My performance as Ipan took on a whole new subtext. The couple and the young man sleeping together? Never! That husband played by Warwick experimenting with bisexuality? Latent homo! That wife played by Janice? She can do better! As for that young fellow struggling to be played convincingly by Pedro? Home-wrecker! That warlock portrayed by Guy? He just likes to watch!
Guy played along with my changed persona and interpreted Fabien as an old sleaze who liked getting people together to satisfy his voyeuristic needs. Samantha relished the tweaking of our characters, patting herself on the back and claiming that we finally understood her direction. That was until the night we went too far.
Guy, as Fabien, lowered his voice and caressed his chest as he espoused that “the love is already there. Why not share it?”
“There’s more than enough lust between James and Simone,” I replied as Ipan. “I know you want to join in. Why cause disruption?”
More anally retentive than an accountant, I outstretched my arm to Fabien’s chest and pushed him back to dissuade him.
“Because sometimes intimacy bonds people like no other encounter can,” he replied. His tongue caressed his bottom lip.
“But look at this young man. He’s a better option for your desires. Besides, he needs the experience.”
Pedro shot me the look of death. Warwick and Janice were sniggering. Maudi shrieked in wicked approval from the audience. Gloria’s son told us during the interval that he was relieved to see his words given life, even with the wrong intent. As for Samantha, we didn’t wait around for her feedback after the performance. We escaped to the Pedestal, which had become our regular after-show haunt since my breakup.
* * *
That night, Nellie was upbeat, chugging along with a seven-piece swing band. Even Guy was grooving.
“It don’t mean a thing—” I began to sing in time with the vocalist.
“—under Samantha’s direction,” responded Guy.
He slurped his chocolate-honey cocktail while I ordered a cranberry and vodka from the barman.
“Are we being too bitchy?” I asked.
“I’ve spent too much time with Samantha greeting newcomers to care about her anymore.”
“Ouch! What are you getting at?”
“Um. Hmm. The more I know her, the more I distrust her.”
“Why?”
“I really can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t think she’s the airhead diva she tries to be.”
“That’s a big call. Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. He shook his fist in comic frustration. “It’s a gut feeling.”
“But there must be something that makes you believe that?”
“Allan, I think we need to watch who's pulling whose strings.”
“It’s all in the subtext, I guess.” I tasted my drink and then stared at the remainder in my glass. “I’m never letting Warwick pull my strings again.”
Guy reached up to my cheek and wiped a tear I didn’t know I’d shed.
“Maybe there’s more subtext there than either of us realize?” he said.
Nellie snapped her fingers in rhythm, while the tuba and drums competed to become the alpha male. Examining her audience, it was clear that some of the women were superior contenders for that position. Nellie flirtatiously winked at a dark-haired lady with crimson lipstick, who was salaciously lit by the flame of a candle. As the instruments continued their fight for dominance, Nellie strolled to the woman and planted the most exquisite open-mouthed kiss I had seen in a while.
“So what do you think of Nellie’s music today?” I asked.
Guy’s foot was tapping to the beat.
“I think I’m hooked on jazz.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I started listening with my heart, and not my ears.”
He closed his eyes and moved in rhythm. I considered other genres that I could introduce him to. Nu soul perhaps? A dose of Kofy Brown possibly? Or maybe just play it safe and blend acid jazz into his education?
Different musicians entered my head as I recalled how Warwick and I loved introducing each other to our favorite artists, when we were getting to know each other. The first time he visited me, electro-synth played from my modest stereo. He was a rhythm-and-blues type of guy, so couldn’t make heads or tails out of the strange group we were listening to. He studied the cover and simply asked who the Nine were. I told him they were a 1990s band with a 1980s sound. He replied by saying I needed a music overhaul.
Guy started clapping in time and singing “doo–wop” between lyrics. Even his wings got into the act, jutting out separately in turn to the pulse of the music. After a while, he opened his eyes to sip his cocktail, breaking out of his jazz trance.
“You need a one-night stand, Allan. Tarquin was nice. You should see him again.”
“Sex doesn’t mend a broken heart.”
“No, it’s a bit more like aspirin. It soothes it for a while, making it easier to deal with later.”
I picked up my drink. “So does this.” Guy shook his head. “In fact, I’ve got a great idea.” I signaled to the barman. “Eight shots of schnapps, please. Mix up the flavors.”
“Why, Allan, why?”
“Why not?”
Two lemon, two peppermint, two vanilla, and two butterscotch shots were served. With one finger, I pushed a lemon drink toward my angel. He shrugged and drank it back in one mouthful.
“Wow, a few more of those and I’ll join Nellie on stage.”
I drank mine. It went down like a drop of heaven. We followed it with the all-time favorite, butterscotch, a taste reminiscent of hard-boiled lollies, which I advised Guy to smear around his mouth with his tongue. The peppermint was a take-it-or-leave-it experience, but we agreed that vanilla was our favorite.
I hadn’t had a schnapps overload since Warwick and I moved in together in Sydney. With all our belongings still in their boxes, we toasted our roommate status with a bottle of butterscotch schnapps. The alcohol had been a present to me from my inane ex-boyfriend, which due to my lack of affection for most things he’d bought for me, stayed untouched until I left him behind.
Sometime that night, I looked at my close friend in a romantic way. It was the first time I’d thought of him like that. The twilight sky cast a blue hue against his dark skin. His black hair turned indigo in this strange light. Like Krishna, his joyous nature was my saving grace. I was no longer that obscure little gay man. I had someone to share my fabulous adventures with.
Guy and I ordered another round of drinks, and then another. I swung my hips to the music as best as I could while balanced on my stool. Guy picked out men in the bar for me to chat up, but while I wallowed in self-pity, my friend stood up and beckoned me to take his hand. We started waltzing, although how we did it to the jazz soundtrack was anyone’s guess.
As we danced, Guy popped up four fingers on my back. The barman knew that he wanted four more drinks of no particular flavor. It was like taking part in a lottery. He wandered onto the dance floor with petite glasses on a tray, half-full of orange liquid. Peach was never a favorite essence of mine, but at this stage, who cared? We downed each glass before the barman left us.
“That open-shirt guy swaying in front of the stage,” said Guy. “He’s very you.”
I lowered my mouth to my friend’s ear. “The one with the textured white shirt?”
“Yes, Allan. The only guy with his shirt open, swaying in front of the stage.”
My forehead rested on Guy’s cheek as I whispered into his neck, “I’m not ready.”
He tilted his head and kissed me on the forehead, before stumbling toward his prey. Midway, he stopped, glanced back, and extended his arm in one sweeping gesture. I took Guy’s hand and attempted to rumba toward our sensual target. My angel blew him a kiss as we danced on either side of him. He replied with a devilish grin. As I practiced my best disco moves, I lost balance but saved myself from an embarrassing fall. My friend began to laugh. Any sophistication I thought I had up until this moment disappeared.
Our mystery man had the cutest dimples and the thickest black hair I’d ever seen. His man-of-the-world manner made me want him to take control. To make me lose myself in escalating passion and throw away the hold that Warwick had on me.
He grabbed my hand and placed it under his open shirt, then did the same with Guy. We both explored his manly chest. His muscles made me tremble with delight, yearning to taste their sweaty outline. His deep green eyes beckoned me to kiss him. I slid my mouth over his. Our moist tongues glided over one another in their own sinful dance.
I felt detached. My desire wrenched out of me like the life of an animal at an abattoir. I was no longer trembling in delight, but with shame. I was being unfaithful yet there was no good reason to feel that way. I kissed harder, but he moved away. He gave me a peck on the cheek before slipping away, causing our hands to exit his shirt. My angel buddy and I turned to him as he blew a kiss and left the dance floor.
“He knew I wasn’t into him,” I said.
“Even I knew you weren’t into him.” We went back to the bar and sat down. “Allan, I know what Monique said about you and Warwick, but for the sake of your own sanity, you need to reassess if you want to win him back.”
“I’ve been reassessing all day and all night.”
“And you needed a break from that assessment.” He pointed at our lost object of desire. “He was the perfect break!”
“I was almost on the same page, Guy, I really was. But when push came to shove, I just couldn’t go through with it.”
The combined sound of the crowd and the band reverberated in the background. The barman presented us with four more glasses of schnapps, which I cherished like a lost camper finding water. My angel buddy blurred into the crowd as I felt self-aware and a little nauseous.
“We’re going to visit Warwick so you can share how you feel.”
“Huh,” I said without moving my lips. “But I’m happy being delusional.”
“No, I mean it, Allan. It’s time to put a stop to this. He needs to know how you feel regardless of the consequences. After all, I’m an angel. Soul-saving missions are my specialty.” Guy rose. “Plus you look like you need the fresh air.”
With that, he seized my hand and dragged me off my seat. I took one last glance at our mystery man who was unaware we were leaving. I listened to Nellie’s soulful voice to regain focus before staggering out of the Pedestal.
* * *
“Allan, what’s the one thing you need to say to Warwick?”
“I just need to tell him that I love him.”
“He knows that, Allan. Think harder.”
Guy was still dragging me along the streets of the Limelight Quarter. The crisp night air was reviving my spirits, albeit through my drunken stupor. Many colorful folk whisked past, some briefly staring at us as they made their way.
“You realize Pedro will be there,” I said.
“That’s why we’re going to call Warwick to come downstairs. You need to talk privately.”
We arrived outside of their balcony. I rubbed my arms to keep warm as Guy placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Warwick!” I yelled. “Are you there?”
There was no answer. A couple adorned in bohemian black, stopped in their tracks the moment I shouted to my ex-lover.
“Broken heart,” whispered Guy to the interested onlookers.
“I understand,” replied the woman. She looked up to her man. “Poor thing.”
“Go on, Allan, call out again.”
“Warwick! Warwick! I love you.” My voice echoed from the building as I looked to my angel friend. He nodded and caressed my shoulder. The couple nodded as well. “Warwick, are you home? I need to talk to you. Will you come down, please?”
“Keep going, Allan.”
“I really need to talk to you. I have so much more to say to you. I should never have let you walk out of my door the other night. I’ve wanted to talk to you so many times during the last few days, but there’s nowhere private at the theater. Plus I’d probably break down, which is not a good look when you’re wearing white grease paint.”
A few onlookers came out from their balconies. I glanced at Guy who was joined by a small audience. Some parents had let their kids stay up well after bedtime, and their freckled little girl was giggling at me. Her mother shushed her so she sat on the ground, sulking.
“Don’t worry about it, Allan. Just go on.”
“Yes, we’re right behind you,” said an elderly lady with bad teeth. “You make him listen.”
“Warwick, I love you, and I know you love me. You told me so. You said you’ve been waiting all year for me to make a move, and as you know, I’ve been waiting for you to make that move too.”
“You tell him, love!” interrupted the old woman.
My support team began to chant Warwick’s name. I was empowered. I encouraged them to clap their hands in time. They did. There was about ten of them now, and their support gave me a warm glow in that frosty breeze. However, Guy looked worried.
“Allan, shouldn’t you wait until he comes downstairs?”
“My dear friend, Warwick is a coward. I know he’s up there, but he’s too scared to come down because he doesn’t want to hurt that imbecile’s feelings. The very imbecile who tried to hurt me physically during his dumb-arsed play!”
“Allan…”
“No one should ever break your heart,” alleged a handsome older gent behind me.
“Thank you.” I turned back to address my ex-lover. “Now listen here, Warwick! You told me that you’d been waiting for me to make a move. I did. We made love over and over under that so-called playwright’s nose. And what happens when the going gets good? You freak out. What the hell for? Was the sex that bad that you preferred old teensy-dick instead? Was it all getting too intense for you? Is that the reason?” The crowd became quiet as I felt the bitter cold again. “Were you too scared of being in love? Too much intimacy for your murky heart to deal with? Too much real emotion for your juvenile soul to cope with? Too much effort to be in love with someone who’s madly, deeply in love with you? Too much…” I shuddered. “Too much…”
Guy grabbed me from behind as I felt my legs give way. He eased me to the footpath and shielded me with his wings. I howled, before tears streamed down my face.
“It’s okay, Allan,” said the angel. “This is a big step for you.”
“He doesn’t love me, Guy. He doesn’t love me the way I love him.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
I began whimpering like a child being punished.
“He’s not home.” This female voice came from somewhere above. I peered through Guy’s wings and saw a short woman in a loose jumper on their neighboring balcony. “I think Pedro is in, but Warwick has gone out.”
At that point, she called out to that dreary fool next door. He approached his balcony cautiously, spying on us like Anthony Perkins summing up his victim in Psycho.
“Yes, Annabelle, Warwick’s not home.”
My breath became choked.
“Guy, what…what if he is home and…and doesn’t want…to face me?”
“If he heard what you said, he’ll face you in his own good time.” The angel kissed the top of my head. “But don’t make assumptions.”
I gently pulled his wings to cover me fully.
“If he’s not home, there’ll be one hell of a gleeful storyteller to convey what happened.”
“That’s not a bad thing, Allan. That’s not a bad thing.”
Guy huddled closer to me as we sat in public view for what seemed an eternity.