Frances crawled in around mid-afternoon and went straight to her room. At six o'clock Jon poked his head into the office and announced he was recovered and ready for the opening. The caterers were setting up downstairs, so we celebrated with cold chicken, bread rolls and a beer on the roof. My new-look body brought out the exhibitionist and I tried for a bit of Max's sartorial panache in an embroidered waistcoat over naked chest, a gold chain round my throat, black trousers and shiny black shoes.
"What do you reckon?' I asked.
Jon frowned and mumbled something about Sinbad the Sailor and catching chills. He chose an inconspicuous dark suit with white shirt and conservative tie.
"Am I OK?' he asked diffidently. It was the first time I'd looked at him properly. I try not to stare at people's faces, they reveal too much and I feel like a voyeur, although such deference has its disadvantages. Seconds after being introduced to someone I've usually forgotten both name and face. Of course I'd glanced at him during the day, but had avoided scrutinising. Now he'd asked my opinion, however, he'd have to put up with it.
He was unconventionally handsome. Dark blond hair flopped across a high forehead and brushed the tops of prominent ears. The large nose had a small bump in the middle and slightly flared nostrils. Grey-green eyes that gazed seriously from deep sockets, accentuated prominent cheekbones and hollow cheeks. A square jaw was softened by full, sculpted lips. He was as tall as Max, but thinner, so looked poetically gaunt in his suit.
"Perfect."
His eyes flicked away in disbelief. "Yeah, yeah. When Frances sees me she'll kick me out."
"Bet you ten dollars she has no idea who you are – especially in a suit. You were just a convenient cock. Probably didn't even look at your face. Certainly never thought of you again."
"Surely Max told her I'd done a bunk?"
"Doubt it. They didn't share much.' I paused, wondering whether to go on, then decided he was old enough. "They never slept together."
"But… You mean…? I didn't…. He wouldn't have…?' I shook my head.
To his credit there was no ranting and raving and gnashing of teeth, he simply stared at his toes for a full minute before letting out a strained laugh.
"All that suffering in Brisbane. All the worrying that he would find out! There must be a lesson there somewhere. Something character-enhancing and ennobling. I've been through the valley of the shadow of death!' He frowned, looked straight into my eyes and demanded, "Why is my life such a mess? Why am I such a fuckwit?"
"Did you like Max?"
"He was the best, cleverest and nicest man I've ever known."
"And he liked you."
"So?"
"So, on the basis of that, do you want a job?"
"Here?"
"Yep. I need an assistant."
He suddenly looked haggard. "I'm not worth it, Peter. Everything I do goes wrong. I'm useless."
"That's why I want you - you won't show me up. Now cut the wallowing in self-pity and prepare to receive the cultured hordes. Tomorrow you can accept my offer of a job - courteously."
He grunted, forced an enigmatic smile, and unlocked the main doors.
Frances drifted serenely amongst the patrons, graciously accepting praise and congratulations for this, her second successful Exhibition. Guests peered at the paintings and drawings, plagued me with questions about the storm, consumed litres of wine and kilograms of snacks, and oohed and aahed over the opening of the dome, scarcely able to conceal their disappointment at the lack of another body.
The big news was the storm surge, the damage, potential danger to their properties, the ruined canals – everything except the art. Only one of Mad's drawings sold, three of Bills paintings - the ones with the most salacious titles.
"Who's that bag of bones?' Frances had snapped as soon as she entered, staring at Jon who was at the door welcoming guests.
"Jon. I've employed him as a general dogsbody."
She opened her mouth and I held up my hand. "Hang on, Frances. I can't work every hour of every day, and you shouldn't have to work here, you're the owner, not an employee. We'll save on cleaners' wages, ground maintenance, a hundred things. We'll make money on him."
"If we don't, you'll be paying his wages. Haven't I seen him before?"
"I expect so. He's been living down the road. It would be strange if you hadn't seen him around.' She grunted and rubbed a hand over my chest. "Nice bod. Pity you're queer."
"By the way,' I said, removing the intrusive fingers, "the place he was staying in was washed out, so he's bunking in with me for a while."
Her leer made me want to puke. "Oh yeah? I've heard that one before. You've taken on Max's persona along with his clothes. Hope this one's more of a success than what's his name – Maurice."
I didn't waste time protesting the innocence of our relationship. She wouldn't have believed me and she'd already drifted off to drape herself over the arm of a well-built, prosperous-looking chap in permed silvery curls, white trousers, designer boat-shoes and dark blue reefer jacket with shiny buttons. They wandered across to a nervous looking Jon, said a few words, then headed for the refreshments.
The Alconas had been to see the damage to the shoreline and were philosophic about the lack of sales.
"Many of the people who would normally buy are going to lose a great deal of money in devalued real-estate,' observed Brian calmly. "We can hardly expect them to splurge on unnecessary expenses until they're sure where they stand. And as far as I can gather, the worst is far from over. It appears, from what an engineer acquaintance was telling us, that we are about to observe Catastrophe Theory in action."
"Catastrophe Theory?"
"The Maths are a bit esoteric, but it goes something like this…"
"I'll explain,' interrupted Der. "You'll leave out the important bits.' Brian winked and deferred gracefully to his son.
"About 20 years ago,' the young man began gravely, "a mathematical system called Catastrophe Theory was conceived, which proved to be applicable to many situations. The basic idea formulated by this particular model was that, under increasing stresses, eventually a point of no return is reached, and beyond this, irreversible change occurs."
Der looked so handsome, sincere and serious, I wanted to kiss him. I wasn't alone in my admiration. Three women and a man were also gazing with bemused half-grins of ill-concealed appreciation.
"Indications are that a point of no return has been reached as far as development of the Eastern Coastline of Australia is concerned,' he continued earnestly, unaware of the effect he was having on his audience. "All the natural systems for water management and land stabilisation have been bypassed, and irreversible change is occurring. This part of the coastline is now like Humpty Dumpty - it can't be put back together again - ever."
I suddenly realised how much I was missing the Alcona sanity - Jeff's bubbling zest for life, Mad's wise assent to it, Brian's strength and quietude, the twins' serious good humour. I missed their acceptance of me – especially that – their unquestioning acceptance of me for what and who I am.
Bill Smith and his wife overheard the last bit. "You told us the storm damage would do no harm to the exhibition,' she accused, directing her displeasure at my hair.
"Bill's sold three paintings."
She harrumphed and turned her back.
It was midnight before we crawled into bed. Frances had departed early with her paramour, leaving us to clean up. It's pleasing to be trusted, but… We showered and collapsed into bed, exhausted but too wound up to sleep. I put on a Haydn piano concerto and we both started talking at once.
"No, you first."
"What did Frances say to you at the door?"
"It's unbelievable! She had no idea who I was. Simply said I'd better be honest and earn my wages, or I'd be out on my ear. Then stalked off."
"That's ten dollars you owe me."
"Take it out of my first week's wages. I want the job! I had a great time.' We laughed with the ease of old friends.
"It won't often be like that. But the job's yours. What were you going to say?"
"Ask, actually. Why didn't Max sleep with Frances? She's good looking enough, in a tarty way."
"He was gay."
Dead silence. Then quietly, "I don't believe you."
"He and I were lovers for four years, until Frances got her claws into him. So you and I have something in common, she fucked up both our lives."
Jon slithered out of bed and backed against the wall. He was as lean as a flayed carcase. Every tense muscle visible, eyes dark shadows, the soft light accentuating brow, cheekbones and flaring nostrils. Suddenly aware of his nakedness, he grabbed a pillow and clutched it to his loins. "I have nothing in common with queers!' he snarled.
"Is that so? You liked Max, you like this music, you don't want to sleep with Frances, you eat, drink, breathe, piss, shit, sleep, dream, hope, fear, worry, cry and bleed. You'll get older, suffer loneliness, frustration and boredom. You might, if you're lucky, experience pleasure, happiness, contentment, joy and anticipation – even love. One day you'll die…. How's that for commonality?"
"You know what I mean! Christ,' he shuddered with horror, "I've probably got AIDS already."
"How'd you get it?"
"From sleeping in your bed last night."
"I have no diseases."
"All queers have AIDS. Their disgusting, perverted way of life ensures it. How the hell could you choose to live like that?"
"Like what?"
"You know."
"I do not."
"Dressing up like a woman. Going round fucking young kids. Shoving your cock up the arse of every man you meet. Having sex in public toilets… I feel sick!"
"So do I. Did I touch you last night? Have I put the hard word on you? Did Max?"
"Leave Max out of this, he was different!"
"Yes he was. And so am I. And so are most gays."
"Gays. Huh! Sicks, you mean!"
"OK, same-sex-oriented men.' I sighed sadly. "Jon, you have just insulted both Max and me, and millions of other innocent men who have done you no harm. I ought to thrash you and turf you onto the street, but I suppose it's not fair to blame you for ideas drummed into you by your parents. The stereotypical slander that just sullied your lips is malicious propaganda. Lies told to kids by people who imagine, wrongly, that one chooses one's sexuality. They are frightened their son might decide to be gay and try to dissuade him. But no one chooses! Everyone's born with their sexual orientation intact."
"I don't believe you!' he was shouting. I shrugged, refusing to argue.
"But even if you are born like it, which I doubt, there's no need to actually do it. You could join the church. Become a monk. At least be celibate!"
"Why? I'm glad I'm gay. It feels right. It feels normal. I'd hate to be het. I can't imagine any other way of feeling about people and I'm none of those things you said. I'm just a normal man, twenty- eight years old, who has not had sex with any one for nearly four years, and if he ever falls in love it will be with another man."
"Four years?"
"Yes."
"But…How…? Do you…?"
"Masturbate? Of course. Like I said, I'm normal. I wank myself silly some nights. Days too when I get depressed."
"Me too. But… why?"
"Why no lover? I'm choosy. I can only get aroused with someone I find both physically and mentally attractive; who likes me as much as, and in the same way, as I like him. There aren't too many people like that around. If I like talking to them, they're usually physically unattractive. If they're good lookers, they're either stupid, aren't interested in me, or both."
Jon was staring at me, obviously worried. "You're having me on. You're not really queer. Queers are soft and effeminate. You're tough and strong. You saved my life in the surf. You're all muscles.' The pleading in his voice was pitiable.
I couldn't speak – it was too sad, too pathetic, too bloody tragic. He dropped his eyes, then looked up again. "Are you really like that? So choosy? How do you know?' An edge of cunning. "You've obviously tried!"
"Half a dozen times, but nothing happened. Believe me I was getting pretty desperate before I understood my problem."
"Is that why you didn't do anything to me?"
"Feeling rejected?"
He blushed. "No, of course not. I…I just can't understand. I thought all queers…gays… whatever, were... But… even if you aren't, now that I know, I can't possibly sleep in the same bed as you."
"Fine, if you're in to masochism. What'll it be? The hard, cold floor? Drag a couple of chairs together in the lounge? Careful though, I might creep in and rape you during the night."
He looked up. "Am I being stupid?"
"Yes."
"Have you really not got AIDS?
"I am perfectly healthy."
"You really won't …do things to me?"
"Not unless you ask nicely."
He smiled. Wanly, but it was a start. He coughed a bit, started to speak, blushed and looked helpless. I was in no mood to help.
"I…I don't know what to think."
"Well, that's an excellent beginning. Most people are too bloody certain of the rectitude of their opinions. How about reviewing everything you're certain of about the only two gays you know well, Max and me?"
He stood still, staring into my eyes. "I still can't believe you're gay. Are you? Honestly?' I stifled the urge to kill him. "Yes."
"But not all gays are like you."
"And not all heterosexuals are like your parents."
"I see."
"People are people. Good, bad and indifferent. Their sexuality has absolutely nothing to do with it. Lots of gays are a bit strange because they've suffered persecution, some of it horrifying, all their lives. You can't tell a kid he's a foul sinful bag of worthless shit, bash him up and disown him and then expect him to behave normally."
"Does that happen?"
"All the time."
"How did you survive?"
"My parents aren't interested in me enough to care. I was one of the lucky ones. Better neglected than abused I reckon. Then I met Max, and life was bliss. Remember how he was able to make the sun shine? No problems existed when he was around?"
"Yeah. I really loved that guy.' He stopped abruptly, realised what he'd said and blushed furiously.
"Did he ever abuse your trust?' He shook his head.
"Would you have liked him to?"
"What the hell do you mean?"
"Nothing. I'm tired. Either come to bed, or go somewhere else.' The CD had finished and I rolled over and turned off my light. About two minutes later Jon crawled into bed and switched off his. I don't think either of us got much sleep.
Dawn was breaking but it was too early to get up. Jon was restless too.
"You awake?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry about last night."
"Don't be. I'm used to it. All queers get abused."
"You're not queer, you're gay."
"Don't you believe it. I'm definitely queer! Any self-respecting gay would have had his way with you by now."
"Why didn't you? Aren't I attractive to you?"
"Shut up, Jon. What the hell are you? A crappy little cock-teaser?"
"No. I'm serious. Do you... fancy me?"
"You're good looking. You're intelligent. But, as I told you last night, I'm not interested in anyone unless it's mutual."
"Peter, I've been thinking all night about this. I'm grateful to you for saving my life. I like you and… and I really want to work with you – here at the gallery. So, if…if you want to, you can…you know…do it with me…' His voice faded into a worried silence.
For the second time that month something snapped inside my head and chest. I'd been patient, forbearing, trying to do what was best for everyone, to maintain my sanity after the revelations about Max and Frances; to make the gallery worthy of his memory; to keep Frances happy; to get Mad the recognition she deserved; to comfort Hank and Celia; to hoist Jon out of his gloom and doom, and to come to terms with the fact that someone hated me enough to destroy everything I'd worked for over the last four years.
I didn't just snap - I ruptured, split, fractured, spat the dummy.
Hoisting myself on to my knees, I slammed my fist into the side of his head, knocking him out of bed. He scrambled to his feet, back to the wall, fists balling in defence. Too late. Anger fuelled speed and I lay into him, slapping and punching his head, chest, shoulders; any part he failed to protect. He sank to the floor, hands over his face. I grabbed his hair, shoved my mouth against his ear and hissed, "Don't ever play the whore with me,' then slunk back to my side of the bed; already ashamed of my outburst.
He remained huddled in the corner. I didn't care – couldn't care. Fuck him and his pathetic little problems. Who was looking out for me? Whose shoulder did I have to cry on? I guess we both wallowed in self-pity. Eventually, Jon's whimpering stopped, to be replaced by shudders and the occasional sob. I sat on the edge of the bed facing him, angry with myself for caring, with Jon for being so stupid, with Max for leaving me, with the world, my loneliness, exhaustion. I think half the world's woes are caused by tiredness. People argue, bicker, fight, start wars and generally behave like arseholes when they're tired, and I'm no exception.
"Jon,' I said as evenly as I could manage, "the last thing I want in my bed is a prostitute. I made myself absolutely clear about that last night, and again this morning. There's no way you could have misunderstood me, and yet here you are offering yourself like a whore.
I want someone who wants me for myself, not for something I can do for them. I am trying not to despise you for attempting to buy the job with your body. I've probably got unrealistic expectations as you're the second person in as many weeks who's tried that. I like you – at least I did until this nonsense. You've still got the job, but one more stupid, insulting crack about my sexual orientation and you're fired. Understood?"
He stared at me, opened his swollen mouth a couple of times, thought better of it, nodded and looked away. So did I. Blood noses and black eyes are not my favourite pre-breakfast viewing, especially if I've caused them, so I went to the kitchen and made breakfast. When Jon emerged, sullenly flaunting his bruised and battered countenance, he obviously had no idea how, or even if our association could possibly continue.
"What did you put on your battle scars?"
"Nothing."
"Don't be a fuckwit, look after yourself."
He returned looking slightly better, ate a silent, healthy breakfast and, still without speaking, helped wash up. I looked across to where he was slowly drying and re-drying a plate, tears streaming down his face. What could I do? What words could I offer? I couldn't even help myself. We each have to work out our own salvation. He was nearly twenty-five. Whatever he did from here on had to be because he wanted it, thought about it, and worked for it. In his present state he'd have jumped at the first friendly overture like an addict to a fix, so I pretended not to notice.
"Can you give the apartment a bit of a once-over? I'll check the mail and get started on tracking down some work for our permanent collection."
He sniffed assent and I left him to it. Two hours later he brought me down a cup of coffee, a newspaper open at the review of the previous night's Opening, and a precarious smile.
"Thanks."
"Sorry about my insensitive suggestion this morning."
"Sorry for laying in to you."
"I deserved it. Um… I'm pretty sure I know what you're talking about, but I have to think about it for a while. All my certainties have come unstuck since I met you."
I smiled, not because I felt like it, but he looked such a mess - swollen lips and nose, bruises.
"Jon, stop worrying. I know you meant nothing bad. We were both tired. I'm glad you're working with me, and I've had no second thoughts. Take all the time you need to sort yourself out and I promise there'll be no repeats of my lousy lapse. OK?"
"I'm not worried about that, it's just that…I don't know, it's difficult to know how to deal with someone who's saved your life. On one hand I feel a grudging gratitude; on the other I'm angry. It sounds soft, but… maybe it was somehow… time for me to die? Now I owe you. I feel as though I have to guard your back, look after you in return. But I don't want to owe anyone anything!"
"You're angry because you've been cheated of a quick death. I can sympathise with that. Oddly enough, your other feelings also apply to the bloke who saved you. Having prevented your release from this vale of tears I now feel obliged to look after you and make sure my interference doesn't lead to a future you'll regret."
He frowned. "You're joking."
"Nope. But… if you like, we can declare the slate clean and absolve each other of all feelings of gratitude and debt. Do you want that?"
His stare had become a frown.
"No,' he said as though surprised at his own words. "No I don't want that."
Relief washed through me, swilling out tension, mucky bits of anger, self-pity and encroaching despair. I needed to feel responsible for someone other than myself. I needed to know that someone felt a bit of responsibility for me. I was sick of living for myself alone.
"Neither do I!' I said somewhat more vehemently than I'd intended.