So, no yellow envelope this morning?”
“No. What about you?”
“Me neither.”
Mail in hand, Tom brought in the croissants for breakfast—golden, crisp, and warm. Although he had spent the night at Nathan’s, he had just made a detour to the baker, then to his own studio apartment, hoping there would be another anonymous letter waiting for him.
Nathan sighed. “We won’t find out the truth today.”
“Unfortunately not.”
The two men were fascinated by this unexplained phenomenon. Once they had managed to convince each other that neither had written the message Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who, they had tried to figure out who had. The mystery fueled their imagination, and triggered endless discussions. Since that day, they had hardly spent a minute apart.
Taking the croissants, Nathan laid the table. On it, the china shone with all the colors of the rainbow.
“I have no idea who sent us those letters, but I note that the main consequence is that you can’t tear yourself away from here.”
“Oh, really?” Tom stammered, embarrassed that Nathan should have noticed it, and dreading in particular that he would start again on his favorite refrain about their living together.
“My conclusion is that this person wished us well. They must have known we’d each assume the other one wrote the letter, and that that would bring us closer. Isn’t that a clue?”
Tom nodded and started thinking. Did someone wish them well? Surprised, he stopped chewing. “What a strange question! I’ve never asked myself before. Is there someone on this earth who’d wish us well? I could possibly name those who wish me well—like my sisters—or wish you well—like your parents—but wish us well . . . the two of us together?”
Nathan assumed an offended expression, hands on his hips, and aped a black mammy with a drawl, “Wha’, M’s Scarlett? What yo’ talkin’ about? Yo’ think no one loves yo’ n’ yo’ girlfriend? What yo sayin’s mighty sad, M’s Scarlett, and it breaks ma heart!”
Tom grabbed him by the arm. “Stop clowning around and think, Nathan: do you know people who really want us to live together?”
“Nobody gives a shit, Tom. Just like we don’t give a shit about other couples, gay or not. It’s a carousel, and you get on and off as you please. We each of us decide how we’re going to be happy in our own way.”
“You pretend not to understand: nobody’s interested in us as a couple.”
“So? Just as long you and I are interested!”
“Doesn’t that drive you to despair, the fact that nobody thinks you’re my destiny and I’m yours?”
Nathan blinked. “Say that again?”
“What?”
“Say that again, say I’m your destiny and you’re mine. It sent shivers down my coccyx.”
“Your coccyx?”
“That’s where my thoughts lie, at least where you’re concerned.”
Irresistibly attracted by Nathan’s excessive playacting, Tom hurled himself on him and pressed his lips to his.
As soon as he could speak, Nathan continued, “I get the feeling you’re seduced by what’s worst about me: my vulgarity and all the bullshit I talk.”
“I like you in your full glory.”
“Whatever! The crazier I am, the more attached you get to me.”
“Loving someone means also loving their faults.”
“Oh, how lovely: sounds like the title of a song for young girls.”
“I knew you’d like it.”
This time, it was Nathan, delighted even though he pretended to be annoyed, who initiated the kiss. There always had to be patter between them, sarcastic remarks, ridicule. Banter was their madrigal. Because they feared traditional expressions of love—probably because they feared traditional love—they blossomed when they pretended contempt, mockery, even hatred; every bitchy comment was a gift. The more they teased each other, the more they declared their affection. Their sincerity needed to be clothed in derision to remain authentic.
They rolled onto the couch, locked together, each trying to dominate the other, neither succeeding. They knew they wouldn’t make love again—they only just had—but they had a good time pretending.
In the end, they fell on the rug and separated, then lay on their backs, holding hands, staring up at the chandelier.
“I know who wrote those messages,” Nathan whispered.
“Who?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Yes, I will. Who?”
“God.” Nathan sat up, looking grave. “God Himself sent them to us, to confirm us in our love.”
Tom also sat up. “So you believe in God, do you?”
“What do know about it?”
“I’m asking you a question.”
“Stop there! Just because you’ve fucked me four hundred times doesn’t mean you can get deep into the most private part of me.”
“What you’re saying is obscene.” Tom mocked.
“Damn! And I thought it was really spiritual.”
Nathan went and poured himself another coffee, then stated in a professorial tone, “God picked up His quill, dipped it in the ink of compassion, and told us not to wait any longer.” He altered his voice to imitate God, trying to summon his deepest cords. “Live together, my children, do not pay two rents but one. This single rent will be the consecration of your union, take my word for it. Tom, my son, give notice to your landlord. Nathan, my daughter, throw away your porn magazines and your array of dildos and make room in your closets for Tom. When you have done what I say, you will be happy, my children, for all the centuries to come.”
“Amen,” Tom concluded.
Nathan did a double take. “Did I hear right?” He walked up to Tom, his face tense, his limbs rigid. “Did you say, ‘Amen?’”
“Yes,” Tom replied phlegmatically.
“Did you say that without thinking or because you meant it?”
“What do you think?”
“Tom, I know you’re not a Catholic, I know you’re not a believer, but do you speak Hebrew?”
“Enough to know that Amen means ‘So be it.’”
“So you agree to us living together?”
“If you agree to a misalliance with a nonbeliever.”
“I do.”
“Amen.”
Over the days that followed, Nathan couldn’t restrain his joy: instead of walking, he skipped; instead of speaking, he choked in the rush of his own words; instead of laughing, he neighed. Tom was moved at having aroused such emotion in his partner; calm as he looked, he too was delighted.
One night, as they were watching an American TV series in bed, Tom turned to Nathan abruptly. “The anonymous letter was sent by someone who wants to get rid of us.”
Nathan switched off the television. “Get rid of us?”
“Yes. An old lover who wants to make sure that you or I are fixed up.”
“That’s absurd.”
“The lover of a lover . . . Someone morbidly jealous who knows how important we were in his boyfriend’s life before. So he’s trying to push us away.”
“That’s a twisted theory.”
“Human beings are twisted, Nathan. People don’t wish other people well, they want what’s good for themselves. They’re not interested in general well-being, only in their own.”
“Translation, please?”
“The person who wrote that letter isn’t after our happiness, but his.”
So they spent the night talking about past lovers. While they may have started by trying to identify the author of the letters, the exchange became a pretext to discover one another, to talk about themselves and hear each other’s stories.
Far from driving them apart, these confidences brought them closer together. They talked about what had seemed their glory in the past, but now struck them as pitiful: the many partners they had had. Because it involves a minority, homosexuality is more defined by sex than heterosexuality: it pushes those who discover that tendency in themselves to seek out skin contact, the meeting of bodies, pure pleasure, the organic, at all costs, and easily neglects the complexity and importance of feelings. Tom and Nathan had at first felt the need to prove to themselves that they were desired and could be desired. To that end, they had had many affairs, some of them lasting no longer than a passing encounter; they had frequented such sex joints as saunas, cellar nightclubs, even public parks, places where conversation is neither useful nor recommended, and where all you need to do is exchange a knowing look for two bodies to come together in the semidarkness. Both had experienced more silent affairs than verbal ones. Nathan had suffered from that: being so exuberant and talkative, he loved conversation and was curious about everything. Tom’s sexual urges, mixed with a vague feeling of superiority, had been so important to him that it had taken him longer to find the repetition monotonous. Cultured, thoughtful, passionate about literature, he had such doubts about ever meeting his equal that he approached every boy with disillusioned wariness and no ambition to get to know him. Make love to him, yes, but conversation, no thanks, could have been his motto. So Nathan and Tom had experienced many disappointments after sexual pleasure, as soon as their partners, until then reduced merely to skin and cock and sighs, suddenly spoke: discovering an ugly voice, a surprising accent, hearing, after a faultless sensual journey, grammatical errors, flawed syntax, and a poor range of vocabulary; discovering the tastes and interests of a creature whose body they had enjoyed and realizing that, had they known all that, they would never have manifested any desire toward him.
Tom and Nathan hadn’t seen these disappointments in the same way. Nathan wanted more from life than a collection of flirtations or brief encounters, and was more inclined toward love than desire. In fact, that was why he had been looking for the romance of his life and, through his impatience, had thought he had found it in two long-term relationships. As for Tom, he hadn’t formulated any specific wishes, and had never confused sexual habit with love. Meeting Nathan, and the deep fondness he felt for him, had surprised him.
By dawn, they loved each other more than they had the previous dusk. They no longer needed sex, just to be next to each other to welcome the day. The anonymous letters had hastened the deepening of their relationship.
Sharp and shrill, the parrots started squawking, then the parakeets added their chirping to the discordant symphony. Their hullaballoo grew with the daylight. Nathan tried imitating them. He managed after a few approximations, which both men found entertaining. Then Tom walked naked to the window.
“I wonder if we haven’t made a mistake about the anonymous letters, Nathan. We’re assuming we’re the only two who received them.”
Nathan got up and, also naked, went to Tom and put his arms around him. They gazed out at the square, the houses framing the green lawn like a theater set.
“What if several people here received the same note?” Nathan said.
“You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that.”
They looked at the birds. Their mediations still had the laziness of dawn in them, moved slowly, lacked elation and energy. Everything was taking time.
Suddenly, in a tumult of wings, a blacker-than-black crow sprang out of the gray sky, flew across the square, ruthlessly chased away the parrots, and settled at the top of a tree. It cawed, like a prophet of doom cawed, and it was as if miles of solitude formed around this cruel warning. Stooped, head tilted, demeanor stern, it studied the surrounding façades. Its piercing eyes penetrated every house, pitiless, on the lookout for everyone’s weaknesses.
Nathan sensed its hostile examination and shuddered. Tom, on the other hand, smiled and rubbed the hands resting on his shoulders.
“Strange . . . Usually, anonymous letters carry insults or malicious gossip. That’s why their author is often referred to as a crow.”
Once again, the crow cawed menacingly. “But this is something else,” Tom continued gently. “The author is sending words of love, words that provoke love. We aren’t dealing with a crow.”
“What, then?”
“A dove.”