Out in the
street he began walking, not to shake his thoughts but to put them in some kind
of order. The Bancoran eye, so mesmerizing, so directly sexual; and Majek, with
his two Aouille eyes, who could bring men to his side virtually against their
wills. They had to be related. Majek used his to compel others to obedience,
Bancoran used his to entice them to sex. Conquest or seduction: not really so
very different after all. And the driven quality was the same in both. Majek
and Bancoran-- and Halim as well. Halim's endless unsatisfied need and the
bright sexual charisma of his personality- that too could be from the same
source.
The
peasants talked of the blue curse on their family, that term he'd never
understood. Could this be what it was? That they were bound to the power in
their eyes that drove them to dominate? Bound to it and driven by it: like his
brothers and Bancoran, unable to resist the commands of their own lusts and
ambitions.
But that
had never been true of himself. He had no memory in his youth of feeling bound
by anything or driven by an alien will. His desires fulfilled themselves
naturally, almost without effort on his part. He'd never experienced the sort
of gnawing need that Halim did. And what of Ruza, his gentle brother, the even-tempered
man of science? Both he and Ruza had had the eye without the will to power that
the other two had.
And neither
of them had survived.
His heart
jumped a little in shock. But yes. Exactly. Himself and Ruza, the mere mortals,
hadn't been sufficient to the demands of their blood. The force in their eyes
must be like the one in their hands, drawing its strength from the
soul-strength of the user. He hadn't been strong enough to control his eye, as
he'd learned only too bitterly: but neither had he been strong enough to be
controlled by it. Neither he nor Ruza had ever wanted anything badly enough to
awake the eye's devouring spirit in themselves. Only in their family was lack
of desire a weakness, but a weakness it was. It made them vulnerable to the
ones who possessed the full power. It had led Ruza to his untimely death- the
old grief came again at the thought: it made him unable to resist Majek's
desire that he die. And the same weakness was the only reason he himself was
alive now.
Memory came
back, the memory that was never far away, of that afternoon twenty-one years
ago when he'd lost his heart and his eye together. He'd been on the point of
suicide. Death was the only thing left for him, because life was no longer a
possibility to one who'd done what he had done. But Majek had been in time to
stop him. Majek with his unfathomable desires- no, he corrected himself
impatiently, with his insane capriciousness-- Majek wanted his younger brother
to live, just as he'd wanted his second brother to die. And like Ruza, he was
no match for the force of Majek's will. With three words from his brother he'd
gone from knowing that he must die to accepting that he would live. Only now
did that complete reversal of feeling strike him as strange. And so- and so
he'd lived on, not realizing what an anomaly he'd become. Because he was
Aouille, of the guardian family, but free from the family curse. That curse lay
in their eyes, and he'd been free of it from the moment he lost his own.
Free. He'd
never thought of his mutilation in those terms before. He was outside the old
patterns now, free of the never-ending dance, while his brothers stayed locked
in their old loves and desires, bound by whatever power it was that lodged in
their flesh. Like Halim, obsessively battling the older brother whom he so much
resembled. Caught in a spell that bound him closer to Majek than to his own
twin, and wanting forever to be free of the one he would die without. And
Majek- too clearly he recalled his brother's smile, the smile that had changed
imperceptibly as Sergei was growing up, from the loving if exasperated older
brother of his childhood to the half-mad General he'd met three years ago: the
one who'd said, "War gets rid of unnecessary mouths," and smiled as
he said it. That was what their family trait had done to him. If only it worked
the same way as Bancoran's... He half-smiled at the thought, and then,
remembering Maraich's tear-stained face, stopped smiling. But it's true, he
said to the boy in his head. It could be much worse.
And he
himself was free. He could go back to Circassia, he could face Halim down-- and
he could leave again. His family had no more power over him. He took a deep
breath and let it out, feeling strangely light. Halim and Majek belonged to a
world in which he no longer had a part. And Szincza- his heart cramped a
little. He soothed the thought of him and let it go. Szincza too belonged to a
world in which he had no part. Szincza with his two ordinary eyes was safe from
the dangers of their family's power, and safe from Sergei himself. There was
nothing left to fear. The bonds of the past were undone, and it was now, in
Paris.
He looked
about him, at the bright empty air of freedom. Solid and rational, the
buildings here; calm and dispassionate, the light of civilization. The strong
sun, deep colours and turbulent emotions of that other place were no longer
his. It was now, and he was on the Boulevard Raspail. The afternoon sun was
westering low on the horizon and he recalled, as from some old piece of
business, that he had friends and people waiting for him elsewhere. Hailing a
cab, he returned to the Quai d'Orsay.
He entered
the de Lavallée mansion again. Dorian ran over to him at once as he appeared in
the doorway of the salon. The living gold of Dorian's hair and his deep blue
eyes made Sergei blink. Somehow he'd forgotten just how vivid Dorian was, and
it struck him anew as the Earl threw strong arms about him and pressed his
rose-scented warmth close.
"Sergei, love, what happened? You just vanished. I'm sorry. I
thought you didn't mind." The worry and guilt on his lover's face made him
want to laugh. Sergei gave him a reassuring kiss and a hug, and then found he
had no desire to let him go. Like coming up from the earth and into the sun
again-- How amazingly alive his lover was. Colour, yes, there was colour in
this world too. Sergei wound a lock of the golden hair about one finger and
smiled into the sky-blue eyes.
"M.Serge?" The duc came to his side, displaying a shadow of
the same worry as Dorian in his manner. Courtesy won over desire. Sergei loosed
Dorian and turned to his host.
"I'm
sorry. An urgent matter came up. I didn't mean to worry you."
De Lavallée
looked relieved. "Ah, non. Did you get it settled to your satisfaction,
then?"
"Yes,
thank you." He smiled without intention, contentment swelling his chest.
The other two looked at him, happy too at his happiness but a little puzzled.
"A new
discovery?" the duc hazarded.
"Yes," he said, unable to stop smiling. "I'll tell you
about it when I'm able to."
"I look
forward to hearing it," the other said. Such a nice young man. Some day,
perhaps, he and Sergei might find themselves where he and Dorian had been this
afternoon. Some day in the future that had suddenly been restored to him. A
future in Paris, of a piece with his golden past. The pleasant life of friends
and lovers, of beauty and ideas, of good food and good wine and good talk: all
of it was still to be his. Only now, when he had it back again, did he realize
that he'd thought it gone for good. Part of him truly hadn't believed he would
come back from Circassia.
"We
should be going," he said to the other two.
"Let's
just have another look at the Giorgione," Dorian suggested.
"Of
course," the duc said, as his attention was claimed by another departing
guest. "A bientôt, messieurs."
Sergei stood
before the easel and looked at the young man with the sombre eyes and the
unreadable message in them. Dorian reached for his hand.
"Orpheus, do you think?" the Earl murmured. "Or
Adonis?"
"I
think-- neither," Sergei said slowly.
Nothing had
changed here, after all. The riddle remained unanswered. The return of the
title wasn't his own, he knew that now. He'd already descended into the underworld
and come back; found the one he loved in the dark, and lost him again. Compared
with what had happened this afternoon, his return to Circassia would be a mere
excursion. He was free of the shadow that had haunted him all day, yet still
the sadness and unease of the painting remained.
"I
think you're right," Dorian said. "This mystery has no answer. Maybe
that's what it's for: to stay in the mind and tease it with possibility."
"Or
maybe the answer is for the future."
"Oh,
yes," Dorian said with enthusiasm. "It's a picture of Fate. Somewhere
this young man is waiting for you, and some day you'll meet him. What a lovely
thought."
"Is
it?" Sergei murmured, looking at the unnatural world behind the young man
and the threatening sky above him. "Myself, I don't look forward to that
meeting in front of the cliff face."
"Really? Why not, Sergei? He's so beautiful," Dorian said.
"Yes." There was a longing note in Dorian's voice that
troubled him. "You like this painting?"
"I love
it."
"Are
you going to steal it?"
Dorian's
eyes moved away sideways at the blunt question. "I didn't say that."
"M'ami--" He hesitated. Dorian would think him mad.
"Don't."
"I know
you don't like me stealing pictures--"
"No.
It's not that. But this picture.... Dorian, it's not for you. There are too
many shadows, too much darkness. You don't belong in this world."
"Sergei
love, you're being so fanciful. This isn't like you."
"No. I
admit it. But I haven't been like myself for some days now." He conceded
the truth wryly. "Not since I met you."
"Sergei
love." Dorian gave him a tender kiss. "But in all honesty,
would you rather it went to the Rothschilds or into a closed collection? You'd
never see it again."
He played
with one of Dorian's curls and didn't answer.
"Sergei..."
He spoke with an effort. "It would be
safer in a private collection than anywhere else. If you had it-- m'ami, it
wouldn't be good for you. It would
shadow your soul."
"You don't
like the painting," Dorian said as if making a discovery. "Why not?
The technique is a master's, I can tell you that, even if it's not Giorgione.
The colouring here in the trees- that's stunning: I've never seen it done
before; and as for this lovely young man in the centre..."
"There's
a mystery to him and I don't think it's a nice one. Best to leave it
alone."
"Sergei- Are you alright?"
"Yes,
of course. I'm quite sane, Dorian."
"That's not what I meant. These fancies of yours... You've got
something on your mind. Was it last night?"
He winced
involuntarily. "Last night was- last night. I don't know what happened and
I don't want to know. But it showed-- there are things outside of reason.
Things that can't be explained. That was one and I think this is another. Leave
it alone, m'ami. It can't bring anyone happiness."
Dorian put
a consoling arm about his shoulders. "Alright, love. Let's go home,
then."
They stopped
for an early dinner on the boulevards, and in the restaurant met a painter
acquaintance of Sergei's and his friend, a novelist. Bertrand the painter knew
Dorian by reputation and was charmed at meeting the famous collector in the
flesh. Caillot the novelist was charmed, period. They ended up sharing a table,
while Dorian gave a spirited account of the afternoon's soiree and the newly
discovered masterpiece. Bertrand sighed at the thought of seeing the painting,
and Caillot sighed at the sight of Dorian. Sergei ate his grilled sole in quiet
amusement as he watched his friend expanding in the light of the other's
worshipping eyes.
Bertrand
gave him a swift glance at one point and leaned over to ask sotto voce,
"This milord, is he..." He waved a vague hand in Sergei's direction.
"Yes." Sergei smiled at him. Bertrand raised eyebrows.
"The English are such a kind people, n'est-ce pas?"
"Indeed. But certainly he's charming, mon ami. You do have luck.
Where did you meet him?"
"At the
Marquères' last week."
"Oh
really. I must start attending the Baronne's 'at homes' more often. And this
afternoon? Was there anyone amusing there?"
"The
usual critics and dealers. What one might expect. The Duc himself is a most
pleasant young man, and his grandmother of course is fascinating."
"'Of
course'? Why? Do I know her?"
"Perhaps, though M. Caillot may know of her better. She's Sibylle
de Lavalée."
Caillot
turned his head in surprise. "The poet? I didn't realize she was still
alive. What's she like?"
"Pragmatic. Surprisingly so for one who wrote such romantic
verse."
"Pragmatic?" Dorian looked puzzled.
"We had
a chat about the Giorgione while you were otherwise occupied," Sergei said
with a straight face.
A
reminiscent half-smile touched Dorian's mouth. "And what did she
say?"
"She
thought it was a painting of Lazarus come back from the dead."
"Oh." Dorian looked startled, then thoughtful.
"That
doesn't sound pragmatic to me," Caillot said. "Mystic, perhaps. She
had a reputation in her heyday, you know, of being a little strange."
"Eccentric?" Bertrand asked.
"No,
no. Not that. She used to read palms, you see. Just a party game, of course.
There was a vogue for it between the wars. But she read one man's hand- the son
of her publisher, just starting out in his father's firm- and she said, very
puzzled, that he was destined to die in the line of his work. Everyone thought
that so funny that they remembered it afterwards- poor Jacques Barbizet, doomed
to be poisoned by printer's ink or buried under an avalanche of books.
Only--"
"Only?" Dorian prompted, enthralled.
"Well,
the war started and he enlisted in the air force and was shot down over
Germany. She stopped reading palms after that."
"Ohhh," Dorian said. "Now you mention it, I thought her
eyes were- well, never mind. I took it for age and cataracts. That man last
night at Elsa Dubarry's- you remember, Sergei? She looked a little like
him."
"I
didn't see anything like that at all," Sergei said in automatic
contradiction. "She seemed perfectly ordinary to me."
"Like
the turnips they sell at Les Halles?" Dorian suggested with a smile.
"Yes," Sergei said, studiedly neutral.
"How
can you call Sibylle de Lavalée ordinary?" Caillot protested.
"Mme la
Duchesse is a marvellous woman and a marvellous poet," Sergei said,
"and in Paris that makes her ordinary." The others laughed, and
Bertrand raised his wineglass.
"To the
women of Paris!"
"And
the men," Dorian interjected, raising his.
"And
the poets," Caillot chimed in.
"And
the turnips they sell at Les Halles," Sergei ended.
Sergei and
Dorian strolled back to the rue Galand, talking of nothing in particular,
merely to have the touch of words between them like the touch of Dorian's arm
on Sergei's shoulder and the touch of Sergei's arm about Dorian's waist. Sergei
was watching his fellow Parisians about their Sunday evening business, which
seemed to be much the same as theirs. It was full dark when they got home.
Sergei pressed the button for the light that illuminated, for a whole twenty
seconds, the passage to the back. It went out as they reached the stairs, but
instead of pressing the button that lit them to the second floor, he pulled
Dorian against the wall and kissed him in the sudden blackness. Warm, so warm,
the Earl of Red Gloria. Sergei's fingers explored the curves and hardnesses his
eyes knew so well in the light, that felt quite different here in darkness.
Dorian was now only a rose-scented sensation- soft insistent lips and strong
embracing arms, warm skin and hard muscle under his hands. The pulse of the
neck, the little knobs of the collarbones, the fleshiness of an earlobe, the
intricate whorlings of the ear itself... All this, all this, his for the
taking, his for the night at least. An unwonted humility touched his soul. He
felt for once favoured beyond his deserts.
"Sergei,"
Dorian said in his ear. "We can't do it here. It's too cold."
"Yes,
m'ami," he agreed, loosing him with a small reluctance. This wasn't the
place for it, and he knew there were things he had to do first. On Dorian's
skin it seemed he could still detect the traces of the Duc. A nice young man,
yes, but at this moment Sergei was disinclined to share his lover with anyone,
even at second hand. And how much more did that apply to his own body. If he
were to have all of Dorian, he had first to remove the remnants of his
afternoon in the Faubourg St. Germain.
Inside he
turned on the heat, and the two made their way without discussion to the second
floor bathroom. No doubt it was superstition to think he could wipe out the
events of this day with soap and water, but it seemed necessary on this last
night to mark a space between past and future, to meet in love as only Sergei
and Dorian, existing fresh and washed in a timeless now. He cleaned himself
carefully, minutely, and did the same to Dorian. Smiling, Dorian submitted to
Sergei's attentions, attentions which had the side-effect of completing the
Earl's arousal.
In the
bedroom he made Dorian wait while he found new candles to replace the burnt out
ones from the night before. He wanted everything to be perfect. As he looked up
from lighting them, he found Dorian's gaze upon him, blue eyes catching the
shadows of the dark. As ever, his breath stopped at sight of the man's beauty.
Too beautiful to be mortal... Did Dorian himself realize the wonder he held
within?
"You're
not going to change the sheets as well?" Dorian asked pathetically, as
Sergei turned towards the linen cupboard. "I'm dying, Sergei," and he
waved his hand at what looked like a very healthy hard-on.
"Well,
I'd intended to," he began, amused. Godlike beauty sat oddly with this
aching human need.
"How
about a fast screw on the carpet instead?" Dorian suggested, eyes dramatic
with desperation.
"Poor
little boy," Sergei smiled, and let an infuriated Dorian grab him and wrestle
him into the tumbled sheets and pillows of the bed. Their bodies came together
like metal to a magnet, and Sergei laughed to find his arms full of delightful
Dorian again. It seemed an age- an eon- since they'd been together. He kissed
Dorian, and Dorian kissed him back, so that Sergei's own head began to swim
with desire.
Dorian's
mouth moved across Sergei's jaw and down to his neck, and thence to his chest
and nipples and belly. Sergei writhed under the maddening kisses, the little
blunted bites, the tickling teasing of Dorian's curls dragging down his
too-sensitive skin. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time; his nerves
couldn't decide whether this was pleasure or torture. He pushed against the
imprisoning weight of Dorian's body, biting his tongue to keep the 'Stop-
Dorian-' from his lips in case Dorian did stop. At last- at last- Dorian
reached his groin and then there was no doubt any more, this was wonderful,
wonderful, the wetness moving around him and taking him in. Sergei groaned at the
sensation. Pleasure was arcing him upwards, descending on molten silver wings
to take him-- and then Dorian's damnable mouth simply stopped.
"Dorian!" It was somewhere between a roar of rage and a scream
for mercy. Dorian's face rose above Sergei's thighs, obscure in the flickering
candlelight, but his voice danced with mischief and a hint of malice.
"Oh but
Sergei-- we have to make preparations--"
In spite of
himself, Sergei had to laugh. "M'ami, you'll be lucky if you live to see
thirty. Some man will kill you if you keep doing that."
"Oh, I
don't think so," Dorian said with serene smugness, and came up beside
Sergei again. "Mind if I'm on top for this? The duc, you know-- so
enthusiastic. I hadn't the heart to slow him down, it being his first time and
all, but still--" He grimaced momentarily.
"As you
will," Sergei agreed. "If I can be on my face."
"Oh,
Sergei. But then I can't look at you," Dorian said dolefully.
"Such a
spoiled child. I shouldn't indulge you like this, m'ami."
"But you will, right?" Dorian
smiled, and pulled the tube of petroleum jelly from under the pillow where he'd
taken to caching it.
"As
always." Sergei let him raise a leg and lay it across his shoulders.
Dorian's strong slippery fingers came inside him and Sergei sighed in pleasure.
This alone was delight enough, this foretaste of what was to come. Sergei
stretched his spine flat and opened his hips. He loved this moment, even on his
back like this: loved being probed, loved the unbearable anticipation of entry.
Dorian raised Sergei's other leg and rose above him. Sergei smiled up as
Dorian's smiling face approached him--
And a door
seemed to open in his mind. His breathing stopped, his eyes became fixed. He
was back in that other place and he saw- he saw-
cold as
death and numb with terror as the young man turned in his arms he waited as for
the fall of the executioner's axe to see the shame and horror in the black
eyes, thinking blindly 'I'm sorry Szincza I'm sorry I'm so sorry,' and knew it
made no difference, could make no difference with a crime like his. He must be
judged and condemned by the one he'd betrayed. With the last of his courage he
met his victim's eyes- eyes that smiled in excitement and happiness, eyes that
overflowed with energy, eyes that said 'Well finally, Savijc, what took
you so long?' Shock and amazement whirled through him like a tornado, he
couldn't stand he was falling onto his back as the other bore him down, it was
Jahn of course it was Jahn, how could he have thought otherwise, it was Jahn
who was still alive of course he was alive, and the proof was that they were
the same height now, now that Savijc was a man who'd reached his full
growth.
Happiness
like pain ballooned inside him, he was too small to hold the joy that was in
him, it was going to kill him but he couldn't have wanted another death. Jahn
was pushing his legs up, Jahn was pushing inside him, oh my God at last at last
Jahn was making love to him at last as Savijc had always wanted him to, and he was
laughing as they did when the two of them fought together, scrabbling on the
ground for hand holds and leg holds, but it came out sounding almost like
sobbing. Jahn's mouth worried at his neck and Jahn's thick arms held him
prisoner and Jahn moved with unexpected grace and immense concentration in and
out of him where Jahn had never been before and where no-one else would ever be
afterwards because this was Jahn's now he and Jahn were together and Jahn would
never leave him alone to find what happiness he could in the embrace of
strangers, what an idea, he was laughing at the ridiculousness of it, laughing
and crying with joy into the sex-charged black eyes that laughed with him as
the violent electricity of orgasm filled his head with the emptiness of space
Blindly he
grasped the hot body in his hands, not knowing where or when he was. Inside him
was only amazement. Jahn. Jahn here, alive before his eyes, alive as he had
been when-- alive. That energy of his, boundless and happy. The open face that
showed all his thoughts so clearly there was no need to speak them. The
enthusiasm, the warmth, and that quality Sergei had only obscurely been aware
of when he was eighteen, but that he knew now was goodness- simple goodness,
and as rare as rubies. That had been Jahn: his friend, a young man who glowed
like the sun.
The body in
his arms stirred, rolled onto its side, looked at him. Blue eyes, a glory of
curls. Dorian. And still all he could do was stare, bereft of words, bereft of
anything but wonder.
Dorian blinked sleepily at him.
"What
happened there, Sergei? You went away from me."
"Yes." He looked at Dorian, not understanding, knowing he
would never understand because there was no-one who could ever explain it to
him.
"Sergei?"
"I
saw- I don't know what I saw."
"A
ghost?"
"Yes-
Maybe. The thing that happened last night."
"It
happened again? But Maraich's not here."
"Yes,
I know. But I saw it. Again, or a flashback- I don't know." He touched the
image in his head. "I saw it."
"Ahhh.
But that wasn't a ghost, you know. Much too real."
Real.
"Yes. A wish made flesh..."
"Oh,
more than that, surely. A piece of time slipped out of its place, is what it
felt like to me. Somehow making love to you I got flash-forwarded to when I'll
be doing it with Klaus. I mean, I knew it was you, sort of- Klaus would never
be that good the first time- but it was definitely him too."
"It
was different with me." He looked away, still feeling Jahn's presence as
though he stood beside him.
"Don't
be too certain."
"He's
dead, Dorian." It still seemed incredible that that should be true, when
the feel of him was so much alive.
"Then
I guess it was a ghost," Dorian said kindly. "A spirit coming
from wherever he is now to- well, to attend to unfinished business."
"It's
a lovely fantasy..."
"What
makes you think it's a fantasy?"
"It's
just... I can't think of him as a ghost. Something lost and wandering. He
wasn't-- it wasn't like that."
"Not
all ghosts are lost and wandering. Some of them know exactly what they're
doing. Like my great-grandfather in the music room at home. I always thought he
didn't see me, but my father said he just didn't like children. He was right.
When I turned eighteen he took to nodding hello when we met."
"Is
this a joke?" Sergei asked, puzzled.
"Not at
all." Dorian sounded obscurely offended. "Ghosts and gardens are an
English specialty. We do more of them better than anyone else in the
world."
Sergei
blinked a little at the matter-of-fact tone. What a strange world Dorian lived
in. Ghosts and time warps, secret societies and descending divinities: to hear
Dorian talk, one would think them just a normal part of life. Perhaps that was
why he'd had a share in the miracle that had just happened. To Dorian's supreme
self-confidence, impossible was a word with no meaning. In his world granted
wishes were the rule, not the exception. Wanting a thing meant that he was sure
to get, though all the laws of man and the universe decreed otherwise.
Once Sergei
had lived in a world not unlike that. He remembered it now, in the newly living
past that filled his head. When he'd been Savijc still, seventeen years old, in
the high school below the green hills, sharing a bed with Jahn in that dim room
full of dancing shadows. When he'd been Savijc of the Aouilles, the petted
youngest brother of that powerful clan, living in a world of wonder with more
love and happiness in his life than he knew what to do with. Serene and
confident, and yes, spoiled too, no doubt: like Dorian, certain of his power,
certain of love, certain that what he wanted would come to him as naturally as
turning his face to the sun. Before he'd so hideously discovered the lack
inside him; before his failure had destroyed Jahn's life and his own. Before
he'd entered the drylands, where the name 'Jahn' was the word for grief, and
the memory of Jahn was his endless punishment... before that, there'd been
Savijc and his friend Jahn. There had been Jahn. Jahn who'd laughed with him
and at him, Jahn whose touch he could still feel everywhere on his body now,
Jahn whose warmth filled the rooms of his mind with light again.
"Why do
ghosts come back, then?" he asked the flickering candlelight before his
eyes.
"To be
where they were happy, usually. Or to know that we're alright. And sometimes
just to make sure that we remember them."
"Remember them..." That seemed right. To make Savijc remember
what Jahn really was like, not the image of pain he'd become. That was reason
enough for Jahn to come back from- from wherever his spirit was now, to pull
Sergei out of the narrow little house he'd come to live in, where sadness was
written in the lines of the ceiling and, eventually, in the eyes of every man
who knew him. Jahn... Jahn would have been very impatient with that. 'Oh let it
go, Savijc!', as he'd said whenever Savijc had insisted on whatever
tremendously important point it had been.
"Adieu
tristesse..." he murmured.
"Mmh?" Dorian asked.
"Nothing, m'ami." Sergei looked at the world inside his head
as one surveys the new landscape caused by an earthquake. One where the sun
shone, one where the walls had fallen down to become roads, one where old
mountains had crumbled and opened up a way back to the land he used to live in.
In a corner of his heart, he wasn't even surprised. As one pulls out a pebble
from a wall, and another, and then another, until the whole thing collapses, so
with him. This was the natural ending of something that had begun an
unimaginable time ago- five days back, in that moment when he'd first looked up
to meet Dorian's eyes.
Dorian.
Indeed, Dorian. So Dorian was the gateway through which Jahn had been able to
come? It seemed likely that one with so little regard for human rules might be
exempt from natural ones as well. Well, there was no point in analyzing too
far. Miracles are not to be explained, only accepted. But he felt with an odd
certainty that in this man beside him was the point at which his past and
present met.
Dorian
nuzzled his neck. "Sergei, come back. Or at least take me with you."
Sergei
turned on his side and put an arm around his lover. "I'm surveying the
wreckage you've wrought, my dear. You really shouldn't be allowed to run
loose."
"I've
wrought? I haven't done anything."
"Maybe
not. Or maybe a couple of miracles."
"Don't
I wish," Dorian said. "Miracles are Maraich's line, not mine. If I
could work miracles, I'd have had Klaus years ago."
And of
course Dorian had no idea what he'd done. Just an unsuspecting time bomb, the
Earl of Red Gloria. What a shock it was going to be for Dorian's chilly Major
when Dorian finally went off in his hands. Sergei half-hoped he'd be around to
see Eberbach's world explode as his own had done.
"You're
like Maraich. You don't know you're doing it. Maybe you couldn't do it if you
did."
"You
think I'm some kind of medium? Not me," Dorian assured him. "I'm just
a perfectly ordinary th- man. And to prove it, I've got to go pee. Let me up,
Sergei."
Sergei freed
him and watched him to the door. Happiness, small and ordinary as the smell of
Sunday dinner cooking, came creeping into his heart. Jahn and Dorian. Circassia
and Paris. All one. The same, no longer separate. He looked through his mind
and found that there was nothing left to hurt him any more. He smiled and went
on smiling, as though he hadn't done it in years.
MJJ
May '98- June '99
Note: Mangaka
never explain and never apologize. Certainly they never credit their sources.
So I don't know if the 'mysterious stone eye' that belongs to the Blue clan in
Shibata's Papuwa really bears any relation to the 'bishounen-killer eye'
possessed by Bancoran's family in Maya's Patarillo! Ban's eye makes any bishounen
within range blush and go weak in the knees and enter a state of advanced rut.
(The effect it has on Sergei in this story has something to do with his
protracted youthfulness, a matter of canonical comment if not explanation.) On
occasion however Ban's eye emits a ray of light that crackles with energy. The
Blue clan eye mostly blows holes in things, but one notes that Sergei's brother
Commander Majek has formed an entire army from, as his nephew says, 'all the
slightly perverted bishounen he can find.' Me, I see a connection.
Acknowledgements. My thanks to:
Lena Miraglia, for information on Giorgione;
Rita Johnson (no relation), for sending me a
compilation tape containing Lowlands so that I got to hear that old folk song
at last;
The Japanese circle $10,000,000 Man, who in their
doujinshi 'Peace Lovin' Men' placed various Papuwa characters in front of
various paintings, and whose juxtaposition of Jan with De Chirico's L'enigme du
retour made me laugh out loud on the Yurakucho subway;
The circle Izu Hantou Rengou, whose light-hearted but
convincing vision of Servis as the ultimate sexual animal has permanently
affected my view of Ojisama, and who also do neat covers;
Nakamura Rumi, as ever, whose light-hearted but
convincing vision of Servis as the ultimate *erotic* animal was what started
it, way back in January of '94;
Mimi, whose kind comments got me through the worst of
a very protracted, dispiriting rewrite;
And Julie, who says such nice things.