The Green Road by Anne Enright Read Free Book Online

muscular kiss. He was so sexy, Billy. He was as sexy as Greg used to be, when he first came to town. Greg could feel the magic leaving him, flowing, almost, into Billy, so golden and easy against his dark grey sheets. Because Greg used to be the one that everyone wanted; now he was the one who did the wanting. He would be, for the rest of his life, a guy more cruising than cruised. He was twenty-nine years old.
    At twenty-nine, Greg had gone to Meat because he was so desperate for a blow job, he thought if he didn’t get one he would lie down like an old dog and whine. A bad knee had put a stop to his morning jog and the pain was moving into his hip – also downwards. By the time he and Billy had spun out their last kiss, some six weeks after their first, Greg walked as though there was something trapped under his foot, almost like a limp.
    In January 1991, Greg slipped on fresh snow on Third Avenue and he rolled on to his back and just lay there for a moment. It was four in the morning, and his collarbone was broken: he had actually heard the snap. Greg looked up at the falling snow, trying to figure out which flakes would end up on his face and which would not. A surprising number of them missed, then one drifted on to his forehead in a tiny, delayed flare of cold. This was followed by two more – one on his top lip, another on the side of his nose. The pain in his shoulder was intense and Greg could taste fur on his tongue, but he stayed where he was, second-guessing the snow, knowing that as soon as he walked into the hospital his dying would begin.
    Max and Arthur came to St Vincent’s with him for his HIV results. They talked about David Wojnarowicz who was really fading, and Max shouted about Rothko while they waited on the stackable plastic chairs. Because Max was unflinching, you might say remorseless in the face of the disease; the freaked-out staff were a satisfaction to him. Pity just made him impatient.
    ‘Fuck Rothko,’ he said. ‘Fuck Rothko.’
    ‘You can’t say that,’ said Greg.
    ‘I just said it.’
    ‘You can’t just say fuck Mark Rothko.’
    Arthur said, ‘I think Max is uncomfortable with the spiritual aspects of the work.’
    ‘Fuck that. I am uncomfortable with the way he owns a colour.’
    ‘You can’t own a colour, you just make a colour.’
    Max had a narrow shaved head, like a weasel, and small, surprisingly child-like hands. He sat in a green military trench and jackboots with his elbows on his knees.
    ‘There is nothing but owning. That’s all he does. He says, This colour is mine . He says, I am as important as this colour. This is how important I am .’
    ‘You’re ruthless,’ Greg said.
    ‘How can I be ruthless?’ said Max. ‘I’m dying.’
    ‘You are dying in a ruthless fashion,’ said Greg, but he was really thinking about Christian, remembering Christian’s eyes looking at him from the chair as he moved about the room – not attracted any more, not even jealous. Just crossing him off the list. His young body. His hips. His hands.
    Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
    Gregory Savalas was about to die himself, now. And he was not sure he would do it well.
    And there was Dr Torres, calling him in to the consulting room. Such a hero, Gabriel Torres, so thrilling and kind. We talked about him endlessly, about how he smiled and what he wore, whether he was happy with our bloods, our retinas, our lungs.
    When Greg came back outside, Arthur said, ‘How is Gabriel? What did he say?’
    It was not Billy’s fault he did not know Greg’s test results, because Greg did not tell him his results. But Greg managed to resent him for it anyway. They went to a thing at the Fawbush and so many of the men were fading, there was this terrible, dark courage in the room, Greg lost all respect for Billy for being so fucking normal, and it was through gritted teeth he said, ‘Well there is a reason I haven’t been, you know, fun, recently. There is a reason why I haven’t been picking up