The Sixty-Second Night

 

We were having dinner when Nick asked me:

“Were you ever criticized for not joining the gay movement?”

“Many times. I lost friends over it.”

“And was it worth it?”

“Very much.”

He paused for a moment, searching for the right words.

“I’ve been thinking about myself and my nephew.”

I nodded silently.

Nick went on:

“We don’t talk anymore, you know?”

“No. I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“Somehow, we’d become little more than strangers.”

He toyed with his food for a moment and said, “How did that happen?... I mean, he just doesn’t seem willing to talk, to exchange ideas.”

Looking me in the eyes, Nick continued:

“You have your convictions, but you never—never—tried to force them on me. You never rejected me for thinking differently from you, and if you ended up convincing me about some of your views, it was because you appealed to facts that I could check for myself and see were true. And you know what else? I realized that your convictions give me peace and make me happy. So I’d like to share them with other people.”

He paused again and then said:

“But it never even crossed my mind to tell my nephew that we’d be better off not talking to each other anymore just because we think differently.”

I had already put my fork down on my plate when I realized the depth of his pain. I took Nick’s hand to comfort him and said:

“Unfortunately, Nick, some people fall into this bad ideology that sees society as being made up of oppressors and oppressed. You and I have faced a great deal of prejudice for being homosexual, but facing it made us stronger, because we didn’t see ourselves as oppressed—we simply saw ourselves as members of a minority.”

“We tried to fit in. We weren’t competing with the majority, and we didn’t want to change it.”

“We weren’t Don Quixote charging at windmills...”

“...fighting a war that can never be won.”

Nick stopped to think for a moment, then said:

“My nephew got himself into a leaky canoe...! And you—you’ve given me a lot to think about. As always.”

“Well, while you think, I’m going to warm up our little dinner!”

And I got up, carrying our plates in my hands.

A moth came in through the window to drink in the light.

 

The Sixty-First Night

 

Nick was looking at some of my paintings when he said:

“Do you think I should paint?”

“Walls?” I asked, joking.

“No, you idiot! A painting!”

“You’ve got nothing to lose by trying,” I replied.

“Would you teach me?”

Ah. There it was—the inevitable question that hit a nerve.

I took a breath and answered:

“Can you draw?”

“I can do stick figures.”

“Hmm. Drawing is the foundation of painting, architecture, and sculpture. The better you draw, the better you paint.”

I left the stove and walked over to him.

“To draw, you have to train your hand and your eye, and that’s boring. Really boring. Pure tedium, especially in the beginning. Eventually, it becomes automatic.”

“So you don’t just grab a pencil and start scribbling?”

“Not at first. And do you know why I don’t teach drawing anymore? I never had a student who was better than mediocre, and every single one of them thought they were the greatest thing to happen to art since Michelangelo. Not one of them had the humility to admit they knew nothing about drawing. Instead, they assumed they’d been born ready, already knowing everything they needed to know.”

“And that pissed you off…”

“Big time.”

I paused, then continued:

“When I was seven years old, I decided I was going to be an artist, and I made a drawing that became the cornerstone of my career. It was called Soirée, and it depicted a scene set in what I understood to be a nineteenth-century salon. On the left, a man seen from behind was playing a grand piano; on the right, another man was asking a young woman to dance. The technical flaws are many, and they’re enormous, but there was already a great deal of attention to detail, to the movement of the figures, and to their individuality.

“Art was my first love, and I’ve remained faithful to it to this day. Nothing annoys me more than pretentious people who think they’re great artists and can’t even draw a decent straight line.”

“I’m kind of losing my desire to paint,” he said with a smile.

I answered with a smile of my own.

“Sorry if I sounded rude or discouraging. I only meant to be honest and sincere.”

I went to a drawer in my studio and came back with three blank sheets of paper. I handed them to Nick.

“These three poor virgins are going to be deflowered by you. Treat them with respect. At some point, when you have some time, draw a landscape on one, a still life on another, and a person on the last. Do what you know how to do. Don’t try to impress me.”

“I told you, all I know how to do is stick figures.”

“Then draw stick figures. I drew them too, at one point in my life.”

I gave him a little pat on the shoulder.

“Who knows? Maybe you’ll discover a late-blooming vocation.”

 

The Sixtieth Night

That night, Nick was almost boyishly excited by the "anatomical" tour I'd given him of a Catholic church.

"I've discovered a whole new world," he said. "I never imagined being Catholic involved so many layers, so many moving parts. Like you said, it's a treasure chest—you keep pulling out things both old and new."

"I'm not surprised you're surprised," I replied. "But I have to admit, I never expected to hear something like that come from you."

He grinned.

"People change, don't they? Truth is, I've learned a lot from you. And for the first time, the puzzle of my life is starting to make sense. It's not finished yet. There are still pieces lying around that haven't found their place. But I've never felt this... whole."

"I'm really glad to hear that," I said, and I meant it.

We were sitting on the veranda, gazing at the stars overhead and the sea stretching beneath them.

The full moon was breathtaking.

"Can I ask you something?" Nick said.

"Always."

"Are you excommunicated?"

The question caught me off guard, and I couldn't help laughing. I drew a slow breath before answering.

"You're talking about the Society of Saint Pius X, right?"

He nodded.

"Honestly, I don't know. The Society doesn't have a presence on this island, and I've never belonged to it anywhere else, even though I share many of its convictions. In fact, I read the proposed agreement between the Society and the Pope, and I realized I couldn't have signed it myself. So... maybe I am. I honestly don't know."

"And you just keep going?"

"I do. Saint Athanasius was excommunicated. Did he spend his life beating his head against a wall? No. He kept preaching the true Catholic faith while Arianism dominated the Church around him."

I fell silent for a moment before continuing.

"Excommunication is a serious matter. But before anything else, we have to ask whether it's legitimate. Can a truly Catholic pope excommunicate Catholics for being Catholic? No. That's why the excommunication of Saint Athanasius wasn't legitimate. Today he's remembered as one of the greatest defenders of the faith."

"But why excommunicate these people in the first place?"

"Imagine a walnut with a worm that has managed to burrow inside. From the outside, the shell still looks perfect. But inside, there's no walnut left. The worm has hollowed it out and turned it into something else entirely."

I looked out toward the sea.

"The Church isn't dealing with one worm, but hundreds of them—all trying to empty the Catholic Church of its Founder while still using His name and preserving all the outward trappings. The Society of Saint Pius X stands against that destruction, and of course it pays a price for doing so."

I paused, weighing my words.

"What I'm about to say is very serious. It's only my opinion—and I'm always suspicious of my own opinions—but it seems to me that ever since the death of Pius XII, Judas Iscariot has been sitting on the papal throne, and he has never left it. The process isn't finished yet. Christ's Church has been steadily dismantled, and it will be dismantled further still. It can never be destroyed—that's impossible—but I believe only a small remnant of Catholics will remain. Most people will belong to the new church that's being built in its place."

Nick listened without saying a word.

A cloud drifted across the moon, and suddenly we were sitting in darkness.

 

The Fifty-Ninth Night

 

You see, Nick and I used to meet on Saturday nights for three or four hours of pure contentment.

We would dine, talk, play games, and sometimes swim in the calm, warm waters of the sea that lapped against my garden.

But on that last Saturday, something had shifted in Nick.

As you know, last Saturday we had spoken of death and separation, and he—who had never before come to my house outside our Saturday evenings—began appearing in the afternoons as well.

Not to converse as we usually did, but simply to feel accompanied.

He explained himself: “Look, I know you cherish your solitude,” he said, his voice carrying that his easy warmth. “You don’t like people around distracting you from what truly feeds your soul. But with me it’s different. I need people around me. I want people around me… and there’s no one I want more than you. There, I said it. I’m not in love with you, and I’m not thinking about sex or anything like that. It’s just… your presence calms me down. Your words comfort me. I miss you like crazy when I’m away. I know it sounds dumb...”

“Would you like to move in here?”

“No,” he answered with a gentle smile, “but I’d like to be closer to you. A few afternoons a week, maybe?

“Just to sit quietly in some corner, drawing nearer each day… like the fox suggested to the Little Prince?”

He smiled and turned to me. “I hadn’t remembered that, but I do recall how deeply that scene touched me when I read it.”

He paused for a moment, then pointed a finger at me. “You’re the one who lent me the book!”

I returned his smile, opened my arms in a wide gesture, and replied, “Guilty as charged!”

“So… what do you say?”

I took a deep breath and spoke to him in the most honest, friendly tone I could muster:

“First of all, I want to make it clear that my feelings for you are reciprocal. I miss you terribly when we’re apart. Knowing we’re on the same island comforts me, but when you leave for America, the whole house feels sad. Even Georges misses you.”

“That ridiculous parrot?”

“The very one. Only… unlike you, I would never have asked you to come closer. You were the one who invited yourself here the first time, then the second, then the third…”

“I remember it well,” he said softly. “I kept telling myself: this guy is special. I want to know more about him.”

“I have a deep fear that if you draw too close to me, you’ll eventually discover that I’m terribly selfish and dangerously perverse—just as everyone who has ever approached me eventually did and disappeared from my life. Then we would be on the same island, yet unable to bear the sight of each other.”

“You’re none of those things!”

I rose, went to a drawer, and took out spare keys to the house, which I placed in Nick’s hand.

“You may come and go as you please.”

“I’ll be more discreet than the shadow of your own shadow,” he said—and indeed he was.

He would sit quietly in my studio, reading some volume from my library, and bring flowers on every visit.

My heart wavered between anxiety and delight.