• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 494 0

said to him years earlier. This was the same afternoon he had bought the house, i.e., the day after seeing Tristan for the first time and meeting Leo at Café Joséphine. In Martin’s memory, at least, the practical side of the transaction had taken just a few minutes; Leo had given him a tour, they had agreed on rough financial terms, and then it was more or less done. Of course there had been the usual thousands of documents to be signed and notarized, but the closing had been relatively painless; as Martin knew from his career, some deals seemed to move forward like that, as though they were meant to be. They decided to celebrate with a drink; in fact, they had been sitting on the same Biedermeier sofa on which Martin sat now, where for the first time he had been mesmerized by the western light oscillating through the glass to illuminate the gilt spines of Leo’s book collection. Leo had ultimately left many of these books behind, along with the bookshelves, two deco armchairs, a dining room set, and much of the rest of the furniture that could still be found throughout the house. Martin had kept it all and, despite his initial plans, had even left the wall treatments, including some very ornate damask wallpaper in the back bedrooms, which had initially struck him as dated and “overwrought.” As time passed, he grew to appreciate the opulent textures, which began to strike him as more disciplined and crafted than garish, and—as he did now, considering a similar pattern in the upholstery—regularly felt hypnotized by the gold and silver threading contained within, which like certain species of fish surfaced only at twilight. While there was nothing “clean” about the aesthetic, there was a constant yet subdued movement—a sort of visual white noise—that Martin understood to be musical in reference, not unlike, say, the Paris Tannhäuser where Venus is about to grind her lover into a pile of dust, or even the songs of “shoegazer” bands he had long admired—e.g., My Bloody Valentine, Ride—that juxtaposed slow, turbulent beauty and ethereal dissonance to similar effect.

On the day in question, Martin had given in to a form of buyer’s exuberance that, while not completely unfamiliar to him—given the many deals he had closed in his career—was augmented by an avuncular benevolence he detected in Leo, who as far as Martin could ascertain was close to twenty-five years older than he was. That they were both gay was a dimension here as well and, as Martin knew, hardly unusual given how often gay men left—or were forced to leave—their actual families for those who were more capable or understanding (or in his case, were alive); in this respect he understood that Leo was willing to mentor him in a manner that Martin was happy to accept. “So—you and Arthur,” Martin asked, “are you really—”

“Lovers? I don’t like the word either, if it’s any comfort to you,” Leo noted, “but yes, we’ve been together for quite some time.”

“But he’s really married to—?”

“Ghislaine? Oh yes—theirs is an old-fashioned alliance, which I think from the beginning dispensed with any pretense of connubial obligation. They occupy separate wings of the old house where they live in Paris—the Hôtel Georges—which is where I also stay for some portion of the year.”

Martin nodded. “Were you ever married?”

“Fortunately no—were you?”

Martin sighed. “Unfortunately yes.”

“So she didn’t know?”

“Well, no—at least not at first.”

“Quelle catastrophe.” Leo shook his head.

“I learned my lesson, so to speak.”

“I take it you rectified the situation?”

“I divorced, if that’s what you mean,” Martin clarified. “But I haven’t found anyone else.”

“Le pauvre.” Leo smiled but continued more reflectively. “Do you want to?”

“I think so.” Martin understood that Leo was indulging him but could not restrain himself in light of the odd exuberance and loneliness he felt. “But I’m not sure I’m made for marriage of any kind—I sometimes think it’s beyond me.”

“That sounds rather hopeless for someone your age,” Leo said. “Not that I’m trying to convince you.”

Because to this point he had told