The War Years (Barn Door)
Into the Cuzco of the layabout civilization came a man who was the size of a barn door and as easily pushed to and fro. The night I first saw him he was badly in want of a meal but, as soon as some supper was placed in front of him, his great shock of white hair fell forward on to the mound of chips on his plate. More than food, he longed for sleep. I took him home with me. Nothing reared its ugly head. The man slept and slept. The next morning when he was leaving, I nodded towards a small bundle of possessions that he had brought with him and said, 'You can leave your things there while you're looking for a room.'
Three long dark years later they were still there.
At first our association consisted of my meeting him in Toni's or The Scala. . . I brought him back to my room if he needed a good night's sleep. . . After a while, he formed the habit of visiting me every weekend and my life became a series of Saturdays for which I prepared and Sundays from which I recovered, but I never gave up hope. I never let more than a few hours pass without including in the conversation the words, 'When you have a room of your own . . .' and I never gave him a latchkey. I knew that once I had done that I was a lifer. . . When, presumably to normalize our relationship, he suggested a little sex, I concurred. A year or so later, in the middle of a sketchy embrace, he said, 'Let's pack this in.' I said, 'Let's'
Like the heroine of The Gardens of Allah, I put my love to the utmost test.
It failed.
Shortly before one Easter holiday I told him that it was time I visited my mother for at least a weekend. These words touched his sensibilities. He was deeply devoted to his mother. He gathered up his things and left. As he did so he said, 'I don't see what I've done wrong even now.'
He had done nothing wrong. He could do none. He was a man without guile. His only fault was that he existed. His parting words would have reproached me till my dying day were it not for the fact that, immediately after the war I heard that he was married. . . I knew he was Kinsey-Queer rather than coot-queer. He merely associated with homosexuals because they brought their love by the pound.
Three long dark years later they were still there.
At first our association consisted of my meeting him in Toni's or The Scala. . . I brought him back to my room if he needed a good night's sleep. . . After a while, he formed the habit of visiting me every weekend and my life became a series of Saturdays for which I prepared and Sundays from which I recovered, but I never gave up hope. I never let more than a few hours pass without including in the conversation the words, 'When you have a room of your own . . .' and I never gave him a latchkey. I knew that once I had done that I was a lifer. . . When, presumably to normalize our relationship, he suggested a little sex, I concurred. A year or so later, in the middle of a sketchy embrace, he said, 'Let's pack this in.' I said, 'Let's'
Like the heroine of The Gardens of Allah, I put my love to the utmost test.
It failed.
Shortly before one Easter holiday I told him that it was time I visited my mother for at least a weekend. These words touched his sensibilities. He was deeply devoted to his mother. He gathered up his things and left. As he did so he said, 'I don't see what I've done wrong even now.'
He had done nothing wrong. He could do none. He was a man without guile. His only fault was that he existed. His parting words would have reproached me till my dying day were it not for the fact that, immediately after the war I heard that he was married. . . I knew he was Kinsey-Queer rather than coot-queer. He merely associated with homosexuals because they brought their love by the pound.