Lovers (9781609459192) by Howard (TRN) Daniel; Curtis Arsand Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Howard (TRN) Daniel; Curtis Arsand
knife, the shears and the adze, than Francartin took him under his wing. More than that: he regarded him as a son.
He has been The Son. No more, no less.
And Balthazar is more distant from Sébastien every day. Unless it is the other way around.
His memory is like quicksand now, or like a desert.
He has grown fond of Francartin.
He will cease to be a son or a gardener or a man obsessed by his past, the morning Francartin stretches on the ground, laid low by a migraine.
Everything is still possible.
84
T he scene is apparently bucolic, almost a cliché, frozen in a tranquil sensuousness.
The Marian blue of the sky rejects clouds.
In the lean-to where André has taken shelter, a smell of dust, straw and sweat hangs in the air. The ground is padded with straw. He is sweating abundantly. With one arm he covers his forehead.
He could be a shepherd of Arcady, asleep.
He sighs at regular intervals, a hoarse sigh. Leaning over him, Sébastien fans him with a handful of straw. In his eyes, a strange panic, a supplication. And now those eyes express only desire.
The false shepherd half opens his eyes, the migraine has worn off. He does not say a word of thanks to the man leaning over him. Nor does he make any move to draw him close, but he savors the silence he imposes and the happiness of being looked at.
Sébastien lies down next to him.
85
T hey graft, they dig, they manure the flowerbeds, they rake, they behave toward each other just as they did yesterday, just as they have always done, they keep a friendly distance, they give away nothing of their newfound intimacy. An observer would have to be unusually perceptive to have any inkling of the bond that now exists between them. They are constrained to wear masks by centuries of repression of male love, and this constraint intensifies the constant desire they feel for each other.
It is all very commonplace, all very unbearable.
Conjugal duties are performed as before, the children are pampered.
By force of circumstance, embraces between the two men are rare.
Nothing is more mortal than a feeling condemned to invisibility.
They sometimes manage to meet in the darkness of a barn. Their nakedness belongs to the dark. It is a humiliating fact. After making love, they await a miracle: to be transported elsewhere, all at once, just like that, they are melancholically happy.
86
W ho are you?
They have so little time, so few opportunities, to find out.
They are in love and know so little of each other.
They have just made love. They have stopped talking about a land of light toward which they can sail. Abruptly, Sébastien declares: I lied.
He admits that he was never married, never had children.
He says: I have never had anyone in my life.
He cannot bring himself to utter the name Balthazar de Créon.
For a moment, it seems to him that today, at this hour, this is all he possesses, this lie of omission.
Yes, Balthazar is no more than a memory, but a memory even more powerful than the love he feels for André.
How could he have admitted to André that his love for Balthazar was incomparable, that their own, however genuine, however passionate, is a lesser love and will always remain so. He had never imagined that there could be degrees of love.
I shall paint your face, he says to André.
87
H ow many years is it that they have been married? The bridal wreath has withered but has not yet turned to dust. Fragile and eternal, it sits enthroned above the hearth. They live in a tiny lodge, a kind of chalet, at the far end of the grounds. The trees are so close, their leaves rustle so loudly, that when the windows are left open you have the impression that an invisible forest is coming to life in the middle of the rooms. The Comtesse long ago granted them this lodge. Her benevolence toward them is measureless.
As soon as spring arrives, the Comtesse grows impatient, she is waiting for a miracle of blooms. André Francartin has never
He has been The Son. No more, no less.
And Balthazar is more distant from Sébastien every day. Unless it is the other way around.
His memory is like quicksand now, or like a desert.
He has grown fond of Francartin.
He will cease to be a son or a gardener or a man obsessed by his past, the morning Francartin stretches on the ground, laid low by a migraine.
Everything is still possible.
84
T he scene is apparently bucolic, almost a cliché, frozen in a tranquil sensuousness.
The Marian blue of the sky rejects clouds.
In the lean-to where André has taken shelter, a smell of dust, straw and sweat hangs in the air. The ground is padded with straw. He is sweating abundantly. With one arm he covers his forehead.
He could be a shepherd of Arcady, asleep.
He sighs at regular intervals, a hoarse sigh. Leaning over him, Sébastien fans him with a handful of straw. In his eyes, a strange panic, a supplication. And now those eyes express only desire.
The false shepherd half opens his eyes, the migraine has worn off. He does not say a word of thanks to the man leaning over him. Nor does he make any move to draw him close, but he savors the silence he imposes and the happiness of being looked at.
Sébastien lies down next to him.
85
T hey graft, they dig, they manure the flowerbeds, they rake, they behave toward each other just as they did yesterday, just as they have always done, they keep a friendly distance, they give away nothing of their newfound intimacy. An observer would have to be unusually perceptive to have any inkling of the bond that now exists between them. They are constrained to wear masks by centuries of repression of male love, and this constraint intensifies the constant desire they feel for each other.
It is all very commonplace, all very unbearable.
Conjugal duties are performed as before, the children are pampered.
By force of circumstance, embraces between the two men are rare.
Nothing is more mortal than a feeling condemned to invisibility.
They sometimes manage to meet in the darkness of a barn. Their nakedness belongs to the dark. It is a humiliating fact. After making love, they await a miracle: to be transported elsewhere, all at once, just like that, they are melancholically happy.
86
W ho are you?
They have so little time, so few opportunities, to find out.
They are in love and know so little of each other.
They have just made love. They have stopped talking about a land of light toward which they can sail. Abruptly, Sébastien declares: I lied.
He admits that he was never married, never had children.
He says: I have never had anyone in my life.
He cannot bring himself to utter the name Balthazar de Créon.
For a moment, it seems to him that today, at this hour, this is all he possesses, this lie of omission.
Yes, Balthazar is no more than a memory, but a memory even more powerful than the love he feels for André.
How could he have admitted to André that his love for Balthazar was incomparable, that their own, however genuine, however passionate, is a lesser love and will always remain so. He had never imagined that there could be degrees of love.
I shall paint your face, he says to André.
87
H ow many years is it that they have been married? The bridal wreath has withered but has not yet turned to dust. Fragile and eternal, it sits enthroned above the hearth. They live in a tiny lodge, a kind of chalet, at the far end of the grounds. The trees are so close, their leaves rustle so loudly, that when the windows are left open you have the impression that an invisible forest is coming to life in the middle of the rooms. The Comtesse long ago granted them this lodge. Her benevolence toward them is measureless.
As soon as spring arrives, the Comtesse grows impatient, she is waiting for a miracle of blooms. André Francartin has never
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