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“I say we stay.”
“Doesn’t our opinion count?”
“This is the army, not a fucking democracy. I’m the highest-ranking officer here and when I say we stay, we stay.”
Juan looked back at the terrain—it was eerily quiet, unnaturally so. Something had to give and that meant movement. He was almost looking forward to it, the waiting was worse than anything.
“Relax, you guys, we’ll see action before dawn. I know it, I can feel it in my cock.” He grabbed his crotch for emphasis and the others laughed, the tension briefly dissipating then crystallized as thickly as before. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted, startling a couple of the soldiers who, after realizing it was a false alarm, laughed again. Juan slipped off his helmet and lifted his balaclava to scratch his scalp, which was itchy from days of dust and filth. A sharp blow knocked him against the wall and something flashed past his face and out over the trench beyond. He crouched, dazed.
“What was that?” Dario asked. “White shrapnel?”
“From what? There was no explosion,” Carlos piped up as he knelt beside Juan. “You okay, my friend?”
Juan reached up to the back of his neck: it felt like a bullet graze, he was bleeding slightly.
“I’ll live.”
“Maybe it was an angel.”
“Sure, where I come from angels don’t have fucking teeth. You’re fucking crazy.”
“We’re all fucking crazy to be in this war.”
“Hey, maybe I’ll just catch some sleep—you guys can take over for an hour or so. Wake me when the marines come.”
“Sure, Mr. Smart-arse.”
Juan curled up, pulled his parka hood over his head, and fell instantly asleep.
Five miles north Clive crawled into the Argentine tent they’d commandeered. He wanted to see if he could find new boots his size. There was nothing but a couple of sleeping bags and some rations. Inside a biscuit tin Clive found some chocolate. He stuffed the dark bitter pieces into his mouth. He’d never tasted anything so delicious. He sat on one of the sleeping bags. The Argies must have abandoned the tent in a blind panic, there were still socks strewn across the bottom. He leaned back and, closing his eyes, slipped into a deep dr
eam.
He is sitting in a crowded bar. There is a drink in his hand: whiskey, Jameson’s, he can smell it. The place is noisy—he recognizes it vaguely as a bar in Soho he used to go to, tucked behind the theater district. He liked it because it was like a Dickensian teahouse—there was even a portrait of Disraeli on the wall. He also liked it because, although the clientele was mainly heterosexual, it was a discreet pickup for men.
Clive looks around. The crowd is mixed: young couples meeting after work, suits, secretaries, advertising geeks in denim, women in tailored elegance spelling money. Tourists stand out among the English with their suntanned blondness and beige leather. From the clothes and the rosy faces Clive guesses that it is winter outside. As the voices pull into an articulated focus he steps into the throng and immediately forgets that he was dreaming.
There is a man sitting at the bar, his back to him. An empty stool stands to the right of him, almost as if people are afraid to sit next to him. On his other side two women chat loudly together. One, a vivacious blond in her early forties, attractive and confident, gestures dramatically with her hands, as if she hopes to catch the attention of the dark silent man.
Clive doesn’t need to see his face, he can read the signs: the way the youth sits, his broad back tapering to his waist, below which his hard, round arse juts out over the wooden seat, smugly waiting to be fucked, to be toppled from all its glory; the way the women keep glancing furtively; the body language of the men, either puffed up or leaning slightly in that direction, as if they too would like to be looked at, or at least acknowledged by the mysterious stranger. It is the aura of the famous or the extremely handsome—Clive knows it is the latter.
He pushes his way through the crowd. People keep turning to him, acknowledging him. They all look vaguely like people he knows, their features a composite of characteristics of friends, family, ex-girlfriends, even teachers from his primary school. As he passes among them, somewhere in his unconscious comes the dull revelation that these chimeras are composed of people who have played a significant part in his life, who have loved him in one way or another.
He sits down on the vacant bar stool. The bartender, an uncanny mixture of his father and his maternal grandfather, immediately places another Jameson’s in front of him, as if he knows exactly what Clive drinks. The dark man continues to look directly ahead. Clive glances across—the stranger’s thighs are muscular and long under tight jeans, the legs of a working man or athlete. A fold of his white shirt exposes a glimpse of stomach, and the olive skin, taunting in its muscled, rippling perfection, fascinates him. It is an oasis of sex, a chink in the enigma into which he could slip his fingers and break the surface of aching desire. But he doesn’t. He plays the moment, eyes down—the stranger’s prick thickening under his stare, pushing the denim up into a solid curve below the belt.
He can feel the heat of the youth rising off him even from where he is sitting; his aroma is rich, a sweet musk. Without saying a word the boy turns. Clive stays still, eyes averted, relishing the feel of the gaze traveling across his skin. Finally he looks up and smiles to himself.
The boy is stunning, striking in the way of a roughly hewn sculpture, as if the artist, having carved such classical beauty, had been loathe to complete the task for fear the face would be too gorgeous, too perfect in its symmetry. Therefore his splendor lies in the infinitesimal imperfections: the nose, aquiline and noble, looks as if it might once have been broken; the strong chin—intensely masculine—is split by a deep dimple; the eyes, almond and almost lidless with golden irises flecked with green, are, at second glance, placed slightly at an angle, the right being fractionally higher than the left; but the mouth…the mouth is faultless.
Just staring at it gives Clive an instant erection. Placed in a narrow face with very high cheekbones that hint at some distant Indian heritage, the lips are almost an obscenity. Curved and impossibly full, they jut out from the boy’s face as if they had been painted on at the last minute. It is the mouth of a far older and far more experienced man; a wry knowing plays at its corners, suggesting that the boy is acutely aware of his own beauty and finds its existence in such a body ironic. It is not the mouth of a boy but rather the mouth of a libertine, the lips of someone who, despite his intelligence, can’t control his own inherent carnality.
The balance of his beauty is offset by a scar that runs from the top of one cheek toward the corner of his mouth. It only adds to the flawed edginess Clive finds so erotic; it is a mark of aggression, of experience, which sits like a paradox on one so young. The scar, Clive notes, is a deep mauve and looks as if it is still healing, the flesh beaded like the uneven lip of a vagina. He can almost taste it.
They lock eyes and the youth’s desire cuts like a blade. Shaken, he stands. The boy follows and Clive is surprised to discover that the youth is taller than himself, his shoulders not yet settled into their adult width, his hips and buttocks a too narrow basket for the heavy cock, now a stiff rod pushing against the blue denim. They say nothing. Clive, knowing that the boy will follow, allows his dreaming to take him back through the crowded room toward a door with a neon Exit sign.
The door leads into a stairwell, the kind that might exist in any building, the concrete spiral that always leads to a roof. Clive begins to climb, vaguely aware of the incongruity of walking out of a bar with the atmosphere of a Victorian pub and into a stairwell that belongs to a sixties’ office block. He doesn’t care; everything feels right, feels as if it has fallen into place, destiny running its course. The boy behind him shadows his steps, echoing his gestures, his breath, his heat, on the back of his neck.
He begins to climb faster until he is running full pelt as the stairs wind up flight after flight. Finally, at the top, the stairwell finishes with a door marked Authorized Persons Only. Without hesitation, and without turning around, Clive pushes it open.
