Five Stories

shaking. She took some wine, holding the glass in both hands to steady them.

  “I--” Mark began, and discovered his voice wouldn't work.

  “You what?” she encouraged him.

  “I was about to ask a question better left unasked.”

  “Ask it. I won't answer if I don't want to.”

  “I've wondered why you left me.” Mark drew in his breath. “I know you gave me reasons at the time, but none of them sounded true to me. It was as though you didn't know the reason yourself.” He stared at the bottles on the wall behind the bar. He wondered what had made him ask that, of all things, now, ten years after, when it didn't really matter any more. Or maybe it did, maybe it was the question that had festered in him all those years, keeping him on edge in some deep recess of himself.

  Anna was searching his face, seeking the expression's clues from his profile. He noticed, when he turned to look at her the strong compassion in her eyes. It unnerved him. He had expected anything but compassion. He realized he was afraid of her answer.

  “I'm not sure how to answer you, Mark.”

  “Don't, then; tell me about your daughter, instead.” She reached out and put one finger on Mark's hand that he was using to twist the glass he held in his other hand.

  “Mark,” she said, her voice strained, “I can't ignore your question. I left because I was afraid of you.” She withdrew her finger, sensing his discomfort with her touch.

  “Afraid of me?” Mark was heard the hoarseness in his own voice and was surprised.

  “Yes. I couldn't control you. You didn't try to control me. Nobody was running the show. Anything could have happened.” She looked serious and thoughtful, as if she was puzzling it out.

  “You know how I grew up; my mother controlled my father, my father controlled the rest of us,” she went on.

  “I think I may understand. I didn't want to control you. I tried to let you control me, but I couldn't take much of that. I tried very hard.” Mark took a large swallow of his drink. The soda rasped his throat again. Briefly he wondered if he were coming down with a cold.

  “Why,” he said, as another sore opened inside him, “why, if you were afraid, didn't you just leave? Why did you have to parade Gary and John in front of me like trophies?”

  “Your wounded ego is showing.” Her voice was harsh. She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. That was a cruel remark. I was looking for something,” she went on, “I don't know what to call it. Approval of my choices, maybe. Little girl wanted Daddy to be proud of his daughter, maybe, something like that. It was mean of me, maybe.”

  She sighed. “Maybe I had to hurt you, to get away from you. I had to be bad enough you wouldn't want me, wouldn't follow me. Maybe all of the above, maybe none of the above. I just don't know.”

  “I guess I was pretty hard to get rid of.” He touched her hand with one finger, just as she had touched him.

  “I had to learn to hate you before I could stop loving you,” he said. “I worked at it two years before I calmed down inside. I'm not quite sure I completely succeeded.” He searched her face for some response. She had her eyes lowered, not looking at anything. Her expression was a mask.

  “I wonder sometimes what things would have been like if we had stayed together. I wanted to. I was very much in love with you.”

  “You'd have stayed, even after Gary and John?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I think our lives would have been a kind of Hell not even your Bible could imagine.”

  “Maybe so, probably so. I've never been as forgiving as I wanted to think I was. Do you want another drink?”

  “No, I've had enough for tonight. I'd better be getting back to the hotel. I've got a meeting in the morning with some lawyers. I've got to be sharp and ready to deal with them.” She took her purse in her hand and stood up. Mark stood and helped her on with her coat.

  “Strange, running into you like this,” he said; “a chance encounter, as we say in Middle Earth.”

  “Are you still re-reading Tolkien?”

  “At least once or twice a year. I'm up to thirty-seven times through, now.”

  “They'll have to bury the book with you, or you'll never make it through eternity.” She laughed her little hollow laugh that he always thought of as her “social” laugh. It still grated on him

  “Do you have a preference in taxis, Madame?” he said in an exaggerated British accent. She shook her head, smiling.

  “No, I'll walk. It's only a couple of blocks.”

  “It's not the best part of town to walk in, alone. I'd feel better if you'd let me walk with you, or let me call a taxi for you.”

  “You still want to take care of me, is that it?” He heard the anger in her voice. He was surprised that he still could hurt about it. “I don't want that. I'll walk alone.”

  “If you'd rather.” He opened the door for her, half expecting her to object to even that small courtesy. The rain was falling again, a soft and gentle drizzle, with all the sadness and none of the black anger that the rain had had when he came in. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.

  “For old time's sake, for auld lang syne,” she said. “You were a good part of my life that tried to last too long. Take care. It's been good for me to see you tonight.”

  “I'm glad I saw you. I've put something to rest in myself, but I don't know what, yet. Walk carefully; the streets seem to get wilder every year.” He looked at her, wondering what more he could say, what more he wanted to say.

  She looked at him. Before the silence could grow awkward she said, “I didn't ask about your family.”

  “I didn't ask about yours,” he said.

  “Do we really care?”

  “I don't.”

  “Neither do I.” She stepped out from the small shelter the doorway offered from the rain. “I'll be going, then.” She put out her hand; he shook it. He held her hand long enough to get one last look at her face, then released it. She turned and walked away. He listened to her footsteps until they were muffled by the drizzle.

  “Goodbye again,” he called after her when she was far enough away that she couldn't hear him. The drizzle was thickening; the downpour could start again at any minute. Mark looked up at the churning clouds and could not see them for the drizzle on his glasses. He considered wiping them, and forgot it. They would only get wet again. The drops scattered the lights of the street, fracturing them into multi-colored prisms. Mark walked toward the bus stop.

  “Coming home, empty house, coming home,” he muttered. A car passed him, tires hissing on the wet street. Then he heard only his own footsteps echoing, and, somewhere, muffled, a foghorn.

  Bernal

  (This story was originally published in the Harrington Gay Men’s Quarterly.)

  When the sun dazzle cleared from his eyes, Bernal looked for patrons at the bar. There were none; it was too early for most drinkers. He went down the stairs. Two lamps balanced light cones on the bar’s dark wood. Shadows shrouded the tables in the lounge.

  “Hello,” Bernal called out, “anyone here?”

  “Find a stool. I’ll be right with you,” a muffled voice answered. “I’m not quite ready for customers.”

  “I’ll wait,” Bernal said. He laid his hat on the bar. His suit coat slid from his shoulders as he perched on a stool. He raised his elbows and shrugged it into place. Bernal studied his worn face in the mirror while he waited. He smiled sadly at his reflection. After several moments the barman said, “What would you like?”

  “How much is coffee and brandy?”

  “Four pesos black, four pesos fifty with cream.”

  “A coffee and brandy, please, with cream. I haven’t had one for a very long time.”

  “Okay, but I’ll have to make the coffee first. It takes a few minutes.”

  “Quite all right, I’m at leisure to day.”

  “Okay.” The bartender put a co
ffee packet and water into the coffee maker and switched it on. Its red light was an unwinking eye in the dark. Bernal looked away from it. The barman went through a door at the back.

  Bernal watched dust motes in the lamplight tango to the percolator’s gurgle. On the street a taxi horn played an old love song he and Miguel had danced to on a moon washed terrace above the city. Bernal tapped the song’s rhythm on the bar, remembering.

  The red-eyed pot gurgled steadily for a while, then uttered one loud last gurgle before it subsided into hisses. The bartender returned. “Ah, the coffee’s done,” he said.

  He took a bottle from the rack by the mirror. “San Rafael, 1961, okay?”

  “Yes! 1961 was a very good year for me,” Bernal said. “I met someone then—someone very dear to me. Met him right here in this bar.”

  “The 1961 then,” the barman said. He spooned sugar into a cup, stirred brandy into it, then poured a slow stream of coffee into the brandy, still stirring. He put the cup on a saucer on a tray. He added a small pitcher from the refrigerator and the spoon. He brought the tray to Bernal.

  “I’ll let you add the cream the way you like it,” he said. He was as young as his voice.

  Bernal read the barman’s name tag. “Thank you, Luis.” He swirled cream from the pitcher into the dark coffee. He stirred slowly, then sipped. Cinnamon blended with brandy and coffee to warm Bernal’s palate.

  “Very good,” he said. He put money on the bar. Luis nodded, and took it to the register. Then he turned to wipe the bottles racked beside the mirror.

  “This brandy’s very good,” Bernal said.

  “Yes,” Luis said to the racked bottles.

  “Are you new to the City?” Bernal asked. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “No. Just started here this week.” The young man kept his back to Bernal.

  “I’ve been in the City forty-three years,” Bernal said. He sipped again. “I came and never wanted to leave.” Luis went on dusting bottles.

  “I was born in a mountain village too small for me,” Bernal continued. “I left happily. The village was even happier that I left.” He swallowed a mouthful of coffee.

  “I never thought of looking any further. Sleeping in doorways here was better than tending goats on the hills or hoeing corn in the fields.” Bernal raised his voice and aimed his words at Luis as the young man went toward the back.

  “I survived doing whatever came to hand. Mostly, I was a decorator.” He smiled at Luis’s back. “Not a house decorator. I decorated parties.”

  “Were you a caterer?” Luis asked over his shoulder, not quite turning to look at Bernal.

  “Not exactly. When I was young, fashionable people wanted good looking young men to decorate their parties. I was slim-waisted, with dark hair, black eyes, and long lashes.” Bernal emptied his cup in a long swallow.

  “Did it pay well?”

  Bernal set his empty cup on the saucer.

  “I got to eat fine food and drink good wine for nothing. My patrons provided my clothes. I’ve always liked to dress well. I’ve always liked parties.”

  “Do you want another coffee and brandy?”

  “Just coffee, please, no brandy, not right now.”

  Luis brought the coffeepot and filled his cup.

  “How much?”

  “It’s on the house. I’d just have to throw it away if you don’t drink it.”

  “Thank you,” Bernal said. Luis nodded, and took the coffee server back to its brewer. Then he began dusting the bar.

  “That’s how I met Miguel,” Bernal said.

  “Who was Miguel?” Luis said from the far end of the bar.

  “The love of my life. I met him here. He was a star of the ballet.”

  “You met him here?”

  “Yes. I had a patron who frequently used me to decorate his parties. He gave one here to raise funds for the National Ballet. That night he dressed me in a white formal jacket, and tight trousers that showed me off very well.” Bernal smiled into the distant shadows where Luis wiped the bar. “He said I was the picture of unsullied youth.”

  “Only the City’s wealthy were included in the guest list,” he went on, “and only those most likely to be generous. The corps de ballet were the guests of honor. And the bait.” Bernal stirred cream into his coffee.

  “Miguel was the hit of that season. That year he danced his classic ‘Jaguar and the Butterfly’ for the first time. He was blue-eyed and blonde, so very blonde.” Bernal laid the spoon on the saucer.

  “He wore a black costume that covered his head and hands to dance the ‘Jaguar and the Butterfly.’ He was the terrible, beautiful, cat entranced with a butterfly only the cat sees. He that cat’s power and grace offstage as well. When he entered a room, everyone turned to him.” Bernal stroked his coffee cup’s handle.

  “Do you know the story of the ‘Jaguar and the Butterfly?’”

  “No,” Luis said.

  “I’ll tell you. Once a butterfly landed on a sleeping jaguar’s sensitive nose, and made it sneeze. The jaguar woke irritated, but the butterfly charmed it with his graceful dance of apology. Thereafter they were fast friends. The jaguar often played tag with the butterfly, gleefully following his friend through the tangled jungle. A bruja, who wanted the jaguar’s skin for a coat, learned of their friendship, and cast a spell on the butterfly. Under the spell, the butterfly led the jaguar into a cage, where the bruja killed it. The butterfly wandered the jungle’s gloomy tangles, grieving for the jaguar. At last the sun god took pity on it, and dissolved it in a ray of sunlight. I often think about the wandering butterfly.”

  “And Miguel?” Luis asked. He had stopped wiping the counter to listen to Bernal.

  “My patron had posed me in a pool of light. Miguel looked into my eyes from the doorway. He came down the stairs and through the crowd to me. I saw him, and no one else.”

  “It sounds like a movie,” Luis said.

  “It could have been. It should have been.” Bernal’s eyes looked into the bright past.

  “Miguel smiled, leaned on the bar next to me, and asked me to dance with him. We danced, right here, in this barroom, and I was his forever.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. We left together, for Miguel’s hotel. He had a terrace room on the top floor. We danced nude in the full moon’s silver light on the top of the City. Then we made love.”

  “Sounds romantic.” Luis said.

  “Those were romantic times. He called me his butterfly. He was my jaguar. He had this pendant carved for me.” He unbuttoned his collar and pulled it from his shirt. Luis came over to look at it.

  “See, it’s a butterfly, with jaguar masks incised on the wings.” He fondled the cool stone with his thumb.

  The barman leaned over, laid it on his palm, and examined it.

  “It’s a beautiful piece,” he said to Bernal. “Must be worth a lot.” Bernal smiled and tucked it back into his shirt and buttoned his collar.

  “To me, yes,” he said, smiling. “We set up an apartment together. Miguel’s career with the Ballet flourished. The critics praised his every performance, and at each one he leapt to another new height. Then he came home to me, and we made love, or talked, or danced, as the whim moved us. We went to frequent parties, and picnics, or sometimes for drives in the country. From infatuation and romance we came to tenderness and love.” Bernal sipped his coffee.

  “One day Katrina came to me. She was the mistress of the Ballet. She wanted Miguel to tour Europe. She said it would ensure his lasting fame. She enlisted my help to cajole him. Miguel was reluctant, but at last we persuaded him, Katrina and I.”

  “Miguel wanted me to tour with him. Katrina refused. She contrived one objection after another, until Miguel wore down. She would not let me go with him.” Bernal rasped words from a tight throat. “It was because she wanted him for herself.”
br />   “Miguel was born in one of those Balkan countries. He came here to dance and be free. When he rejected Katrina unconditionally, she turned him over to agents from his homeland. They jailed him.” Bernal inhaled deeply, and then let his breath out in a long sigh. “If she could not have him, no one should,” she said.

  “I urged our government to free him. Our government tried, but it all came to wasted paper and ink. Miguel refused to dance for his home government. They kept him in prison to punish him for refusing to dance for them.”

  “I tried several times to go visit him in prison, but they denied me a visa. They returned my letters to Miguel unopened.” Bernal stared at the bar.

  “His sister...I hadn’t even known he had a sister...wrote to me. She told me he caught a prison fever. He died in a cramped cell four feet square, where he could not leap and dance.” Bernal’s breath shuddered in his throat.

  “She said he had told her about me, and begged her to contact me if he died. She gave no return address, and told me to never contact her, or any of Miguel’s family. She said his life with me shamed them and his death in prison disgraced them.” Bernal stared up at the spider webs anchoring the ceiling’s lamp wiring. Tears stood in his eyes.

  “Do you want any more coffee? Perhaps another brandy and coffee?” Luis asked.

  “No, thank you. One drink is my limit. I should go.” Bernal slid off the stool, wavered, then straightened.

  “I’m sorry for talking so much. You’ve been very patient, Luis, and very kind. Thank you for the coffee.” He walked slowly to the staircase. He waved at the barman as he adjusted the coat on his shoulders. He grasped the rails on either side of the stairs and slowly climbed them. He opened the door and walked toward the sun.