Less(40)

“No,” Less says, truly bewildered. There is not a line on Javier’s face. “I thought you were midthirties.”

“That is a lie. But it is a nice lie. And you do not look close to fifty.”

Less smiles. “My birthday is in one week.”

“Strange to be almost fifty, no? I feel like I just understood how to be young.”

“Yes! It’s like the last day in a foreign country. You finally figure out where to get coffee, and drinks, and a good steak. And then you have to leave. And you won’t ever be back.”

“You put it very well.”

“I’m a writer. I put things very well. But I’m told I’m ‘spoony.’”

“I am sorry?”

“Foolish. Tenderhearted.”

Javier seems delighted. “That is a nice phrase, tenderhearted. Tenderhearted.” He takes a deep breath as if building courage. “I am, I think, the same.”

Javier has a look of sadness about him as he says this. Then he stares directly into his drink. The sky out the window is lowering the last of its gauzy veils, revealing bright naked Venus. Less looks at the gray strands in Javier’s black hair, the prominent rose-tinted bridge of his nose, the bent head over the white shirt, two buttons open to reveal his date-colored skin, flecked with hairs, leading into shadow. More than a few of the hairs are white. He imagines Javier naked. The gold-green eyes as the man peers up at him from a white bed. He imagines touching that warm skin. This evening is unexpected. This man is unexpected. Less thinks of when he bought a wallet in a thrift shop and in it found a hundred dollars.

“I want a cigarette,” Javier says, with a child’s abashed face.

“I’ll join you,” Less says, and together they step out of the open window, onto a narrow stone balcony where other smoking Europeans glance back at the American as on a member of the secret police. At the corner of the house, the balcony turns, offering a view of slanted metal rooftops and chimneys. They are alone here, and Javier takes out a pack and pulls on its contents so that two white tusks emerge. Less shakes his head: “Actually, I don’t smoke.”

They laugh.

Javier says, “I think I am a little drunk, Arthur.”

“I think I am too.”

Less’s smile has expanded to its full size, here alone with Javier. Is it the champagne that makes him emit an audible sigh? They are side by side at the railing. The chimneys all look like flowerpots.

Looking out at the view, Javier says, “Here is something strange about growing old.”

“What’s that?”

“I meet new friends, and they are bald or they are gray. And I don’t know what color their hair used to be.”

“I never thought about it.”

Now Javier turns to look at Less; he is probably the type to turn and look at you while he is driving. “A friend, I have known him for five years, maybe he is in his late fifties. And I asked him once. I was so surprised to find he was a redhead!”

Less nods in agreement. “I was on the street the other day. In New York City. And an old man came up to me and hugged me. I had no idea who he was. He was my old lover.”

“Dios mío,” Javier says, swallowing a gulp of champagne. Less feels his arm against Javier’s, and even through the layers of fabric his skin comes alive. He so desperately wants to touch this man. Javier says, “Me, I was at dinner, and an old man was beside me. So boring! Talking about real estate. I thought, Please, God, do not let me be this man when I am old. Later I find out he was a year younger than I.”

Less puts down his glass and, bravely, puts his hand again on Javier’s. Javier turns to face him.

“And also,” Less says meaningfully, “being the only single man your age.”

Javier says nothing but just gives a sad smile.

Less blinks, removes his hand, and takes one half step away from the railing. Now, in the new space between him and the Spaniard, one can make out the Erector-set miracle of the Eiffel Tower.

Less asks, “You’re not single, are you?”

Smoke leaks from Javier’s mouth as he shakes his head gently side to side. “We have been together eighteen years. He is in Madrid, I am here.”

“Married.”

Javier waits a long time before he answers. “Yes, married.”

“So you see, I was right.”

“That you are the only single man?”

Less closes his eyes. “That I am foolish.”

There is piano music inside; the son has been put to work, and whatever hangover he has does not show in the bright garlands of notes that come out the window, onto the balcony. The other smokers all turn and walk over to see and listen. The sky is now nothing but night.

“No, no, you’re not foolish.” Javier puts his hand on the sleeve of Less’s ridiculous jacket. “I wish I were single.”

Less smiles bitterly at the subjunctive but does not move his arm. “I’m sure you don’t. Otherwise you would be.”

“It is not so simple, Arthur.”

Less pauses. “But it is too bad.”

Javier moves his hand up to Less’s elbow. “It is very too bad. When do you leave?”

He checks his watch. “I leave for the airport in an hour.”

“Oh.” A sudden look of pain in those gold-green eyes. “I am not to meet you again, am I?”