Between Men

In the detective story, a park-keeper has discovered a corpse in the Bois de Boulogne. The good-natured park-keeper was off to collaborate with the Nazis when he heard little hissing noises. Following the strange sound, he happened to stumble upon the corpse. The park-keeper was so stunned that he dropped the gifts he was carrying: a link of sausages and a brightly colored toy boat.

The corpse belongs (or no longer belongs, having been confiscated by death) to a well-known Viennese doctor. The Viennese people were known for their charm and their ability to hate Jews. Most of the doctor’s patients were nervous boys. When people asked the doctor what he did, he said, I work with nerves.

Bees are gently buzzing around the doctor’s corpse. Pieces of a broken hive lie nearby. His corpse (or the corpse) is covered in bright red crayon dust; the crayon dust is so bright the policemen must place their polka-dot handkerchiefs over their red mouths.

The bees get red on their wings. The policemen do not have wings (they only have shoulder blades, which are like the sawn-off stubs of wings) but they are also coated in red crayon. When the policemen go home they immediately jump in the shower to wash the red and waxy muck off. But as they lie in bed they are unable to sleep. They are haunted by the image of red crayons.

Because I am nervous, and was sent to the doctor to be cured of my nervousness, and due to the fact that I am a mediocre artist who works primarily in red crayon, it is natural that I am a prime suspect.

The Inspector is in hot pursuit of me. This displeases Madame Inspector, who is wearing a black crepe dress and folds of pink flesh. Five strings of fake pearls. She has taken a lot of trouble over dinner. She has spent the afternoon polishing her husband’s magnifying glasses and cleaning his fingerprinting kits. She is sick of her husband shadowing young men and taking their pictures for purely official (sexual) purposes with his miniature camera. She is sick of him taking boys’ fingerprints.

I am wearing a gray felt overcoat and a gray hat. It is a ready-made coat. There is a big yellow star on the left pocket. The star has been sewn from felt. As I try to figure out what to do next, I suck on the soft tips of the star.

My hat is also made from felt. Felt is my preferred fabric. I find it to be very flattering. I think if the ugliest boy in the world wears a garment sewn from felt, he may not become the most beautiful boy in the world, but he will surely rise a few places on the scale of ugliness.

Felt is derived from the fur of rabbits and muskrats. I would like to think that their souls continue to reside in my felt coat, my felt hat, even my felt star. I would like to think that their soft little souls are intensified during the lengthy felt-making process, particularly during the extended period of time the fur must spend in the slowly revolving cone of the forming machine.

On my coat and my hat and my star, red crayon stains here and there. These implicate me, like saliva, like the fingerprints on my fingers, like my footsteps in new snow. I go to a movie theater with worn red velvet curtains. The theater has a buttery stink to it. I’m unsure if this is the odor of popcorn or boys. Perhaps it is a delicate combination of both.

I watch a newsreel of Hitler invading Vienna. All the Viennese (who are known for their charm) are crying and laughing so hard that their noses are running. None of them seem to have discovered handkerchiefs. It’s difficult to tell if they are happy or sad about this new arrival to their city. But the voice-over says: The good people of Vienna are extremely happy. They are so happy they will never know sadness again.

In one scene, a fat little boy offers Hitler strudel. Hitler bends down and takes a bite, getting flecks of pastry caught in his mustache. The little boy licks the crumbs from Hitler’s mustache. The other people in the movie theater all go Ooh, how adorable. But I can’t help thinking that the fat little boy really shouldn’t be eating strudel, not even the crumbs of strudel.

In another scene, standing very close to Hitler (so close they are almost touching, but not quite) is a man who looks exactly like the Viennese doctor. He is sobbing. His tears are falling on the sleeve of Hitler’s coat. Again a voice-over says: The good people of Vienna are extremely happy.

The doctor continues to weep. To weep and to shake. As I watch the doctor weeping, I begin to question whether this man is really the doctor. Perhaps he simply appears to be the doctor, just as a crayon that is shaped like a pencil may from a distance appear to be a pencil, but is not a pencil, just as the so-called French chalk used by tailors to measure the inner legs of boys bears no relation whatsoever to actual chalk, with its tiny seashells, but is a form of talc, just as the substance popularly known as chalk, those crayons children use to solve (or to not solve) mathematical formulas on blackboards, has nothing to do with the limestone scraped and gathered from the bottom of ancient seas, but is (like this man’s tears) of an entirely different nature.

The man in the newsreel who simply appears to be the doctor is now talking to a boy who is wearing what appear to be brand-new lederhosen. The lederhosen are green, with a border of appliquéd apples. A price tag dangles from one of the straps.

The boy seems very nervous. He keeps fiddling with his yellow star. He must be one of the doctor’s patients. The boy starts to fiddle with the doctor’s star, but the doctor slaps his hand away. The boy’s lederhosen are tight around the thighs.

Perhaps the boy is nervous because he believes the lederhosen don’t suit him. Perhaps the boy has not yet cut off the price tag (with a pair of big scissors) because, despite the many sincere compliments he has already received, and in spite of all the wolf whistles from the anti-Semitic construction workers, the boy is still not convinced that the lederhosen are flattering.

The boy is handing the man who merely appears to be the doctor a pink cardboard box. Surely it is not appropriate for a doctor to accept gifts from his patients. The man opens the box. His mouth pops open like a trapdoor. Inside the box, at least fifty red crayons rest on white tissue paper. The crayons are obviously expensive. I would kill to own those crayons. The man is gasping with pleasure—understandable, considering the quality of the crayons.

As I watch the newsreel, a mysterious boy sits down in the seat next to me. He offers me some popcorn. I politely decline his offer. We begin to kiss. His lips are full and cold. They make me think of rivers frozen over and animal traps set in the snow, waiting patiently for animals.

The boy is wearing a blue fox fur coat. As my hand gropes beneath his coat, I wonder if the fur was produced as a result of selective breeding. I almost ask the boy if he knows, but my shyness gets the better of me. I can sense already that the fur is not wearing very well, but I do not have the heart to tell this to the boy. Besides, if I point this out, he may recoil from my advances. So instead, I whisper in the boy’s ear: This fur is wearing very well.

I realize (or my hands realize) that beneath his coat, the boy is wearing skin-tight lederhosen. In the dark of the movie theater, my boy looks very much like the boy in the newsreel. The boy sitting beside me is similarly nervous, which of course arouses me even further. I carefully unbutton the straps on his lederhosen. Big buttons. My fingers trace over what is without a doubt a border of appliquéd apples. My hands caress the boy’s hips, which bring back fond memories of riding on the handlebars of a bicycle. The boy’s skin is covered in scratches and little jewel-like scabs.

Finally, at midnight, I decide to go to a hotel. I want to take the mysterious boy with me, to draw a nude portrait of him in red crayon on a sheet of butcher’s paper. But the mysterious boy has dissolved, leaving nothing but a sweet little feeling.

As I walk the streets in search of a suitable hotel, I find myself wishing the boy was walking beside me. I would have liked to spend more time with the boy. Actually, I would have liked to spend my life with him. But then again, he wasn’t really my type. Generally I am not attracted to boys who wear lederhosen.

I go alone to a dirty hotel. It is a second- or even third-class hotel. There is only one bellboy; his uniform is frayed at the edges. I can’t register under my own name so I register under the name Alistair McCartney. It’s a preposterous name I know, obviously false, but it’s the first one that enters my head. The proprietor, who has a pencil mustache (Nazi), clearly despises me.

The boys of the night are dressed in pale yellow cross-fox coats. Although the hotel is bleak, it makes me happy to think that today, because of modern methods of collecting animal pelts, almost everyone can afford fur coats.

I fall asleep and dream that the Inspector is looking at me through a huge magnifying glass. Watching everything I do. Then I dream of a room in which there is nothing but a huge heap of red crayons, going up to the ceiling.

The next morning I wake up full of hope, and with a positive attitude, until I notice that the bedsheets are covered in red crayon stains. The maids (boys in frilly caps and aprons) will be annoyed. The thought of this makes me anxious, because I am profoundly attracted to all maids.

The last thing in the world I would want to do is displease a maid. But then I remind myself that such an establishment as this probably doesn’t have a maid, and if it does, it would most likely have one exceedingly unattractive maid, a maid so plain even I could not desire him.

I go to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. That will be refreshing. The mysterious boy I made love to in the movie theater is lying in the bathtub, dead. He is naked. His skin is waxy. His body is plump and more shapeless than I remember; last night he gave me the impression that he was quite athletic.

The boy’s lederhosen hang on the shower railing. They are soaking wet. I stop for a moment and listen to the dripping. While I am listening, I tell myself that now there is no possibility of spending the rest of my life with the boy, watching him grow old in his lederhosen.

It’s then I notice the boy has a big red bruise, in the shape of an apple, on the inside of his left thigh. I have never liked apples, but suddenly I feel as if I could grow to like them.

Red crayon lines have been drawn neatly on each of the boy’s wrists. The water in the bathtub is red from the violence of so much crushed red crayon. The boy appears to be comfortable.

I leave the hotel in a hurry and go to a library. I grab the first book from the shelf; it is a book by someone called Sappho. I seat myself at a reading desk and switch on the little lamp. It makes a pleasing click.

By now it is evening, and the library must close—the librarians must reorganize the Dewey decimal system. According to the head librarian, this is an overwhelming task—one they have been putting off for ages—but they can put it off no longer.

The head librarian is a young man but happens to be suffering from premature balding. I begin to suggest to him that he purchase a nice felt hat just like mine, but think better of it.

I have never found young men with premature balding attractive. On the contrary, I have always found it disconcerting to be in the presence of such unfortunate young men. The way their hairlines recede reminds me far too much of the sly manner in which life recedes.

Yet somehow I am deeply attracted to the head librarian. It must be the look of sadness on his face, which is all creased like crepe paper. He also has very nice hands, probably from handling all those books.

I despise work of all kinds, but I ask the head librarian if I can be of any assistance. He says no, reorganizing the Dewey decimal system is a treacherous and sensitive business, one that requires years of training. But as he says this, he throws me a look, pale and sharp as a paper plane. In my heart I know that the head librarian would have liked very much if I could have worked by his side, throughout the night.

Outside, snow is fluttering down in the street. There is snow on my coat collar. How aggravating! It might stain the felt! I go to brush the snow off my collar before it melts.

As my fingers make contact with the snow I discover (or my fingers discover) that the snow is not real snow, but little pieces of white felt that have been carefully cut out and sewn into the shape of snowflakes. I take a closer look at the little impostors. There are three of them. Just like real snowflakes, none of these artificial snowflakes seem to be alike.

As I finger the so-called snowflakes, I think about how strange life is. There was a time when I lived for felt. Now I feel almost indifferent to it. I suppose the allure of felt lay in its relation to all fabrics that were not felt. But what with them manufacturing everything in felt these days—stars, snowflakes—felt was rapidly beginning to lose all its appeal. Or perhaps my love of felt was just a passing childhood fancy, and this disinterest a sign of maturity.

Trying to figure out where to go next, and if indeed there is anywhere else to go, I walk over to a lamppost and lean against it. Snow continues to drift down. I find myself wishing my mother were around. Not that she would be able to help me. She was never very good with advice. But just the fact of her being here would make me feel a little better.

Once again, I wonder where they took her. I had gone out to buy some red crayons. When I returned, the door to our apartment was open and my mother was gone. She had left a note on the table saying:

Feeling tired, I close my eyes. I open them to find the Inspector standing a few feet away, peering at me through a huge magnifying glass. In his trench coat he cuts an impressive figure; I can see why boys find him so irresistible.

The game is up my friend, he says, licking his lips. Some of his spittle lands on my cheek. The Inspector pulls out some big shiny handcuffs from a leather bag and places them on my wrists. Then he takes my fingerprints.

Not because I desperately yearn to keep on living. I had always found living to be an unpleasant experience, simultaneously mysterious and monotonous, an experience made bearable only by the constant use of red crayons. Perhaps I would have felt differently if I had done something meaningful with my life—a miniature pony that acts as guide to the blind must feel quite attached to living—but I had never been interested in making myself useful.

Gazing down into the river, I realize that if I take my own life, I will never get to visit the great chalk deposits of western Kansas that I have always dreamed of visiting. I will never get to see the extinct (yet wonderfully preserved) skeletons of sea serpents and flying reptiles trapped in the deposits’ soft chalky walls.

Yet somehow I have the feeling that the chalk deposits will not live up to my expectations. And that I will not get to see my mother again, whether I am alive or dead.

Unlike my star, which is dull and flat, those stars are twinkling. But of course they are not really twinkling. They only seem to be. In actual fact, they are caving in. And what appears to be twinkling is nothing but the motion of air, scattering the light.