me: what was the argument about?" The little lady swallowed with difficulty. "Well, my husband wanted to lay a newspaper on the boy's writing desk in his room, the drawer was half open and involuntarily, he saw a coloured magazine with men...well, with naked men, well, who... Now. Vilalonga began to search in the drawer and he found a half-finished letter, which began with "Mon chéri..." As Martial is absolutely perfect in grammar, my husband immediately understood that this letter, written by the hand of Martial, was addressed to a man. When the boy came home, I think from the swimming hall, Vilalonga began to rage, and as always when he is in a fury, in his dialect, 'puta de hijo', 'maricon' and always 'maricon', and finally, 'fuera'. And the boy fled away." She broke down in miserable sobs. "Well, that may be enough for the moment. Martial is under good custody. Jean-Pierre stays in permanence by his side, and the fever is regressing, too. Monsieur Vilalonga will tell you everything tomorrow. At what time will he be back from work tomorrow?" "Well, he used to be back at 17:30 precisely." "Ok. Please inform him about my visit today. Tell him that my grandson cares for Martial, and that he must not take any initiative before he has seen me tomorrow. It is for the boy's sake and health. If it is possible, it would be better for you to not be at home when I come tomorrow. I suggest you see a neighbour with the two girls. In any case, he will explain everything to you, but I want to talk to him alone because our discussion will very likely become rough and very loud." "Let me thank you so much, Monsieur. Sometimes he is very rough, so please be rough with him. I cannot: he is my man." After supper, I asked Jean-Pierre to insert a videotape, that wonderful English movie, "Beautiful Thing". Jean-Pierre knew it, but Martial looked fascinated. From time to time, I stopped the tape and translated some significant dialogues from the gargoyled accent of East London into normal language. When the film had ended on the scene of the two lovers dancing tenderly enlaced on the Plaza between the East London flats, and the last sounds of "Dream A Little Dream Of Me" had faded away, I asked for the boys' comments. Jean-Pierre nudged his friend with the elbow, and Martial said: "What mostly impressed me is the goodness of Sandra's heart and of most of the neighbours. I think they had been living with gay persons around them. But this is not a movie about homosexuals and it is not a homosexual movie. It's just a love story; a dream of love, like a fairy tale: we do not know how it will go on in real life, how Ste's alcoholic father and his brutal brother will react when they hear how the boys have professed their love in public. You see, I am personally concerned by this film. Anyhow, I'll never forget this scene." "I see you have understood the whole thing," I said. "But now you'll allow me to retire into my apartments. Do what you want." "I promise you, Papou, we won't be good boys." Oh, that Jean-Pierre! Some time later, I heard them coming up the stairs, humming "Dream a little dream of me..." Unfortunately, I often wake up at impossible hours, and today it was almost 5 o'clock. I went to the toilet. When I passed in front of the boys' room, I slowly opened the door. There they were, lying face to face, and the bed sheet straddled at their feet. Jean-Pierre's hand was lying on Martial's hip, and that one's hand in the shadow below Jean-Pierre's stomach. The full moon had fallen on Martial's face, and he seemed to smile in his sleep. With precaution, I closed the door and returned to my bed, smiling with happiness about the felicity of the two lovers. When they came down in the morning, it was already late, and Jean-Pierre bugled from above: "Papou, we have been very naughty tonight!" "It is bad enough I have a rake in my family, but please respect Martial's secret and his shamefulness. You see, he is blushing again. For this you will be punished: you will be deprived of dessert today." "I don't mind. We already had dessert this morning, didn't we, mon chéri? Seriously now, we are going to play some chess, and this afternoon, I'd like go fishing with Martial." "That's a good idea," I said. "You know, I have a permit for the communal pond. Borrow a rod from the neighbor. But please, go by foot and leave your mopeds here. On late afternoon, I'll take up old man Vilalonga about the affair, and he will spend some uncomfortable moments. Tomorrow he'll be tame like a lamb, you'll see." Jean-Pierre followed me to the kitchen: "Please do not try anymore to cheat with him in chess. He understood at once that you made an intentional wrong move with your knight in order to let him win. He did not say a word, but he's got your number. You should know he is a champion." In the late afternoon, I was waiting in Trois-Fontaines, not far from the house of the Vilalongas. At the scheduled time, a Peugeot station wagon stopped in front of the house. A very strong, somehow rigid man stepped out and entered the house. A few moments later, I rang the doorbell. "Oh, good evening; you must be Professor Moran. Please come in!" His voice was calm and friendly. He led me into the living room, which I knew already. "My wife cannot be with us today, unfortunately. May I offer you something?" "Oh yes, with pleasure. A lemonade or a juice would be fine." When he was back from the kitchen, I began the conversation, which I had thoroughly prepared in advance. "Before we come to the topic of our meeting, I wish to ask you a big favor. Normally, this is not my style, but in this special case I feel somehow obliged that you treat me with 'toi' and 'ton', ‘thou’ and ‘thine,’ because our conversation may perhaps turn into some rough words: I ask you permission to treat you the same way. My name is Paul; just Paul." "I am Domingo Martial Vilalonga. My son, by the way, is Martial Domingo Vilalonga. Domingo, will that be okay?" "I thank you, Domingo. I think Madame Vilalonga has given you the detail of my visit yesterday, and you know about whom I want to talk today." With these words, I nodded at a framed photograph on the wall, this one showing Martial in an old-fashioned black suit and again with a Basque beret. "You are joking, Paul: that's my father Alejandro, his first picture taken in France when he was 20 years old." "Would you be so kind and tell me his story. And without wanting to hurt you, would you please open the case down there; I think it is the second from the right." Vilalonga looked at me somehow perplexed. "You need not be ashamed, Domingo; you rather should be proud." Vilalonga opened the case and placed a pair of laced boots on the carpet. They were in a pitiful state, covered with mud and dust, the leather was dry and worn out, and on the spot where the big and the small toe used to be, there were holes gaping. "Tell me the story, please!" "That won't be difficult, because Father had told it more than once. Well, you have heard about the Spanish Civil War, the Frankists have crushed the Government of the Frente Popular and the People, with military help from these cursed Germans; think of Guernica. The front lines were approaching from day to day, and one night there came the wife of a Frankist officer that my father was to be arrested and shot before dawn. You know that this is what happened to hundreds of thousands of our people. Father used to say that the main language in hell, where the murderers are burning, is Spanish. "Anyhow," he continued, "he fled at once, through the fields and into the mountains, following the smugglers' paths. He was running day and night, until he finally recognized a French signpost. He waited in a small grove until sunset, and then he knocked at the first house of the village. The voice of a woman answered: 'It's always open.' In the kitchen, there was an older woman dressed in black. When he entered under the enamel shade of the lamp, she jumped up and called, 'Martial!' "'Me llamo Alejandro, señora.' "The woman fell back on her chair and sighed as in deep despair. My father laid his carbine on the floor near the wall. "'Push the bolt and sit down here.' The woman had spoken in Catalan, the popular language of that region. 'Don't tell me anything,' she said. ‘I know your story. You are here on French soil; that is the land of freedom and you are in security. You are going to drink; you'll eat copiously; and there is a bed upstairs. I'll bring you a bucket of warm water. I'll wake you up before sunrise. But do you know where you are going to?' "Father explained to her, 'In our brigade, we had a French Freedom Fighter. Last week, our Commander ordered him to step forward, "At order!" He summoned him to hand in his weapons, his military ID documents and his badges, and to leave at once for France. That was an order. Before he left, Comrade Eduardo gave me his address in a village named Pembol and he said if I succeeded to join him there, he would help me.' "'Good Lord, you must mean Paimpol, which is at the other end of the country,' the woman said. “'I shall get there.' "The next day, the woman waked him up at 5 in the morning and put a heavy meal before him. "'Now, little one,’ said the woman, 'eat first. Look here, I have torn the map of France out of my son's school atlas. We are right here, and Paimpol is up there, direction Costa de Armor and Finistierra. Keep away from big roads, from crossroads, towns and villages. Don't talk to anybody. But you need not be afraid; you are in security. Everywhere there are communists and socialists, even among the Gendarmes, and everybody will help you and those in need. Take that game-bag of my son: there is some food and a change of underwear; others have been here before you. And here are some of our good Francs, they'll allow you to buy some bread. Ah yes: leave your cap here and take the beret of my son, so people will consider you as a French farm hand. And now, out from here!’ "Father was seized by a deep emotion, and the tears hindered him to speak as he always told us. Finally, he put his gun and the two magazines on the kitchen table and said, 'Madrecita, please hand these over, tomorrow or after tomorrow, to the Guardia Civil.' “'We call them Gen-dar-me-rie here,' said the woman to my father. 'And now, get away. May the good Lord and his angels accompany you, Martial!' "That is the whole story. Father arrived safely in Paimpol and was lucky enough to meet Comrade Edouard. Some months later, he found a job here in the area. "A comrade of his who returned near the Spanish border, followed Father's description and found out the address of the Madrecita. Father sent back the game-bag and the beret, and later on, post cards followed occasionally. Father, as he always repeated, never signed them. When we got our first automobile in 1967, our first travel was near the Spanish border where we laid down a huge flower wreath on the grave of Madrecita, the mother of a Martial about whom we never knew anything. "My father has never returned to Spain, not even after the coronation of our good king Juan-Carlos. That is the whole story." "Let me thank you, Domingo," I said. "I now understand the honor of the Vilalonga, and why you never cleaned these boots that had made the long way from Catalonia here to Brittany. You may close the case now." I took some sips from my glass. Now the talk would turn serious and rough. "I understand, as I said, the value of the honor of the Vilalonga, and your violent indignation when you had to state that your son is a maricon." The man bounced up. "I know how such a thing can hurt," I continued, "but tell me, who is that person there in that other photo?" "This is Federico García Lorca, the Andalusian nightingale." "What has become of him?" "These cursed Falangists shot him in August 1936, at the time when my father succeeded in escaping." "And what do you know about him? Personally, I mean?" "We know his poems." "Domingo, do you know that García Lorca was a maricon and that this may have contributed to his violent end?" I was sure he would strangle me with both his hands. "You did not know that, Domingo, because that does not diminish at all his greatness as a poet. Actually, a detail without interest. You get what I'm saying?" Inexorably, I continued: "This is just the beginning. Do you know that the President of the City Council of Paris is queer? That the Mayor-Prime-Minister of the State of Berlin in Germany admitted in public he is queer? And no journalist, nobody, makes snide remarks on it. The main thing is they do the important job they are committed to do. You'll certainly soon hear about Don Pepe, the former parson of Valverde who has publicly recognized he is loving a man and who is going to publish a book on 1000 years of silence of the Church on that painful secret. "Nobody can welcome or recommend such a thing; it is simply a human fact which concerns an infinite minority of the population. It exists. I say unfortunately because it is not easy for anybody. "Last Monday," I went on, "they mentioned on the radio a recent, representative inquiry according to which 70 percent of our adult population would not mind to have a queer President, queer in private, provided he brings the nation forward. We do not have a queer President; we are not likely to get one. But nevertheless. And there is only a stubborn Briton mule-head named Vilalonga, running amok and yelling 'maricon' and 'fuera'." The man was visibly shaken all through. He ran into the kitchen and came back with the entire cognac bottle and my lemonade. "Don't fear, Domingo, we are far from being through. Martial has reported quite a lot about you. Some years ago, a Dutch company had tried to buy out your factory, and the workers began to fear for their jobs, and they were quite right. Unanimously, you have been elected as the sole representative of the labor staff. I do not think this was quite legal because as a works manager, you are on the employers' side. Anyhow, you succeeded to tip over the Dutch project. You have accompanied your two managers to the Crédit Agricole and obtained an additional investment credit line. You have requested from your workers to make unpaid overtime hours for some months. You were the one who opened the factory at dawn and who extinguished the lights in the evenings. Then, you have organized several meetings with the wives of your workers where they gave you their advice and criticized the ergonomic conception and the details of your furniture. And there is much more. Believe me, Martial explodes with pride when he speaks about his father. Now tell me, Domingo, what will people say when they see you in the street? Look, that is poor Vilalonga, the father of the little faggot? Or will they say, look here, this is our Monsieur Vilalonga who has saved and secured all our jobs? Well, Domingo?" I filled my glass up, and the man still seemed unable to respond. I went on: "We are still far from being through. You have insulted your own son as a puta. Okay, we know how that goes with the women. But can you imagine what the poor boys are forced to do or to support, those who hustle for clients at the Porte Dauphine in Paris? Do you see a Vilalonga, be he queer, shivering in the snow and selling his arse for 300 Francs that allow him to buy some bad drugs? Is that the way you picture Martial, the future chess champion? So, why do you scream 'puta', 'fuera'? You better think about the meaning of words." "Paul, you are a filthy bastard!" "In French we say, every filthy bastard will meet one and a half filthy bastards, my dear Domingo! Let's talk about something quite different: Tell me, when was the last time you saw Martial completely naked?" The answer took quite some time; that strong man was certainly about to guess that I led him around by his nose like a dancing bear. Nevertheless, he continued, even calmly, "Well, I think that began when he was about seven or eight. He locked himself up in the bathroom. When he was about 15, the girls never ceased to complain about the endless time he spent there, so I built a second bathroom there at the corner, the 'men's bathroom.'" "Have you ever seen since the sexual organ of your son, and did he ever see yours?" "Too much is too much! Now you have gone way too far! Be prepared to take a flight right there on the pavement, I swear!" "Not yet, Domingo! Your violent reaction is perfectly justified; it is normal. You know the curse the Prophet Noé had thrown upon his son, Cham, and yourself, you are not at all interested in the sexual organ of your adult son. So, explain to me why you are so interested in his sexual life?" It was a pity to see what that strong, so self-assured man had become in just a few minutes. "Well, Domingo, I am coming to the end, the estocade as the bullfighters say: the death blow. "Some years ago, I had seen in the Praça de Toros de Lisbon an Andalusian rejonador, a mounted bullfighter. When the mansos, the tame oxen, had lured the fighting bull out into the toril, you know in Portugal, the estocade is only symbolic; the rider took two turns of honor around the arena. Suddenly, the crowd began to yell 'o cavalho, o cavalho'. The rider dismounted and slapped on the horse's flank, a noble silver-white animal with incredibly fine ankles that made alone his tour of honor. The applause of the crowd became deafening, and the sly animal understood that quite correctly. When I look at that Martial, I cannot but think of that noble animal, with not the slyness and the pride, because he is much too modest. "Now, Domingo, what do you want? A maricon in your family, maricon in private, who respects you and never does anything indecent except these things he might do in strict privacy and in which you are not interested? Or do you prefer a beautiful marble slab, in delicately veined Italian marble? Imagine the golden letters on it. Every Memorial Day, you will wash with your tears the dust from the slab, when you think that a noble young animal is lying there: a good swimmer, a chess champion. Twenty years later, you'll have no more tears to wash the marble, and the corpse below will have totally disappeared. Now will you stand up and yell 'fuera el maricon'?" At last, Domingo began to sob: heartbreaking. "I want to have my Martial; I want to have my son! Leave me quiet, you have wounded me!" "Indeed, that was my intention, Domingo." At this point, it took him quite a time to recover his spirits. I feared already his wife would be back too soon. Suddenly, he was quite calm: "I do not trust you round the corner! You are quite a wicked fellow! Who speaks about dying?" "I had never seen that man Martial before when he committed this unlawful trespass onto my property, and I could not discuss outside under the rainstorm. So I forced him to enter the house. I made him sit down at the fireplace and left the room to get him a drink. When I came back from the kitchen, he was standing there with my carbine in his hand, the barrel pointed into his breast, and he fumbled with the lock..." Vilalonga jumped up, seized the revers of my suit and shook me violently, a damn strong fellow. "How, you have placed a gun in the reach of my son?! What reason did you have to kill him, you...!" I pushed him back and smoothed the lapel of my jacket; I positively hate it when somebody touches the small colored ribbon in the buttonhole. "That's super, really super! He is my son now and not ‘el maricon’ any more! I was waiting for this over one hour now. You have avowed that he is your son and that you love him. As far as I am concerned, you take me for a perfect idiot: First, there is never a bullet in the barrel. I keep, if ever, the magazine in my pocket and the security is always down since the last slap on the ears I got from my dear father when I was 34, just for that reason. And I have blocked the lock." In a dry tone, Domingo said, "I have a screwdriver, too." "If you know my secret, keep it to yourself," I said. "Well, the whole affair is settled forever now, I swear," he said to me. "At present, however, I must know the bastard who has abused my child, who has dishonored and raped him. I'll be at once at his place, smash his shack and beat the shit out of him!" I could not but burst out in a loud laughter: "Sit down again, Domingo, you old fool. To begin with, nobody has done abuse on your Martial, nobody has dishonored him, and you cannot seriously think that an athlete, be he a track-and-field athlete like the young Vilalonga, lets himself get raped like that. Your bad luck is you are always walking beside your shoes; get a grip on reality! His affair is a love affair; let's say an impulsive amourette between two adolescents from good families, with love letters and tender kisses. To make it simple, I'll tell you that the "chéri" of the letter you found is my grandson, Jean-Pierre, and Jean-Pierre is in love with Martial. You need not destroy the shack of the Dessalines: my son knows that Jean-Pierre can only love or will only love a boy; he does not like the idea but he gets along with it. My daughter-in-law approves of her son, as far as I know." "But Jean-Pierre, that's the well-educated blond fellow who comes sometimes in the afternoon! They are preparing tests and lessons together, and they used to play chess. I should have realized from the beginning on, you shrewd fellow, you came here to plead for your gang!" "No, Domingo; I am also school psycho advisor and trouble-shooter in family affairs. Some mothers are confident in my skill to repair broken pots. "On that evening, when you had thrown him out of the house, and he had understood you meant it, he did not find the friend who was supposed to help him. So he was looking for him at my place. He was about to run away into the night. Thanks be to God, I had captured him because there were some signs that he might run into the river. That is the reason behind that marble slab: it was an acute crisis with an elevated self-destructive tendency, as we say. "Martial is under permanent observation by Jean-Pierre who is of his age. I have taken him out for some days from school for that purpose. I have told the Headmaster about a nervous breakdown, and he knows about that certain problem with adolescents. "The boys have played chess today, and in the afternoon, they will have gone fishing in the village pond. I have insisted that they go by foot. If Jean-Pierre gives us the green light, that Martial is out of danger, you may come tomorrow and take him home. Come with the station wagon and we'll load Martial's moped. But swear to me you'll control yourself, otherwise the whole process will be compromised and all our efforts will be lost, five to twelve." "So, nothing has happened at all?" "I fear, it has. You have thrown your boy into my grandson's bed - you did it. They have spent last night in the same bed, but I am not curious to know what they have done together. Are you curious, you?" "Honestly, I do not want to know, not at all." "So, this is settled, too. Give me your phone number. I'll ask Jean-Pierre to call you tomorrow." "I thank you so much, Paul. You are a very bad fellow, but you are also a very good fellow. And almost the entire cognac has evaporated from the bottle." At the beginning of the following afternoon, Jean-Pierre took the telephone. "Good afternoon, Madame, this is Dessalines. May I speak to Monsieur Vilalonga? ... Good afternoon, Monsieur Vilalonga, this is Jean-Pierre. Martial has recovered from his fever and from his emotions. Doctor Jean-Pierre consents to discharge him. But please allow a young boy to speak to a boss: Martial is still frail; his emotional balance may still topple over. You can come and take him whenever you... Yes, immediately if you wish. Let me give you directions..." Fifteen minutes later, the tires of a Peugeot crunched in front of the gate. Domingo entered. The two men approached and greeted each other in the Mediterranean way, the cheeks barely touch, and you slap on the back of the other, three times, six times, even nine if journalists are present or even more. "Ola, maricon querido!" "Ola, querido padre de maricon!" "Ah la la, these two wreck our nerves. You promise me right now on the head of Doña Ines that never never again will utter that word!" "I swear on the head of my wife!" "I promise on the head of my mother!" "At last. I only hope that all is over now. But where is the umpire's commission? I'll beg Doña Ines to invite us one of these Sundays to a super mega monster Paëlla. I'll come with a bottle of Metaxa." I was rewarded by a radiant smile from Martial. Jean-Pierre played again the jack-in-the-box: "Under two conditions! No pork on the table, nor bacon, nor chorizos, alas. And then, some lemonade or fruit juice for the worthy ancestor." A loud laughter filled the room. Domingo turned towards Jean-Pierre and looked at him thoughtfully: "So, you are the one..." "Yes, Monsieur Vilalonga, I am the one. And how honored I feel to be the one." "As you wish, let it be an honor for you, good-for-nothing. In any case, I am waiting for you next Sunday, in the company of your awful grandfather." Vilalonga slapped lightly on the shoulder of Jean-Pierre whom I saw blush for the first time in a very long time. But now, it was enough for me. "So, the kids, you are going to load the moped into the station wagon. I thank you so much, Domingo: you are strong and you have been really great. But now, you leave the worthy ancestor to his meditation on happiness in this world." I waited until the car started, but then it stopped after some meters. Next to me on the sofa, I saw a wallet lying, and at the same moment, Martial rushed in by the window-door: "I have left my wallet!" He seized it, bent over me and put two odorant lips on my cheek, light as a butterfly in a dream. "Merci, Papou chéri." And off he went. ….. “Dream a little dream of me…” ---------------------------------- The story, “Martial,” is dedicated to Eric Brown. Author's Note: Details about the brutal Frankist repression of gay people and on Don Pepe's outing can be found on the Spanish gay website www.zero-web.com. -------------------------------------------------- Story originally submitted March 7, 2002 Men On The Net
