But now that the new Attorney General had figured out the best thing to do was let it all go away, Tone might be able to leave the country, soon. Meaning we could get back to our lives in a country that actually gave a damn about people instead of profits, and maybe that would settle him down. Man, it wouldn’t be a day too soon for me.
So the fact is, I was glad he’d told Mira everything. There was no way I’d narc on him about some things, and only an idiot would think the stories would never make it across to France. That’s why the last time I’d done my Denmark tango, I’d packed on a couple extra days in Paris to lay it all on the line with my half-brothers and sisters -- your big bro’s queer and the man he loves is nuttier than a fruitcake.
I’m not sure they understood it all; their English plays second fiddle to French and Farsi, neither of which I’m fluent in, yet, but it didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it helped that we’d only recently met and I still wasn’t of their blood. Yeah, we shared the same father, but I’d been raised thousands of miles away in a legendary state with a glorious history and seriously high opinion of itself -- which was now turning itself into an major embarrassment -- so I was more exotic to them. Maybe it’s because none of them was into puberty, yet, so didn’t really understand what I was saying. I kind of doubt it, though; Mira was born and raised in Paris and was hardly your typical Persian wife. She may’ve already given them the lowdown and laid out the line that it’s no big deal.
I have to admit, I’m glad she’s on my side. She’d be worth knowing in any capacity – so I cannot even begin to figure out how she and my dad got together. Granted he’s rich as Solomon, but he’s also an arrogant, selfish, controlling prick while she could’ve had any guy she wanted – raven black hair, full-figure, close enough to forty to make her sensual instead of just sexy...at least, in France; in the twelve-year-old mentality of the US, she’d be over the hill. Anyway, after what my father had done to Tone, and considering my own mother had let him chuck me into the street when they found out I was gay, so far as I was concerned, I was an orphan. I’d even considered changing my last name from my mother’s maiden one to my grandmother’s...which would’ve made me a McKittrick instead of a Blaine.
But Mira wanted her children to know their half-Persian brother and I got the sense she didn’t even give Faraz a say in it. So while to Tone and my friends my name was Jacob Michael Blaine, with them I was Iacob Mehrzad Darya-Bendari, and dad was never home when I came to call. Which I did every other month, after I’d met with Uncle Ari and gone over whatever we couldn’t handle on the phone or online.
On this occasion, I’d hopped over because Uncle Ari had a client who wanted to meet me before he’d agree to sign up with us. This’d be a major catch for my uncle. The Euro zone was still having serious trouble that was only being made worse by the idiots who were running things, but Denmark’d been smart enough to keep her own currency. That made his costs look good.
I’d kept putting him off, hoping the negotiations on Tone’s case would get finished up. But then everything got postponed till next Tuesday, again, so I told Uncle Ari I’d hop a flight, catch a nap in Copenhagen, and join him and the guy for dinner. I could also let Mrs. Lund, our landlady, know Tone and I’d be back, soon; that’s how sure I was this was almost over.
Meaning, yes – I’d kept our apartment. It was perfect for us – great view of Koge Bay, on a train that went straight into the city center, and Mrs. Lund lived downstairs and she was able to keep everything neat; we’d lucked out finding it so there was no way I was giving it up. Plus it also maintained my residence as being in Denmark. Worked a lot better when I applied for citizenship. Once Tone was free, again, maybe we could get back to how we used to be. Happy. Healing. Loving each other.
But suddenly here was Mira wondering why I wanted to.
“From the photos I have seen in the papers, he is an attractive young man,” she kept on. “But there are many of his type so I know this is not the reason. I think, perhaps you wish to rescue him. He has need of someone strong to lean upon. But this denotes weakness on your part, and you are not a weak man. Is it only the sex is good? Are you a man like that, Iacob?”
She waited for an answer, nibbling at a salad as I chowed on the best damn quiche I’d ever eaten.
All I could do is shrug. “What do you want me to say?”
“That it is not merely from pity?”
“I don’t pity him, Mira. He’d never let me.”
It’s funny, but she was the only other person in the world I felt like I could be completely open and honest with and know it wouldn’t get back to somebody. So I didn’t censor anything I said, in honor of that. “I get pissed off. I get hurt. But I’m usually really happy, ‘cause he’d always do things that let me know he cared about me. Like this one time, when I was havin’ problems with this graphic novel I’m workin’ on. I stood out on a balcony in the freezin’ cold for...oh, I dunno how long tryin’ to figure it out. Finally I came inside, still lost and frozen, and...and Tone had – he’d made some hot cocoa with marshmallows and a dark chocolate bar melted in, the way I like it. And I sipped some and he leaned over and wiped the chocolate off my moustache and licked his fingers, his eyes dancin’ like a happy kitten’s, and I -- I ached for him. I knew right then I’d kill anybody who tried to hurt him. Almost did.”
“Almost?”
“Did Tone tell you about his second time in holding cell 6? That some bastard was stabbin’ him?” She nodded. “I was with the cops who broke it up, and I grabbed the knife...and I would’ve cut the son-of-a-bitch’s throat if Matt hadn’t stopped me.”
“Matt?”
“Matthew. Zehavi. That friend of Tone and me. He got messed up in it, too.” She nodded, remembering. “He yelled at me not to mess up the knife with someone else’s blood. That’d hurt it as evidence. Then the cops pulled me away and...well...it was good I didn’t do it. But I still want to.”
She nodded and said, “In some ways you are so much like your father, and in others you are so completely different.”
So the fact is, I was glad he’d told Mira everything. There was no way I’d narc on him about some things, and only an idiot would think the stories would never make it across to France. That’s why the last time I’d done my Denmark tango, I’d packed on a couple extra days in Paris to lay it all on the line with my half-brothers and sisters -- your big bro’s queer and the man he loves is nuttier than a fruitcake.
I’m not sure they understood it all; their English plays second fiddle to French and Farsi, neither of which I’m fluent in, yet, but it didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it helped that we’d only recently met and I still wasn’t of their blood. Yeah, we shared the same father, but I’d been raised thousands of miles away in a legendary state with a glorious history and seriously high opinion of itself -- which was now turning itself into an major embarrassment -- so I was more exotic to them. Maybe it’s because none of them was into puberty, yet, so didn’t really understand what I was saying. I kind of doubt it, though; Mira was born and raised in Paris and was hardly your typical Persian wife. She may’ve already given them the lowdown and laid out the line that it’s no big deal.
I have to admit, I’m glad she’s on my side. She’d be worth knowing in any capacity – so I cannot even begin to figure out how she and my dad got together. Granted he’s rich as Solomon, but he’s also an arrogant, selfish, controlling prick while she could’ve had any guy she wanted – raven black hair, full-figure, close enough to forty to make her sensual instead of just sexy...at least, in France; in the twelve-year-old mentality of the US, she’d be over the hill. Anyway, after what my father had done to Tone, and considering my own mother had let him chuck me into the street when they found out I was gay, so far as I was concerned, I was an orphan. I’d even considered changing my last name from my mother’s maiden one to my grandmother’s...which would’ve made me a McKittrick instead of a Blaine.
But Mira wanted her children to know their half-Persian brother and I got the sense she didn’t even give Faraz a say in it. So while to Tone and my friends my name was Jacob Michael Blaine, with them I was Iacob Mehrzad Darya-Bendari, and dad was never home when I came to call. Which I did every other month, after I’d met with Uncle Ari and gone over whatever we couldn’t handle on the phone or online.
On this occasion, I’d hopped over because Uncle Ari had a client who wanted to meet me before he’d agree to sign up with us. This’d be a major catch for my uncle. The Euro zone was still having serious trouble that was only being made worse by the idiots who were running things, but Denmark’d been smart enough to keep her own currency. That made his costs look good.
I’d kept putting him off, hoping the negotiations on Tone’s case would get finished up. But then everything got postponed till next Tuesday, again, so I told Uncle Ari I’d hop a flight, catch a nap in Copenhagen, and join him and the guy for dinner. I could also let Mrs. Lund, our landlady, know Tone and I’d be back, soon; that’s how sure I was this was almost over.
Meaning, yes – I’d kept our apartment. It was perfect for us – great view of Koge Bay, on a train that went straight into the city center, and Mrs. Lund lived downstairs and she was able to keep everything neat; we’d lucked out finding it so there was no way I was giving it up. Plus it also maintained my residence as being in Denmark. Worked a lot better when I applied for citizenship. Once Tone was free, again, maybe we could get back to how we used to be. Happy. Healing. Loving each other.
But suddenly here was Mira wondering why I wanted to.
“From the photos I have seen in the papers, he is an attractive young man,” she kept on. “But there are many of his type so I know this is not the reason. I think, perhaps you wish to rescue him. He has need of someone strong to lean upon. But this denotes weakness on your part, and you are not a weak man. Is it only the sex is good? Are you a man like that, Iacob?”
She waited for an answer, nibbling at a salad as I chowed on the best damn quiche I’d ever eaten.
All I could do is shrug. “What do you want me to say?”
“That it is not merely from pity?”
“I don’t pity him, Mira. He’d never let me.”
It’s funny, but she was the only other person in the world I felt like I could be completely open and honest with and know it wouldn’t get back to somebody. So I didn’t censor anything I said, in honor of that. “I get pissed off. I get hurt. But I’m usually really happy, ‘cause he’d always do things that let me know he cared about me. Like this one time, when I was havin’ problems with this graphic novel I’m workin’ on. I stood out on a balcony in the freezin’ cold for...oh, I dunno how long tryin’ to figure it out. Finally I came inside, still lost and frozen, and...and Tone had – he’d made some hot cocoa with marshmallows and a dark chocolate bar melted in, the way I like it. And I sipped some and he leaned over and wiped the chocolate off my moustache and licked his fingers, his eyes dancin’ like a happy kitten’s, and I -- I ached for him. I knew right then I’d kill anybody who tried to hurt him. Almost did.”
“Almost?”
“Did Tone tell you about his second time in holding cell 6? That some bastard was stabbin’ him?” She nodded. “I was with the cops who broke it up, and I grabbed the knife...and I would’ve cut the son-of-a-bitch’s throat if Matt hadn’t stopped me.”
“Matt?”
“Matthew. Zehavi. That friend of Tone and me. He got messed up in it, too.” She nodded, remembering. “He yelled at me not to mess up the knife with someone else’s blood. That’d hurt it as evidence. Then the cops pulled me away and...well...it was good I didn’t do it. But I still want to.”
She nodded and said, “In some ways you are so much like your father, and in others you are so completely different.”
No comments:
Post a Comment