The Sixty-Third Night

 

During the week, one of the galleries in the United States that we did business with contacted Nick. They had announced that they wanted to mount an exhibition of my work and were asking for me to be there. My friend was thrilled.

Last Saturday, while we were having dinner, he brought it up again.

“You have to go, you know? Your work sells so well they want to put on an exhibition...”

“...and put me on display, too,” I replied.

“And that’s not a good thing?”

“Leaving this little paradise where I live to go meet a bunch of tiresome, snooty people, full of ohs and ahs? Walking around among them with a stupid smile on my face—if it’s even a real one—with a glass of cheap wine in one hand and a canapé that tastes like paper in the other?”

“You really don’t like people, do you? That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“But you met me, and we got along, didn’t we? We trusted each other, and I’m practically living with you now.”

He paused for a moment, then went on.

“Why does everyone at the opening have to throw stones at you?”

I had no answer to that.

“I’m not trying to pull your leg, but what’s an opening going to be, anyway? A few hours, that’s all. Afterward we can go to the Met or the opera.”

He was studying me intently, his eyes shining.

“It’s a trip of a few days, not forever!...”

I couldn’t keep from laughing at the excitement of my big little boy.

“Get a grip. You’re practically drooling.”

We laughed hard at ourselves.

Then I said, “I really hate the idea of putting myself on display. Maybe you’re right and my being there won’t cause any problems, especially if I keep my mouth shut. But you’re right, I’ll admit it—there’s always the Met and La Traviata.”

“When I mentioned the opera, I was just...”

“You’ve never been to an opera?”

“Thank God, no!”

“I don’t believe you! Then let’s make a deal: I’ll go to the opening with you, and you come to the opera with me.”

“I’m already regretting this trip.”

“Then let’s cancel it!”

“No! No way!” he said emphatically.

Then, looking me straight in the eyes, he became serious.

“I really think it’s important that you go. And that you be yourself, with all your politically incorrect ideas. I’ll pay the price and go to this... thing with you.”

Nick changed his tone again. He grew serious and took my hand.

“Seriously: you have to get past this incredibly negative image you have of yourself, my friend. I’ve got a dark past, and anybody has the right to throw stones at me. But you? You made some bad choices. Who hasn’t?”

He squeezed my hand more firmly and continued.

“I met you way too late. So let’s go to this opera thing.”

Dog barked loudly, a happy sound, wagging his tail in delight.

 

 

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 the light inside.