The following afternoon five nervous men followed Michael and John’s Volvo down the coast past holiday houses jammed cheek by jowl on what used to be ecologically important sand dune wilderness, through shopping centres lined with fast-food outlets, land agents and souvenir shops, beneath high rise apartment blocks staring blankly at the pacific ocean. As they rounded a headland, rocks replaced beaches and the road began to wind along the edge of a low cliff. Featureless holiday apartments lined the western side of the road and a steep drop to rough rocks and choppy sea formed the eastern edge.
‘Look over there,’ Arnold all but shouted.
Perched on a promontory jutting into the sea, a crystal dome appeared to float above white columns framed by the blinding blue shimmer of sea and sky. They watched in excitement as Michael’s car turned in and disappeared behind the building.
‘That must be the gallery! Have you ever seen a finer sight?’
‘Never. I wonder who designed it.’
‘It looks as if we’re going to find out.’
As they approached they saw that large tinted glass panels filled the gaps between the columns. People could be discerned moving around inside. They parked behind the gallery next to Michael’s car and peered over the cliff to the swirling sea five metres below. About a kilometre off shore, an oddly shaped island looked strangely unappealing. They turned and marvelled again at the daring of the architect.
Inside the large, light-filled space, Michael and Jon were speaking to two serious, casually dressed men, one looking nearer forty than thirty, lean but not yet haggard, deep-set eyes, prominent nose and clean-shaven jaw. Mousy hair clipped as short as possible attempted to camouflage his encroaching baldness. The other man looked ten years younger; wiry, imbued with nervous energy. Dead straight dark brown hair fell to his shoulders, a ragged fringe brushed heavy eyebrows above unexpectedly pale grey eyes. His neatly trimmed beard lent him a medieval aspect. Both turned and gazed thoughtfully at their visitors.
Michael introduced them. They offered their hands cautiously.
‘Welcome to Maximillian’s,’ Peter said politely. ‘We’ve a few things to discuss with Michael and John, so as the buyers who've opted to collect their purchases will begin to arrive in half an hour, why don’t you look around?’
Relieved of the need for small talk and formality, they wandered through the magnificent space, as impressed with the interior and the dome as with John’s paintings. Red dots had been placed on all except one of them, the one on which he’d put an astronomically high price because he wanted to keep it. In Bart’s opinion all the others were seriously underpriced; ethereally beautiful evocations of atmosphere, place and time.
During the previous two years John had walked around the mountain that dominated the view from their east verandah, and made a series of paintings in all seasons, times of day and weathers. Using thinned oils, he’d overlaid translucent, brilliantly coloured and deeply toned washes over and around exquisitely detailed drawings of man made objects, rendering them mysterious and insubstantial. Each painting contained one or two small naked figures, dwarfed but busily active in the dominating landscape. Clearly, no matter how hard those men, for they were always men, worked, the mountain and nature would never be dominated.
The buyers began to arrive, so the friends retired to the office where Peter had prepared tea and sandwiches.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Michael asked.
‘You can’t ask people that!’ John snapped. ‘What do you expect them to say when I'm in the room? Tell the truth that they're crap?’
‘They aren’t John. They're wonderful,’ Bart said softly, placing a kiss on John’s forehead.
‘I keep feeling I want to cry,’ Fidel said huskily. ‘They're all so beautiful and sad and impossible and I wish I was there but if I was I know it wouldn’t last because they're all dreams of what might have been but isn't and never will be.’
Robert shook his head in admiration. ‘Fidel, you're a poet. It’s exactly what I would like to have said but had no idea what words to use.’
‘Yeah,’ Arnold agreed. ‘Makes me wish I had a permanent address so I could have one. Well done, John.’
John’s smile was tinged with scepticism. ‘Thanks. But if you want to see something really good, get Peter to show you some of his.’
Peter was still busy with clients so Jon led them outside and explained that the building had been designed by Max, Peter’s first boyfriend; which was why it was called Maximilian’s.
‘It used to be several streets back from the sea and looked bloody good even then, but when a violent storm washed away the sea front, creating the island you can see out there, the gallery was left perched on the edge of this granite outcrop, where we reckon Max had always intended it to be.’
Jon seemed to have warmed to them so talk was easy and relaxed about mutually interesting things such as changing weather patterns, the unimaginative architecture of the rest of the coast, tourists, and the horrors of JECHIS.
The last clients’ cars left and Peter came to join them, handing John his painting.
‘Jon brought you out here because we’ve no idea if the gallery’s bugged. Michael told us you’ve been brave, daring and imaginative, so we can’t take any chances. The gallery’s all locked away for the night, so let’s sit on the edge of the cliff and you can fill us in.’
They relaxed comfortably on the rocky edge with a clear three hundred and sixty degree view. Taking turns to tell the bits with which they were familiar, they managed a short and comprehensive summary of how they arrived at their present situation.
‘You're right, they will know you didn’t die as soon as they’ve cleared the rubble, and they’ll know whose car contained the explosives, even if only a brake cable remains. Next time use an old Holden, not an expensive European make. So, you're on the run?’
‘Yeah. Do you think we ought to shave off our beards?’
‘In case you hadn't noticed, most males now have them—even Michael and John. All up and down the state men are growing beards and doing whatever they can to prove they're tough men, not queers, and not emulating women. I don’t know what it’s like in Brisbane, but around here women are starting to wear headscarves and keep in the background. It’s months since I saw a cleavage on the street. And next month all schools will be split down the middle—girls one side, boys the other and never the twain shall meet. Boys taught by males, girls by females. Don’t know where they hope to find male teachers, they're practically extinct after years of feminist rule.’
Jon pointed at Bart’s people mover. ‘Whose vehicle’s that and what's it for?’
‘Ours. We’re heading out into the wilds to be our own men—or something equally impossible. Why?’
‘What’ll happen if it breaks down in the middle of nowhere? What’ll you do if you come to a deep ford, or boggy patch, or rough, rocky terrain, or simply want to drive off the road away from prying eyes?’
‘Ah.’ Bart said with a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘When I bought it I was only thinking of anonymity on our drive out of the city. But I see your point.’
Jon grinned. ‘Do you? Ok what're the solutions to my questions?’
Bart shrugged. ‘I’ll pass that on to our resident practical man.’
‘We need two vehicles,’ Fidel replied seriously, ‘and they must be high, all-terrain, four-wheel-drives with standard engines and spare parts that we can service ourselves as much as possible.’
‘Which we can buy where?’ Arnold asked.
Instead of replying, Jon asked more questions. ‘When you're travelling, where do you sleep, store food, cook and prepare it?’
‘In tents or in the vehicle if it’s not possible outside. As for storage…’ Fidel shrugged and smiled appealingly. ‘You’re right, Jon, we’re city boys, never lived rough, always had a shop and bed handy. Would you care to enlighten us?’
‘Of course he would,’ Peter laughed, ‘he’s just showing off.’ Suddenly he frowned, looked around and lowered his already soft voice. ‘There are three sightseers over there, and as you never know who’s interested in what you're interested in, don’t show too much interest in the apparently ordinary ten-year-old Land Cruiser over by the door. That's ours. Jon converted it into something we can live in for weeks, and he’ll give you a hand to do the same.’
‘That’ll be brilliant, Jon, but first we need somewhere to stay…any ideas?’
‘You can always…’
‘No we can’t, Michael, Robert interrupted. ‘You’ve already helped us more than we hoped. We’re trouble, and the last thing we need is to also worry about you.’
‘Thanks,’ John said softly. ‘We are getting a bit long in the tooth for all this excitement.’
Peter and Jon exchanged looks, nodded seriously and Jon said, ‘You can stay with us.’
‘Are you sure?’
They nodded.
‘That’s…that’s how can we thank you?’
‘Jon loves showing off—it’ll be great for him to have a captive audience—he no longer believes me when I tell him how perfect he is.’
‘You're both too good to be true. So, we need two new vehicles—any suggestions on how to go about getting them?’
‘There’s a specialist in Maroochydore who's been buying up every tough, serviceable four-wheel-drive he could get his hands on for about twenty years. He’s restored the ones worth it and has mountains of spare parts from the rest. I’ll give him a call tonight and ring you at Michael and John’s to let you know when and where to come. Cash only, of course.’
‘Thanks Jon, that'll be fantastic.’
‘While I think of it,’ Peter added, ‘if you have mobile phones, remove the cards and smash everything. There’s technology that can find them even when turned off. Then dump them. Only use landlines or anonymous pay as you go phones—until the religious bastards close that loophole too. After that we’ll have to train carrier pigeons.’
‘Well, at least we’ve scored one point with you,’ Bart said with a smile. ‘We destroyed our smart phones a while ago and have done as you suggested.’ They shook hands, thanked their hosts profusely again, and then followed Michael and John home, wondering if it was inviting trouble to feel so hopeful.
The evening was both sad and cheerful. They sat in comfortable chairs out on the deck. It was an exceptionally clear night and it seemed every one of the billions of stars was visible, twinkling like a spangled, shimmering gauze across the black void. Orion had just marched over the horizon, the two pointers clearly indicated the Southern Cross. Only the South Pole was devoid of pinpricks of light.
‘It’s going to be a cold night, will you be Ok in your sleeping bags in the van?’
‘We don’t have sleeping bags, it’s just one bed the width of the van, so we’ll be as cosy as bugs in rugs, thanks, Michael.’
‘All three of you in one bed?’
‘Yeah, we’re used to it. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed for nearly two years.’
‘And you all…get along? No problems?’
‘You mean sex?’ Arnold grinned. ‘So far no probs. I think we were born to be a threesome; it just works. Three isn't a crowd as the saying goes. We know we love each other so we’re happy to be together.’
‘That’s remarkable,’ John said thoughtfully. ‘A few years after John and I met we tried a threesome and it was terrible. If Michael kissed the other guy I was jealous. If I did anything sexy, Michael was jealous. One of us always felt left out and…’ he stopped and grinned. ‘Whatever, we both vowed never to do it again.’
‘Did you love the other guy and want to be with him all the time?’
‘Heavens no, we hardly knew him—met him in a sauna.’
‘That explains it. If you love two guys, watching them have fun together is a pleasure.’
‘I apologise for harping on about this,’ Hylas said, ‘but I still can’t get over the fact that you never have visitors; don’t you get bored?’
‘We used to have visitors, as we mentioned last night, and as Robert will recall on his first visit, but we’re in our seventies, getting tired with plenty of things to occupy our time. Jobs that used to take an hour now take half a day. We enjoy each other’s company and don’t enjoy most other peoples, so it seems a terrible waste to spend our few precious remaining years with people we don’t much care for. It’ll probably sound mushy and sentimental, but I resent every minute spent away from Michael. Not that we live in each other’s pockets. Knowing he’s here and I can see and talk to him whenever I want, is all I need.’
‘That is so romantic,’ Hylas said dreamily. ‘You’re the only old men I've met who’re gay. I always thought growing old would be horrible, but now I don’t think so.’
‘What about marriage?’ Arnold asked, frowning. ‘Would you get married if you could?’
‘Of course not! We don’t need the approval of others. I reckon marriage should be abolished. If two people want to have children, they should sit a health and mental fitness test and sign a binding contract to remain responsible for the child until it is independent. They wouldn’t have to live together, but all decisions regarding the kids would have to be agreed on. If people want to share their lives, then do it, don’t demand the sanction of family, friends, religion or state. That is so pathetic!’
‘That’s a relief, because we’d never get a marriage licence for three people,’ Arnold laughed.
‘But at least it’s better today for gays than when you were young, isn't it?’
‘It might be better for guys who are obviously gay, but it’s made no difference to people like us who don’t stand out,’ Michael said thoughtfully. ‘We were talking about this recently and in some ways we preferred life fifty years ago. The gay clubs were secret, but more innocent and friendlier. We lived together openly, but because we didn’t tell people we were queer and thereby force them to say they approved of us, they happily accepted us. There’s just as much homophobia today as then, but now it’s more virulent and nasty because everyone’s talking about it. Even five-year-old kids have opinions about queers they absorbed from their parents. When we were young no boys even thought about it until the hormones started to flow in their teens, and then we had to have girl friends. But that was Ok because it confirmed, at least for us, our orientation. No one can say we haven't tried being heterosexual.
‘Blackmail and entrapment were the only really horrible things, because of the laws. There are just as many or more suicides by gay boys and men now as then. Thanks to decades of publicity, hype and misinformation, every man and his son and daughter is on the lookout for queers to harass or support. Looking back, I don’t think anything at all has been gained by fifty years of fighting for equality. In fact the few good things have been lost. No one’s equal. If we’d spent the same energy and time ensuring the country became a tolerant, secular, pluralist state, in which all humans are treated equally by the law, and none are singled out for special treatment, that would be the ideal society in my opinion.’