The Immortalists(25)
What he wants to say is, I’m not good enough.
‘You’ll be at the end of the line,’ Gali says. ‘We have no choice.’
Simon follows him down the long corridor to the dressing rooms. Eduardo sits on the floor with his leg propped up on a crate, a bag of ice on one ankle. His eyes are pink, but he cracks a smile for Simon.
‘At least,’ he says, ‘you won’t need to be fitted for a costume.’
In Birth of Man, the men wear nothing but dance belts. Even their ass cheeks are exposed. In this regard, Purp has been good training: onstage, Simon feels little self-consciousness and can instead focus only on his movements. The lights are so bright that he can’t see the audience, so he pretends they don’t exist: there are only Simon and Fauzi, Tommy and Beau, all of them straining to support Robert as he navigates their man-made canal. They bow as a group, and Simon squeezes their hands until his own hurt. Afterward, they cab to the QT on Polk in their stage makeup. In a surge of ecstasy, Simon grabs Robert and kisses him in front of everyone. The other men cheer, and Robert grins with such bashful indulgence that Simon does it again.
That fall, Simon is given his own role in The Naughty Nut, Corps’s Nutcracker. A write-up in the Chronicle doubles ticket sales, and Gali throws a party at his house in the Upper Haight to celebrate. The rooms are filled with brown leather furniture, and everything smells like the clove-pricked oranges that sit in a gold bowl on the mantel. Academy’s pianist plays Tchaikovsky on Gali’s Steinway. The doorways have been hung with mistletoe, and the party’s hum is periodically interrupted by shrieks of delight as odd pairs are forced to kiss. Simon arrives with Robert, who wears a maroon button-down with black dress pants; he’s replaced his silver hoop earring with a diamond the size of a peppercorn. They mingle with donors by the hors d’oeuvres before Robert pulls Simon down the hall and through a glass door that leads to the garden.
They sit on the deck. Even in December, the garden is lush. There are jade and nasturtiums and California poppies, all hearty enough to grow amidst fog. It occurs to Simon that he would like to have a life like this: a career, a house, a partner. He’s always assumed that these things are not for him – that he’s designed for something less lucky, less straight. In truth, it is not only Simon’s gayness that makes him feel this way. It’s the prophecy, too, something he would very much like to forget but has instead dragged behind him all these years. He hates the woman for giving it to him, and he hates himself for believing her. If the prophecy is a ball, his belief is its chain; it is the voice in his head that says Hurry, says Faster, says Run.
Robert says, ‘I got the place.’
Last week, he applied for an apartment on Eureka Street. It’s rent controlled, with a kitchen and a backyard. Simon went to the showing with Robert and marveled at the dishwasher, the washing machine, the bay windows.
‘You get a roommate?’ he asks.
The nasturtiums wave their festive red and yellow hands. Robert leans back on his forearms, grinning. ‘You want to room with me?’
The thought is bewitching: a tingle runs across Simon’s scalp. ‘We’d be close to the studio. We could get a used car and drive to the theater together on performance days. We’d save gas.’
Robert looks at Simon like he’s just said he’s straight. ‘You want to live together to save gas.’
‘No! – No. It’s not the gas. Of course it isn’t the gas.’
Robert shakes his head. He’s still smiling when he looks at Simon. ‘You can’t admit it.’
‘Admit what?’
‘How you feel about me.’
‘Sure I can.’
‘Okay. How do you feel about me?’
‘I like you,’ says Simon, but it comes out a little too fast.
Robert throws his head back and laughs. ‘You are a bad fucking liar,’ he says.
7.
They are unpacking the apartment, Simon and Robert and Klara, who didn’t mind the move; she seemed relieved to have the Collingwood apartment to herself. After a balmy December, temperatures have dipped into the forties. This would be nothing in New York, but California has made Simon soft: he wears legwarmers under his tracksuit as he runs between the apartment and the U-Haul. When Klara leaves, Simon and Robert kiss pressed up against the dishwasher: Robert’s hands sure on Simon’s waist, Simon groping for Robert’s ass, his dick, his magnificent face.
It is 1980, the beginning of a new decade as well as a new year. In San Francisco, Simon is insulated from the global recession and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. He and Robert pool their money to buy a TV, and though the evening news makes them uneasy, the Castro is like a fallout shelter: there, Simon feels powerful and safe. He rises through the ranks at Corps, and by spring, he is a full company member instead of an understudy.
Klara has returned to the dentist’s office, working days as a receptionist and nights as a restaurant hostess in Union Square. She spends weekends scripting her show and puts each month’s sliver of leftover income into savings. On Sundays, Simon meets her for dinner at an Indian restaurant on Eighteenth Street. One evening, she brings a manila folder, rubber-banded twice and stuffed with photocopies: grainy black-and-white photos, old newspapers, vintage programs and ads. She uses the full length of their table to lay everything out.