Rafael Grugman

The Twenty-Third Century: 

Nontraditional Love

The dystopian novel The Twenty-Third Century: Nontraditional Love describes an inverted (homosexual) world in which mixed-sex marriages are forbidden. Conception occurs in test tubes. In lesbian families, one of the women carries the child. Gay male couples turn to surrogate mothers to bring their children to term. The Netherlands is the only country where mixed-sex marriages are permitted. In this world intimacy between the opposite sexes is rejected, world history and the classics of world literature, such as Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Dumas… even the Bible — have been falsified in order to support the ideology of the homosexual world. In this world same-sex love is a traditional love.

At the heart of the novel is a love story between a man and a woman who unfortunately were born as heterosexuals in a homosexual world and they forced to hide their feelings and their sexual orientation.

The novel is similar to books written by George Orwell, such as 1984.

 

Copyright © 2008, 2017 by Rafael Grugman

Translated from Russian by Geoffrey Carlson

“Life is a place where one cannot live.”

— Marina Tsvetaeva, Poem of the End

“He who controls the present, controls the past. He who controls the past, controls the future.”

— George Orwell, 1984

 

Prologue

Confession of a Second-Rate Man

There are fewer and fewer of us. People laugh at us. They make jokes. To be honest, the jokes have become tiresome. It is difficult to find decent work. We can forget about being elected to public office — as mayors or members of Congress. People whistle at us. They ridicule us. They jeer at us. All because we are a sexual minority and represent a nontraditional sexual orientation.

We are the underdeveloped individuals of the male gender who prefer women for our sweet pleasures.

How has the world been arranged since ancient times? Men pair off with men, women pair off with women, and we, who are ashamed to admit, we are heterosexuals unable to overcome our sinful passion and become accustomed to same-sex love.

Homosexuals have stamped us with disgrace and demand the introduction of a new article in the criminal code: malicious cohabitation with individuals of the opposite sex shall be punishable by banishment to a corrective labor camp. Women shall be sent to women’s camps, and men to men’s camps. Just as it was in distant Siberia. They say that three years of isolation in a normal healthy environment will cure us, and that people will find their proper sexual orientation bestowed by Mother Nature. They will become gay or lesbian.

Human rights organizations such as Doctors Without Borders, International Amnesty and the Red Cross demand that people who check into these corrective labor camps on their own initiative should have their previous job positions held for them during their time of treatment. After a three-year trial period, they should be allowed not to report the sins of their youth in their biographical particulars.

But not everyone can conquer their own misgivings and turn themselves over to the police voluntarily!

It is very difficult for us to find each other. If we place an ad in the newspaper such as “Man seeks woman for love and marriage,” or the reverse, “Woman seeks close male friend,” the neighbors will break our windows, smear tar on our doors or slash the tires of our cars. And not every newspaper will risk printing such an ad. We can understand the editor’s position; a drop in circulation and a summons for a court appearance would be guaranteed.

How can we meet each other, and where? In a cafe or in the library, you gaze fixedly in a woman’s eyes, you detect a light movement in her lips, and your heart flutters in anticipation — here she is at last. But when the conversation timidly turns to the possibility of a friendly encounter, you recoil in horror at being discovered. It turns out she is a lesbian.

These homosexuals have respectable families. Their children are usually conceived in test tubes. A simple technology, and in fifteen minutes the laboratory technician selects the proper set of chromosomes. Lesbians receive a girl, and gays receive a boy. The customer’s wishes are the provider’s orders. The color of the eyes and hair, the height, weight and figure are all in the hands of the laboratory technician. The most complex task for homosexuals is to make a selection from the catalog. The latest fashion calls for yellow-eyed girls with blue hair — and red-haired boys.

A new technology has begun to take root in some medical offices — programming a code for changing the hair color. You could order a rainbow — and after a given interval of time, the hair color would become red, orange, yellow… You could order other palettes as well, but so far this is expensive and not within everyone’s budget. The technology has not been worked out, and medical errors occur — the green color in the rainbow sometimes turns to violet after passing through blue, and the red is replaced by orange…

In a lesbian family, one of the women gives birth to the child. If the spouses want twins, both women are involved in the creative process. For gays, the role of giving birth is performed by surrogate mothers. Every medical office has young nurses for this purpose.

It is different with us. There are sharp, clumsy movements, and a long wait for results. You never know ahead of time what to expect — a boy or a girl, a blonde or brunette.

But how do we get together? How can we avoid strangers’ eyes? Especially if you are in a prestigious profession and are under the watch of journalists, who monitor your every step and cannot wait to fill the pages of the tabloids with some new scandal. I won’t even mention the name of a famous composer who was forced to shoot himself after society learned about his lengthy romance with a female performer of fashionable pop songs.

People with high-paying jobs can still find a way out. Two heterosexual couples can disguise themselves as lesbians or gays, take out credit at a bank and purchase a two-family house. It would be difficult to find fault with them in public. When they visit friends, go to the movies or go on a walk, the women walk with the women, and the men with the men. Linking arms, in an embrace — they do what they can. Only when it becomes dark, when the doors are locked and the window shades are drawn do they run off to different bedrooms for an hour, and then come back. You never know when somebody might inform on you.

However, things are not quite so strict if you are not thinking of raising a family. After all this is the twenty-third century and we live in the USA, in a democratic country, where men are not prohibited from walking along the street with women, dining with them in restaurants, joking, snuggling up to them tenderly, and dancing the ancient tango. This used to be a rarity, acceptable only among the young hippies, people who grew up preferring audacious tricks, shocking those with refined morals. In our grandparents’ times, there were explanatory signs in all the public places — in theatres, in restaurants and in buses — “men only,” or on the other hand, “women only.”

In America, ostracism and witch-hunts are things of the past. In figure skating and in sports dances, besides the traditional performances by male and female couples, audiences have come to appreciate the variety of mixed formations. Perhaps this innovation will soon sweep over Europe, and someday it may even appear in the Olympics.

This is the situation where in public life and the proclaimed equal rights of men and women. Hollywood stands apart. As a rule, it tries to impress everyone, using drugs and heterosexual relations in its circles. For the world of cinema, society has made an exception — let people behave oddly. Hollywood is allowed some indulgence. But outside the walls of Hollywood, family values remain patriarchal, just as they have been for thousands of years — marriages must only be unisexual.

But it is not our fault that Mother Nature has created us differently, and has not made us quite the same as other people in our sexual preferences. In all other respects, we are the same kind of people! White or black, with two arms and two legs, eyes placed symmetrically on both sides of the nose. We do not differ in any way from the ninety percent of the population that constitutes the homosexual world. Why do people refuse to accept us as we are, with our slight deviations that do not affect anyone’s interests? Why are we not allowed to have heterosexual marriages? Even Mormons who practice gay or lesbian polygamy have more rights and freedoms than we do and society closes its eyes to their private lives.

We have to be afraid of our own children, for they may naively blurt out our secret.

They are always asked provocative questions in kindergarten or elementary school: “Who puts you to bed?” “Who fixes dinner in your family?” or “Who helps you do your lessons?” In the upper grades, when schoolchildren have definitively formed their sexual outlook, they are trained for adult life: in their “History of the Ancient World” lessons, they read excerpts from the Old Testament, which demands capital punishment for those convicted of heterosexual tendencies. Beginning in the ninth grade, the back cover of every school textbook contains the biblical prohibition against heterosexual love: “If a man lies with a woman as with a man, both have committed an abomination: they shall be put to death.”

When they reach the age of eighteen, we can take a risk and try to tell our children the truth. Not everyone is able to understand, forgive or endure such a shock. For many it creates an enormous amount of stress. To go through their entire lives with the stigma of not being conceived in a test tube! There have been instances of suicide — after learning about their inferiority, adolescents have slit their veins or poisoned themselves…

But we have no other choice — when we receive our drivers’ licenses for personal identification, our test tube number and genetic code are printed under our photographs. Those who were conceived differently are outcasts. They cannot raise a family of worthwhile people, genetically pure and devoid of hereditary diseases, and they are doomed to marry only second-class people like themselves.

Perhaps my testimony should have had a different name: “Confessions of an Unhappy Heterosexual.” One who lost both his beloved woman and his child…

Chapter 1

A Heterosexual’s Love

I was working as a programmer for a small Internet company in the Greenwich Village area, and if I had time, I would stop at Starbucks for a cup of coffee before work. That was where I met Liza, who was sitting at the next table. She was getting ready to leave, and she offered me the latest issue of the New York Post, which she had just finished looking through.

There was nothing suspicious about this, but in her eyes — there was no mistake about it — I caught a fiery glance and accepted the challenge. It was just the way signals were given in Morse code in ancient times.

For almost a month, we met at Starbucks. I carefully tested my original sensation, afraid that I might stumble; there were such cases, where a “decoy duck” provokes an attempt at flirtation that ends with handcuffs and jubilation on the television news: another successful operation by our valiant police. Liza was also afraid to take a risk prematurely — until she released her trial balloon.

“My fiancée Chris has a virus in her home computer. Would you be able to help?”

It was a risky offer, but I agreed, although I left a means of retreat:

“My boyfriend Michael goes to his college class in the evening, and I’m free after six.”

Of course, I was lying about the boyfriend, but if she was from the police, I had given the signal: I was a normal, gay man.

That evening nothing happened. However, there was one moment that came close: we were sitting innocently at the computer when our knees touched and froze, without giving a twitch. My heartbeat quickened; I was afraid to move. Her reaction was the same. Our knees were stuck together, and it took some effort to detach them. In a voice trembling with agitation, Liza whispered: “That will do for today.” As we said goodbye, I hesitated to extend my hand — it was moist with sweat. But at our very next meeting — another alleged problem with the computer — we found ourselves in a semi-lit room (“the light bulb burned out, and I don’t have a spare,” Liza spoke in a whisper, with aspiration), and after she repeated the trick with her knees, we abandoned all restraint. I was blown away. We rushed into an embrace, into the insane passion of man and woman.

This continued for about six months, until Liza acknowledged that her friends Daniel and Helen suffered from a secret passion just as we did. She proposed a solution — we would buy a two-family home on Staten Island. For outsiders’ eyes, she would live on the first floor with Helen, and I would live on the second floor with Daniel.

As far as everyone was concerned, we were exemplary homosexual families. We even went through marriage ceremonies and held receptions. Incidentally, marriages between men and women can only be registered in Holland, which is known for its liberal morals. Moreover, the Dutch parliament had voted to allow heterosexual marriages only five years before, with only a three-vote majority. To this day, the parliamentary opposition is demanding a new vote, and the Dutch church cries out against the ruin of society’s foundations.

Daniel and I successfully played the role of lovers, as did Liza and Helen. We gave each other flowers, walked along the shore and tenderly held each other’s hand, and when it was time to have children, we maintained our cover by visiting Dr. Hansen’s office regularly and studying the catalogues.

This was the public side of the coin. In fact, Liza was carrying the fruit of our love in her womb. Helen and Daniel did not lag behind — the time between conceptions was only a couple of weeks.

In November, both women gave birth: Liza had a girl, and Helen had a boy. Just so we would not have to resort to any contrivances, we decided that the girl would be raised by Liza and Helen, and Daniel and I would take the boy. Both children turned out with dark hair and hazel eyes. No matter, there was an explanation for everything — the parents were old fashioned. They were using an ancient catalogue from the twenty-first century.

The only problem was that we did not have a certificate from Dr. Hansen indicating the number of the test tube and the genetic code.

In the old days, we heard that there were a few cases of false certificates being issued, but since the medical offices have been required to submit monthly reports to the Washington Family and Marriage Center, and the information acquired has been entered into a national database, it has become impossible to deceive the authorities. The forgeries were discovered eighteen years later when the children tried to obtain their drivers’ licenses. The court trial received wide publicity, the parents each received three sentences of imprisonment for life, and the innocent children were held in disgrace and contempt by society. Another incident that caused a nationwide sensation about thirty years ago was a court case in Dallas.

An enterprising doctor was selling medical certificates until he encountered a policeman disguised as a customer inquiring about the required documents. Ten life sentences without the possibility of amnesty for the doctor (in America, unlike Europe, there is no death penalty), and three life sentences for the parents — no one dared take the risk any more.

Therefore, our children (the girl was named Hanna, the boy Victor) were destined for a cruel fate in eighteen years — to pay for their parents’ sins. For now, we continued our hoax. Hanna was given the last name Conde — in lesbian families, the girl took the mother’s name — and Victor was given Daniel’s last name.

My daughter and I saw each other every day — she called the women “Mama Liza” and “Mama Helen.” Victor, naturally, called us “Papa Robert” and “Papa Daniel.” Robert is my name — the second-rate man. Girls in lesbian families call both women “Mama”; and, in gay families, boys call both parents Papa.

In fact, there is currently an investigation being held by the Constitutional Court in Washington to determine whether a child’s rights — in this case a boy’s rights — are being violated because he is tacitly prohibited from using the word Mama. Democratic Senator Gitson from Illinois proposed to give boys the right to call their surrogate nurse Mama. But this has proved to be a stumbling block that will not allow the legislative initiative to reach a Senate vote.

First of all, would the nurse agree to have roughly twenty boys calling her Mama? (For the record, nurses retire at the age of forty-five, and they usually bring forth no more than twenty boys during their career.) Second, more importantly, lawsuits may be brought against the surrogate mother if the parents divorce, or if one of the spouses dies. This is what the opponents of innovation fear the most. They insist that scheming lawyers in the future will use any loophole to bring material damages against the nurses. Their opinion is shared by the surrogate mothers’ trade union — a powerful organization with which no political party wants to risk a quarrel before the presidential elections.

Until the case is decided, Victor has no Mama. He has one — Helen — but for his own good, he must not know about this for the time being. In the best-case scenario, when he grows up, they will tell him that Helen is his surrogate mother.

Victor’s problems began from childhood. The traditional rules of upbringing state that children who have not reached sexual maturity are supposed to sleep in the same bed with their parents at least three times per week. According to textbooks on child psychology, “sleeping in the same bed with their parents subconsciously implants the habits of normal sexual behavior in children.” The physicians’ recommendations allow people to avoid tragedies like the one that occurred with Liza Conde’s family.

She was born in a normal lesbian family and brought up according to the generally accepted standards of secular morals, but when she turned sixteen, it was as if she had become a different person — Liza secretly began dating one of her classmates. When her parents discovered them in bed one day, they were in shock. After a terrible scandal, Liza’s parents moved to a different city. Psychologists examined Liza, and at their advice, her parents introduced her to a nice lesbian girl and convinced Liza to get into bed with her. However, it was too late; their daughter was irreversibly drawn to the opposite sex. When Liza enrolled in college, she moved into a dormitory and openly began making friends with boys. Her parents disowned her; they could not bear the shame.

Usually it is the other way around: a child born in a heterosexual family gets rid of the bad genes when he reaches maturity and becomes a homosexual. Even if there is no medical certificate showing that the child was conceived in a test tube, society is benevolent towards returnees. According to the law, they are allowed many privileges: increased grants for college, tax deductions for the first ten years, and most importantly, a new identity card with an encoded false genetic code (this is permissible for the government, even though it is punishable for private individuals), which prevents any discrimination based on sexual indications. Later on they raise single-sex families and enjoy the life of valued members of society.

Daniel and I, although our beds were right next to each other, naturally slept apart. In order to give the child a reasonable explanation as to why we could not take him into our bed, we lied that we were suffering from a skin disease that was outwardly invisible. The touch of a foreign body would irritate the meninx and cause skin cancer.

“And what is ‘skin cancer’?” the boy asked incredulously.

I had to give him a confused explanation.

“That’s a bad disease. They have to give you lots of shots. You don’t like it when they prick you in the fanny.”

“No I don’t,” Victor confirmed, and he prepared to shed a tear just in case.

I distracted him with a new computer game, but my efforts were in vain; the next day when he came in from the kindergarten, he gave me the next round of childish questions.

“How can you hold me in your arms? Won’t you get sick? Won’t you die?”

“No,” I assured the boy. “Until you reach the age of five, I can take you in my arms without any worries. But you need to sleep in your own bed.”

The next day the boys’ kindergarten teacher asked Daniel suspiciously:

“What’s wrong with your spouse’s skin? Why can’t you put Victor in your bed? The boy is suffering…”

Daniel had to give an evasive answer:

“You know, modern medicine does miracles, but in some cases it is powerless.”

“What do you have?”

“The same disease, unfortunately. Here are two invalids pairing off, comrades in misfortune.”

The teacher nodded his head sympathetically.

“That happens sometimes.” Then he told a similar story that had happened with Frank’s father. I guessed that Frank was one of “us.”

I had seen him several times when he came to the kindergarten to pick up his son, and I had never suspected that he was also a heterosexual. He also figured out my predilections by some sixth sense, but outwardly, we did not reveal ourselves in any way, and we did not discuss forbidden topics; we could never forget about the conspiracy.

I usually saw my daughter on the children’s playground. On weekends, the six of us would go to the park, which was furnished with children’s attractions and sports equipment. While Victor climbed on the horizontal bars, under Daniel’s supervision, I helped Liza push Hanna on the swing. While Helen read a book, Liza told me about our daughter’s little pranks and tricks.

Then we traded places. Daniel and I sat down to play chess, and Helen “took over” Victor.

It was more difficult to keep our intimate meetings a secret. Even though we lived in the same house, in order to get from one apartment to the other, we had to go outside and climb down two flights of stairs. This took about twenty seconds. But what if the neighbors would see us? These vigilant guardians of morals were ready to call the police at any time. How could we explain these nighttime transitions from a men’s to a women’s apartment?

It was Liza who found the solution. As she was looking through the Family Gazette — women bought this newspaper periodically, enjoying the gossip, women’s stories, and countless bits of advice from cosmetologists, dieticians and pediatricians — her attention was drawn to an announcement that seemed strange at first.

“How do you like this?” Without waiting for an answer, she started reading aloud: “For particularly whimsical customers: I do any type of construction work quickly and skillfully, including installation of safes and secret doors.”

“What does he mean by whimsical? Capricious? Someone with whims? It would be better to say fastidious,” I said, editing the text of the announcement. “Or rather, exacting. Or even better — nagging.”

Liza shook her head distrustfully.

“No, there’s something else. The tone is unusual.” She repeated slowly: “Particularly whimsical customers.”

As an experienced psychologist who can find the hidden springs behind this or that action, Liza had a theory.

“The announcement is in code. Let’s read between the lines. Safes are pretty far-fetched, neither here nor there. It must be a cover. It’s all in the ending. Maybe it would be a good idea to cautiously talk with this “builder” about the secret doors. This seems to be just what we need at the moment.”

“Do you want to give it a try?” I asked jokingly, not expecting that Liza would react even before the final word reached her ears.

“Why not?”

Without blinking an eye, she opened her bag, took out a portable scanner and held it up to the newspaper announcement. Next to the phone number, a man’s profile lit up on the telephone display. Underneath was his name: Richard Melloni.

Liza thought for a second, looked at me and asked:

“What do you think, should we risk it?”

“As you wish,” I agreed without much enthusiasm, secretly hoping that the telephone call would be a waste of time.

“Don’t be afraid, we’ll get through,” Liza smiled and pressed the “Talk” button.

After two long rings, someone picked up on the third.

In a very professional manner, Liza interviewed the person at the other end. Without giving the age of the children, she explained that the girls were friends, and they wanted to connect their rooms so they could visit each other without going outside. Liza easily told her inoffensive lie about the girls (in the plural!); heterosexuals are trained in the art of lying from the day they first realize their nontraditional orientation.

Both participants in the conversation easily understood an allegorical language, which was second in popularity after sign language. In order to get a quote, Liza arranged to meet the builder on Sunday. When he arrived at our house, I gasped. By an irony of fate, the person who submitted the announcement turned out to be Richard, Frank’s father. We laughed; although we had surmised about each other’s sinful predilections, we were afraid to acknowledge them. And now everything had been settled by itself.

Richard suggested doing a little modification. Our bedrooms were one on top of the other. The solution suggested itself: we would use the wardrobes, dismantle the floor in the closet and go down a stepladder.

That was what we did. We would make the arrangements over the phone, and then I would climb down to Liza for an hour or an hour and a half, and Helen would climb up to Daniel. Why not the other way around? That’s a silly question! This was the only way I could stand for five minutes next to my sleeping daughter’s bed, and Helen could stand by her son’s bed.

Our happiness lasted three years. Then Liza abandoned me; she went off with Richard. No matter how I tried to dissuade her, she applied for a divorce from Helen and moved to Bay Ridge to be closer to Richard. When there is a divorce in a lesbian family and that was what their family was officially, by law the child remains with the woman who gave birth to him or her. Helen had no objection; her relationship with Daniel was unchanged, and she continued to see her son every day. But what about me? What was left for me?

The fact that Frank’s father, who had taken Liza from me, had been punished by fate — he wouldn’t be able to see his son — was no comfort to me. His situation was similar to ours, and he had also lived in a two-family house until his wife had grown tired of running up and down the stairs, and she had become a normal woman — a lesbian.

Chapter 2

The First Man, or the Consequences of Male Friendship

The possibility of not seeing my daughter every day reshaped my entire life. At thirty-five I had become used to restraint; I had learned to manage my emotions, to hide my feelings, to play the hypocrite, to dissemble. From the moment, I had finally realized that I belonged to the handful of people with nontraditional sexual orientations condemned by society, my life had become a theatre where I excelled; I had transformed myself so well that no one could suspect what was hiding in my cerebellum, which was responsible for my sexual dissipation. But what could I do now, when Liza was happy, and I was back where I started, alone and forlorn?

I thought of reporting to the police that Liza had treacherously taken my child, thereby depriving Liza of Hanna for the sake of senseless revenge; it was a good idea, but only to dream about while I was sitting and gnashing my teeth. Such a confession would immediately have a boomerang effect on the accuser. The disclosure would become common knowledge, and I would be the object of disgrace and public humiliation; I could forget about my career and my privileged life. In the end, I could live with the disgrace. When it came to my daughter, no career could tip the balance of the scales. But I already knew what the result would be — no one would return Hanna to me — and this prevented me from carrying out any rash actions.

I would wait for Hanna outside her day care, and when Liza brought the child, I would get out of the car and turn up next to them, as if by chance. The first time Liza reacted calmly to my appearance. However painful it had been for me, we had not parted as enemies. Hanna welcomed me as a friend, as a neighbor from home she was used to seeing almost every day. She told me the day care news. Liza did not interfere with our contact.

Hanna told me cheerfully:

“I fed my doll today.”

“What did you feed her?”

She spread her fingers wide

“I gave her cereal from this finger, milk from this one, and juice from this one.”

After a week of “chance” meetings, Liza called and invited me to meet her at Starbucks. I gladly agreed. I confess my feelings had not changed. I was excited by the smell of her body, her supple breasts and thighs, which were worthy of having stanzas dedicated to them. If I could leave my autograph on them, there would be no blank spots. As soon as we met at the coffee table, she “grabbed the bull by the horns.”

“I understand your situation, but that’s life. It’s unfair and idiotic, but we didn’t plan it that way.”

I listened attentively, trying to figure out where she was going with this. Had she broken up with Richard and wanted to return? She finished unexpectedly.

“And it’s time for us to stop meeting. Hanna should not have to grow up with a split personality.”

“What do you mean a split personality?”

“Sooner or later she’ll guess the truth. She looks like you.”

Liza was right. I was proud of the fact that Hanna had my eye color, the same oval face, thick wavy hair and smile. There would be no need to conduct additional tests. It would be enough to compare photographs to ascertain that she was my daughter.

“What’s so bad about that?” I protested. “That didn’t bother you before.”

“Believe me, it bothered me. And that was one of the reasons I left you.”

“Explain.”

“I don’t want her to lead the same underground life we do. If I can do it, I’ll try to have a medical certificate issued for her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know how it will all turn out.”

“I know. But we’re not talking about today. We have about thirteen years to spare. Maybe by that time the laws will become less discriminatory, and maybe fortune will smile on me and I’ll be able to get her documents.”

“So much the better. Why did you have to break up the family ahead of time? We could have lived the way we were until times got better.”

“It wouldn’t work, darling. She’s a copy of you. She’ll realize this a lot sooner than her eighteenth birthday. If she doesn’t sense her identity herself, the people around her would point it out. There are plenty of ‘well-wishers.’”

“The world has no lack of ‘good’ people,” I remarked sadly.

Liza regretfully confirmed this.

“The day care teacher happened to see the three of us on the playground and told me, ‘Your daughter looks just very much like the man I saw you with on Friday.’ Can you imagine how this could turn out if she reported it to the police? Of course, I will transfer her to another day care to spare her from further troubles. But when she starts school? If someone else notices the two of you, and they start tormenting the child — you know how cruel teenagers can be — we could lose our daughter.”

She was right. Tears caught in my throat. Disregarding the danger, Liza placed her hand on my palm, touched my ankle with the tip of her shoe, and whispered:

“I still love you. And right now I have the same feeling I did the first time, you remember, when we were alone for the first time?” I silently nodded. Her eyes became moist, and she completed her phrase with difficulty: “My knees are shaking.”

I could not contain myself and burst into tears. The customers stared at us in amazement. Liza became frightened and ran out of the café. I got myself under control, screwed up my face, growled “I have a toothache,” and covering my eyes, went out into the street.

Liza was waiting for me at the corner. When she saw that I had seen her, she turned around and slowly walked towards the park. Keeping my distance, I followed her. From time to time, she turned around to make sure I hadn’t disappeared in the crowd. We walked about half a mile. Finally, she found an unoccupied bench away from people’s eyes and sat down — a sign that I could have a seat beside her.

“Don’t torment me and yourself,” Liza babbled nervously. “Is it our fault that we were born heterosexuals? A curse on this ill-fated world with its restrictive laws! But we must sacrifice our love for the sake of our daughter’s happiness. You must not meet with her at least until she is of age. That is the sacrifice we both must bear. Believe me, it wasn’t easy for me to go off with Richard. But I forced myself. Forgive me, but this was the only way to get you out of the house.”

I had no desire to continue the conversation. I got up and walked off without saying goodbye. Liza was right. As the Chinese proverb says, “You can only cut off the cat’s tail once.”

The next morning I woke up with the idea of making a radical change in my life and becoming a normal man — a gay. True, I had not yet figured out what my upcoming role would be. There were many sides to a union between men. But I decided to leave it to fate. Many outwardly contented homosexuals get married not out of love, but because they are guided by the hypocritical principle: this is what must be done when we reach marriageable age. They calmly fulfill the conjugal duties as husband or wife that have fallen to their lot, without irritating their partners in any way, and without a moment’s hesitation about the subtleties of feelings. I was no worse than they were. All I had to do was play my role, a major or minor one depending on the circumstances; I would register my marriage officially at the city hall, and then order a child from a surrogate mother through Dr. Hansen’s office. I was willing to endure any sacrifices in order to obtain a son through legal channels.

My decision had been made. I was not the first, and I would not be the last. Now I needed to calm down and prepare myself psychologically for my new life, and without rushing into things, I would start looking for my other half. Where? On the World Wide Web of love.

I placed my trial ad on the Internet page “New York at Night”: “Thirty-five year old homosexual, romantic with a tender soul and a keen sense of humor, ready to be a husband or wife depending on circumstances, seeking an intelligent partner in life. I have no problem with children from a previous relationship. If the desire is mutual, I am ready to raise a family with several children.”

I had no idea that once my ad was published, I would be inundated with a barrage of letters. Not just from New York, but also from Canada, France, Trinidad… I got scared, and I didn’t respond to anyone. My cowardice was easy to explain: it was my first step, like a space walk. I wanted novelty, but I was restrained by my fear of the unknown.

I began my psychological training by reading popular scientific literature. My next step was to study educational video cassettes, placing myself mentally in the roles of the main characters. I acquired the “Guidebook for Young Homosexuals,” which had become the standard manual, replacing the Bible in many families.

The one who finds his way out of the labyrinth is the first to be trampled. Could this wise saying refer to me? I was morally prepared to take the step that would change my life radically, but I was using any excuse to put off the beginning of these changes. Until Mr. Opportunity came to my aid. But in order to make it easier for myself to adapt to my new life, I offered to let Daniel buy my half of the house and moved to Brooklyn.

My first male partner was to have been Jacob. We met by chance in Manhattan, at the “Paris at Night” restaurant during a friend’s birthday celebration. I was sitting at a table by myself; the guests were dancing to the stirring Latin American music, and I was openly bored. I had no dancing experience with men, and I was through with women. My heterosexual past was obliterated and cut off from the present by an insurmountable ditch.

The man who approached me was not from our group.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked politely.

“No one invited me.”

“Would you allow me?” he gallantly rose, clicked his heels and courteously extended his hand.

I stood. The man held me by the waist and led me to the dance floor. Judging by the way he escorted me, easily placing his hand on my thigh, I surmised the role that would be allotted to me in the dance. Well, if this was to be, I would not let the opportunity slip by. I had to overcome my fear and trust my partner. I hoped he would understand my situation and be delicate and well-mannered.

As we danced, I managed to have a look at him. He was nearly twice as old as me, just under seventy, balding. His face was open and attractive.

He leaned towards my ear and introduced himself.

“Jacob. A lonely romantic.”

“Robert,” I introduced myself, reacting to the intimate word “romantic.”

The man’s hand slid below my waist.

“Are you lonely?”

I blushed deeply, not knowing how to react. Should I allow this or become indignant? “Be bold,” my inner voice encouraged me. “You have also been unceremonious, high-handed and pushy with women, and you were pleased when they submitted to your desires.”

The man repeated his question, pressing his cheek against me: “You didn’t answer, are you lonely?”

“Yes,” I forced the word out with difficulty.

“Will you allow me to call you?”

With a sinking heart, I said “yes” again, feeling that my shirt had become sticky from perspiration.

“Excuse me, I need the rest room,” I made a feeble attempt to escape from his hands.

“Leave me your telephone number.” Jacob found a ball-point pen in his pocket, and he extended his palm while he held me by the waist with his other hand.

I quickly wrote my telephone number without raising my head, went into the rest room and splashed water on my face. About ten minutes later, I had regained my composure. I had barely calmed down as I came out of the rest room, said goodbye to the party host and quickly left for home. Because of my inexperience, my inoffensive acquaintance with Jacob had caused me enormous over stimulation of my nerves. I didn’t even know what role would suit me better in a homosexual relationship, husband or wife.

Jacob called me that same evening, around eleven. I didn’t risk picking up the receiver, and he left a message on my answering machine. The next day Jacob called again; his number appeared on the display. I took a deep breath and answered the call.

Jacob turned out to be a widower. His spouse, a Chinese who had lived with him for about thirty years, had died five years earlier. Jacob had retired a month ago, after thirty-five years of service in the New York Police Department.

We spoke briefly, and Jacob did most of the talking. He invited me to the famous Broadway musical Eugene Onegin, promising me tickets in the front rows of the orchestra, and I agreed to spend the following Saturday evening with him.

The script for the musical had been written by the famous Broadway playwright Arthur Berdi, based on motives from Aleksandr Pushkin’s ancient play Eugene Onegin. The enchanting music was the work of the two most renowned Broadway composers: Lawrence Gershwin and George Bernstein.

I eagerly awaited Saturday. The musical had been playing to full houses for fifteen years, and despite its long run in the theater, it was almost impossible to get good tickets for weekend performances. Tourists from all over the world, accustomed to the tragic endings of Hollywood plots, ordered them well in advance.

I was gripped by the subject of the musical from the very beginning of the performance.

The sixteen-year-old youth Tatian falls in love with Eugene Onegin. Eugene cannot return the youth’s love (there is a law prohibiting sex with minors), and he responds coldly to Tatian’s passionate aria. Eugene’s friend Lensky has decided that Eugene’s coldness is due to the fact that Eugene is in love with Tatian’s older brother Oleg Larin, Lensky’s fiancé.

Lensky challenges Onegin to a duel, a no-holds-barred, hand-to-hand combat, which takes place in New York at the famous Madison Square Garden arena. In the very first round, Onegin gives Lensky a series of powerful blows, knocking him out cold. Lensky dies without regaining consciousness, in front of an audience of several thousand. In despair, Oleg runs onto the Brooklyn Bridge, performs the dance of the dying swan, and commits suicide, leaping from the hundred-and-twenty-foot height into the stormy waters of the East River.

The despondent Onegin, who has not expected such a dramatic outcome, goes away to China for two years. A touching inscription appears on the Great Wall of China, written in luminescent paint that can be seen from space: “EUGENE + TATIAN = LOVE.” When he returns to offer Tatian his hand and heart, it turns out that Congress has passed an amendment allowing marriage at the age of sixteen. Overjoyed, Eugene writes a passionate letter to Tatian, but it is too late; at the age of seventeen Tatian has married an elderly general, Pierre Bezukhov, and he and his husband are awaiting the birth of their son from a surrogate mother, Arina Rodionova.

True to his word, Tatian remains faithful to his husband. The rejected Onegin leaves New York forever. The Bahamas, the Caribbean, Hawaii — nowhere can he find peace of mind. In his search for love, he rushes around from one Pacific island to another, until he becomes the victim of a blue shark.

The audience was weeping. A man in the front row tore his shirt, fell to the floor and went into hysterics. He was given an injection of tranquilizer and carried out of the hall on a stretcher. Now I understood why they had ambulances waiting at the doors of the theatre, and the attached side seat in the front row was occupied by a nurse.

Stunned by the special effects and the tragic ending — the enormous blue shark had rushed swiftly through the hall and swallowed Onegin, who was bathing in the ocean — we came out on Broadway. Jacob was wiping away tears. Overwhelmed and shaken, I too was incapable of uttering a sound.

Broadway at night, sparkling with fluorescent lights, noisy and frivolous, was a calming balm, relieving stress and creating a festive mood. It had a beneficial effect on us. Once we had joined the crowd, we received a charge of energy and turned to a discussion of the musical. Jacob was enraptured by the music, the story, the decorations and the actors’ magnificent performance. Jacob’s refined manners, humor and ability to give precise and clear commentaries impressed me. I felt that he, unlike me, was an inveterate music and theatre connoisseur.

We went into a bar and each had a glass of champagne. Much as we wanted to prolong the fairytale-like celebration, as soon as the clock on top of Rockefeller Center struck midnight, we left the bar, went to the parking lot and rushed to Brooklyn in Jacob’s car. Like a true cavalier, he accompanied me to the entrance, held the door, let the “lady” pass in front of him, kissed me tenderly on the cheek, waited until the elevator doors had shut behind me, and blew me a kiss as I left.

The evening had gone splendidly. I had not felt any stress; on the contrary, I had experienced signs of attention previously unknown to me. When I entered my apartment, I called Jacob on his home telephone (naturally, he wasn’t home yet) and thanked him for a wonderful evening. Male friendship, it turned out, was not so repulsive after all.

At nine, the next morning Jacob woke me and suggested that we take a walk through the Botanical Garden. I gladly agreed. We talked about the weather, complained about the thirty-percent chance of rain in the afternoon, and agreed that he would come over at one o’clock. We continued our pleasantries. Jacob suggested that instead of coming outside, I would stay in my apartment and wait for him to call.

Punctuality is a courtesy of kings. At five minutes to one, the gentleman announced that the carriage had arrived. When I came out, I was amazed; Jacob was wearing eau de cologne and dressed in a stylish white suit, holding an elegant bouquet of flowers. For me! What a man! Was he such a tender and sensitive lover when it came to sex?

We walked through the garden holding hands, enjoying the scent of the flowers and the welcome silence, unusual for the noisy city, and exchanged tender words. An idyllic paradise. Enamored gay and lesbian couples walked by at a distance, giving radiant smiles to passers-by. I followed their example. It went well; they gave me a kindly response. Some families had children, entertaining boys and girls. My heart sank when I thought of my daughter. “My poor little girl.”

Out of the blue came the indignant voice of Jacob, who had suddenly begun speaking in a raised tone that brought me back to earth.

“The morality of society gets lower and lower. When I was working with the police, we often conducted raids against dens of iniquity, rounding up male and female prostitutes. Some of them were heterosexuals who weren’t squeamish about anything when it came to their foul earnings. If you only knew how I hate them. I could strangle them with my bare hands.”

I felt uneasy.

“Did you ever have to use the services of prostitutes?” I interrupted the former policeman’s angry monologue.

Jacob smiled contemptuously.

“That was a long time ago and not true.”

“Tell me about it,” I asked.

“Why do you want to hear such filth?” Jacob was genuinely surprised.

“For my overall enlightenment. Besides, I want to know you better.”

“But I already told you, it was a long time ago and not true,” Jacob replied obstinately.

“Even so, tell me about it,” I began to insist in a capricious voice, and after wavering a little, Jacob gave in.

“If you are so insistent,” he began reluctantly, “it happened once. When I was young. I had just started serving in the police, and my partner and I went into a men’s club. It was hard to tell we were policemen; we were dressed in plainclothes — we were rounding up drug dealers on the street. We each had a glass of beer and paid, and we were just about to leave when the bartender suddenly winked at my partner — I don’t know how we caught his fancy — and asked if he wanted some entertainment. Without asking for my consent — he was a sergeant, and I was just a regular policeman — he answered for both of us: “For two.” I understood his intentions, but I kept silent; you don’t contradict your seniors in rank. The bartender pointed to a draped door behind himself. We darted inside and climbed to the second floor. There was a rich assortment of “brides” of all colors and shades waiting for clients from the first floor. The sergeant settled on a six-foot, six-inch blonde, leaving me in the care of a plump Hispanic man. I took care of him quickly, and while the sergeant entertained himself, I sat on the sofa and drank whisky. Apparently, the sergeant had been expecting more from me because he never invited me to such institutions again. Believe me, to this day, I have bitter memories of that episode. That’s the reason for my anger against prostitutes of all colors and races. Forgive me if I was overly harsh in my judgments.”

I didn’t answer; I squeezed his palm gratefully and buried my nose in the flowers.

We reached the flower greenhouse, spotted a Chinese restaurant in the distance, and went there for lunch. The soft music was conducive to intimate conversation. The waiter tirelessly poured tea. We didn’t notice that it was becoming dark. Jacob was the first to realize, and he delicately offered to take me home. By the time we drove up to the building, it had become totally dark. We parked. Jacob tenderly placed his hand on my knee. My heart missed a beat: right here? His hand moved higher, and he spoke in an insinuating voice:

“I’ve never been in your apartment. I’d like to see how you live. Could I come in for a cup of coffee?”

I took the hint and began to make excuses.

“I haven’t cleaned my apartment. Maybe next time?”

“That doesn’t bother me.”

“But… The kitchen is a mess… You’ll think badly of me.”

“I’ll help you tidy up,” Jacob said happily, inspired by the prospect opening up. “If you like, I can prepare a romantic supper. I’m a splendid cook.”

I was silent. His proposal was unequivocal. There was no way to retreat. Could it be that I had reached the goal I was striving towards, and I would finally become a homosexual? We got in the elevator and went up to the eighth floor. We entered the apartment. My heart was racing even faster than it had during my first encounter with a woman. I felt that my body had become moist with perspiration. My Lord, what was his hurry? I was not ready for such a rapid development in our relations, and I played for time, hoping to cool the romantic’s flames. I dissembled:

“Have a seat in the living room and watch T.V., and I’ll take a shower and change my clothes.”

Jacob smiled.

“I’m in no hurry. You’re the master of the house. Do what you think is necessary.”

Ten minutes later I came out of the shower, dried myself with a terrycloth towel, put on a fresh shirt and returned to the living room with a bottle of dry white wine, the best way of quenching one’s thirst. Jacob was not there. I went into the kitchen, which was empty. I went into the bedroom, and he was lying in my bed, naked, covered lightly by a sheet.

“Come to me,” he asked in a tender voice and extended his hand.

With a sinking heart I carefully approached.

“Sit beside me and give me your hand.”

I obeyed without objection. What will be, will be.

Jacob smiled sweetly, pressed my hand lightly and grew pale. His eyes rolled in their sockets and stiffened, becoming two lifeless glossy balls of glass.

“Is he dead?” I was frightened at my unexpected conjecture and began pulling at him.

“Jacob! Jacob!”

My guest gave no signs of life. I slapped him on the cheek — zero response. A genuine fear gripped my reasoning: what would I do? By all accounts, I really knew nothing about him — neither his home address nor his son’s telephone number. It struck me how stupid it would be to get caught in this situation with a corpse. There was no way to get rid of it without leaving any traces. They always find some sort of evidence, and then there is no way to prove that he was already dead before — terrible thoughts had begun entering my head. In the best-case scenario, if I were lucky with the attorney, they would attribute it to mistreatment of the corpse and sentence me to twenty years. But how could I explain to the detectives why an old man I barely knew happened to be in my bed, stark naked? How could I prove that he had died a natural death, and had not been the victim of intentional murder?

I dressed him in shorts and a T-shirt. I started digging in his pockets and discovered a box of medication: Viagra Plus. Everything became clear: Jacob had not trusted himself at his age of nearly seventy, and he had decided to give himself added insurance before his intimate encounter. His heart could not endure the overload — the stimulating medication is not recommended for people with cardiovascular problems — and it had reacted as expected. It had declared a lockout.

I continued my search. On the table was his bag containing credit cards, business cards and two twenty-dollar bills, brass knuckles, a mobile telephone and a set of keys.

My last hope was to look for one of his relatives using the contact list in the cell phone. I pressed the “menu” button, chose “contacts” from the list that opened up, then “search.” Under the first number, I saw the name Joe.

“His son,” I guessed, remembering that Jacob had mentioned his name a couple of times. I pressed the number one, and Joe’s photograph and telephone number appeared on the display. I delayed a moment, then turned off the “video” function so that the person on the other end wouldn’t be able to see me, and I resolutely pressed the “speak” button. Luckily, Joe was home. His father’s telephone number appeared on his display, and he gave a cheerful greeting: “Hi, Dad! Where are you?”

Hesitating, I muttered a half-truth:

“Your father is at my place. Come quickly; he isn’t feeling well.”

I gave my home address, deciding not to admit that Jacob was already dead. Then I called the police and briefly described the situation.

The police and ambulance arrived simultaneously ten minutes later. They confirmed the death, wrote out a certificate and took the body away to the morgue for the forensic medical examination.

I called Joe back, and he was already on the way. I expressed my condolences and directed him to the hospital.

The day that had begun so beautifully had ended in tragedy. My Lord, I’ve always said that homosexuals are no different from heterosexuals! With both groups, first love is usually unrequited. Or tragic. The story of Tatian and Oleg Larin, Lensky and Onegin, which happened in the distant past and was played out so brilliantly at the Broadway theatre, was a clear confirmation of this statement. Just like my unconsummated relationship with that true gentleman and noble knight, Jacob Stein.

Chapter 3

The Insidious Scheme

The funeral was scheduled for the following day. Joe called in the morning and caused a scene, saying that I had brought the old man to the grave with my games of love. I tried to justify myself, but he wouldn’t listen. He spoke out with exasperation about my dissipation: “You might have found someone a little younger for your amorous pleasures!” He finally gave me the address of the funeral home where Jacob’s viewing would take place at three in the afternoon, and he slammed down the receiver.

It was a no-win situation. In essence, I had only seen Jacob three times, including the chance meeting in the restaurant during the friend’s birthday celebration. But in view of the tragic circumstances, complicated by the deceased’s police background, if I did not come to the funeral, it might cause more suspicions of my participation in his death. It wouldn’t do to taunt the bull and swing the red cape when my summons to answer to the judge investigating the circumstances of Jacob’s death was lying on the table.

The hall in the Feloni brothers’ funeral home was overflowing. Even his surrogate mother was there, a thin, hunched-up, ninety-five-year-old Jewish woman; it was out of respect for her that Jacob’s son had decided to have his father buried in the Jewish cemetery on Staten Island. Jacob’s brothers, who had been carried by the same surrogate mother, gave moving speeches. After them, Joe came to the podium, but he could not control his feelings; after saying “Dearest Papa,” he fell into a faint, and he had to be given medical assistance on the spot. Jacob’s former colleagues spoke, telling stories about his exploits, bravery, honesty and dignity. The cushions in front of the coffin holding his medals confirmed their accounts.

I sat in the back rows without approaching anyone or talking to anyone. None of the people attending the mournful ceremony paid any attention to me, but nevertheless I decided to fulfill my duty to the end, and I went to the cemetery.

The first ones to throw handfuls of earth into the grave were the close relatives. When the gravediggers started using their shovels, those who had come to see Jacob off on his last journey approached the grave one by one. They bent down towards the pit, threw in their farewell handful of earth, and made room for the next mourner.

I had fulfilled my sad mission. I walked twenty paces away and patiently waited for the end of the gloomy ritual.

“All the monuments here are like the children of one mother,” a hoarse voice unexpectedly rang out behind my back.

“What?” I started and turned around.

A man in a dark blue beret, who looked the same age as Jacob, repeated:

“I’m saying that all the monuments here are twins. Like the children of one mother.”

“This just proves one thing: No matter who you were in your earthly life, and no matter what riches you had, after death everyone is equal. The cemetery reconciles sworn enemies, victims and criminals…”

“That’s true, it does,” the stranger agreed, and introduced himself:

“Peter Robinson, a former colleague of Jacob.”

“Robert Marcus.”

“You were Jacob’s sexual partner,” Peter continued.

I trembled; how did he know about our romantic relationship? Peter seemed to guess my thoughts and immediately explained:

“Jacob shared his feelings with me. We were friends from childhood. We were classmates. He fell in love with you and wanted to marry you. He had not had such feelings since the death of his spouse Chan Li five years ago. And he was a macho man; he liked his entertainment on the side. Chan was jealous. He suffered. But that was all in the past. Now he has just a tombstone, and by unspoken rules, it can’t be any higher than the others.”

I was silent. Peter took my restraint as an ability to listen, and he spoke frankly.

“This is all in the past. Despite all his good qualities, Jacob was far from being blameless. And he suffered because of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the sins of youth. He has a daughter, Liza. And a granddaughter, Hanna. He concealed the transgressions of his youth. But I know. It all happened before my own eyes…”

“It can’t be!”

“It can. It’s all true.”

“Excuse me, but Liza Conde…”

“I know. Your secret wife. Don’t twitch or turn around so frightfully. Yes, I’m a former policeman — Jacob and I went to the police academy together — but I’m not about to take you in.”

“That’s not the point. This is impossible. Liza was raised in a traditional lesbian family. She told me that herself.”

“And what did you expect? Did you think Liza would turn in her own father and see him expelled from state service without the pension he had earned with his blood and sweat? He had two knife injuries, in the stomach and the back. Later, through her parents’ efforts, Liza’s mother grew wiser and became an exemplary lesbian. She married Ellis, who adopted Liza, and began raising her according to the generally accepted norms. At the age of seventeen, though, she wasn’t so smart. But that’s how it turned out: the apple didn’t fall far from the tree… like mother, like daughter… both Condes were equally sinful.”

“But how could Jacob have done this? He’s a homosexual. He told me himself that he hated heterosexuals.”

“That’s true, he did. He really hated them. I’m telling you, he was paying for the mistakes of his youth. She was seventeen, and Jacob was eighteen. It’s a tricky age. Plus, there was alcohol. When they came to their senses, it was too late. Liza’s mother didn’t want to ruin his life, and she told her parents she had been raped by a stranger. The court was lenient and gave its permission to issue a false certificate to the newborn girl.”

“Ah,” I began to babble, crushed by Peter’s revelations. “So that’s how it was. Did they meet afterwards?”

“Who?”

“Jacob, Liza…”

“Rarely. He tried to give her material help, and he paid for part of her education. That was why he made your acquaintance, to keep you closer to himself. And… This is what I wanted to tell you. It was at his advice that Liza left you. Just before Jacob retired, the police received a report that Hanna’s birth was illegitimate. This was hard not to notice. You are very much alike. Jacob did everything in his power to prevent the investigation from being set in motion. He prepared a conclusion from the results of the preliminary investigation, saying it was slander — an elementary case of someone settling accounts. He hoped to convince Liza to sign a declaration that she had been the victim of rape. This would allow her to get a false certificate for Hanna through the court. She flatly refused. You and Hanna are so similar that sooner or later you would have been identified. And that would mean prison. In essence, Liza saved you. Jacob insisted that she sign the confession, but she dug in her heels.”

“I don’t believe you. If she is his daughter, even illegitimate, and if, as you say, they secretly maintained their familial relationship, then why didn’t Liza come to the funeral?”

“That shows how inattentive you are,” Peter grinned. “During the farewell ritual at the funeral home, did you notice a woman dressed in black from head to foot?”

“The Muslim?”

“That’s the one. Liza didn’t want to be recognized; that’s why she dressed like that. Even you, who lived with her for several years, couldn’t identify her.”

“I see… So I’m indebted to Jacob for depriving me of the right to see my daughter?”

“That was for your own good and for hers. All his life Jacob felt that he had wronged Liza, and he tried to protect her. Now this obligation has been passed on to me, and in exercising my rights as his friend, I must take care of Liza.”

“She’s an adult and doesn’t need guardians.”

“That’s not what I meant. He left an account in Liza’s name in the bank. A million dollars. She will receive it if she can demonstrate that she has become a lesbian and foresworn her sinful past.”

“If everything you’re telling me isn’t a fabrication, then why did she have to go off with Richard?”

“Women are unpredictable. Liza was willful and independent from her childhood. That’s what her family name means. At the last moment she turned down the million dollars, thinking that by leaving you she had already saved Hanna.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“So you can confirm to Liza that you have become a homosexual. It’s true that you were Jacob’s lover.”

“I missed by five minutes. He died suddenly before anything happened.”

“That still remains to be proven. Think about it.” I heard a menacing tone in Peter’s voice. “The investigation has evidence that Jacob’s death was violent.”

I gave a shudder. Peter smiled condescendingly and offered me a deal.

“I could help you if you will oblige me.”

The funeral was over. People began approaching slowly. With downcast eyes, they walked past us towards the gates of the cemetery.

Peter pressed his finger to his lips — fragments of our conversation might be overheard — and in a rapid speech, he blurted out some information that demonstrated his stupendous knowledge:

“Tomorrow you’ll be summoned to court. Don’t do anything stupid; admit that you were Jacob Stein’s lover.”

I didn’t have a chance to respond. After imparting his “good” advice, he turned around without saying goodbye, merged into the approaching crowd and headed for the exit. I stood like a statue in complete dismay, shaken by angry thoughts, and paid no attention to the passers-by.

So it turned out that I was just a piece of small change, a pawn in the hands of conspirators. Liza had given in to her father and thrown me out the door, employing the Jesuitical method of treachery. The word had turned upside down. I could never know when I would become the victim of friendly fire, and my back would be riddled with the bullets of close “relatives.”

I plodded slowly towards the exit. On my way to the gates of the cemetery, I was filled with burdensome thoughts: would I accept Peter’s suggestion and lie in order to avoid being charged with murder, confessing to an innocent love affair? Or would I defy everyone and tell the truth, showing Hanna’s portrait as evidence? They say heterosexuals know the limits of male friendship and never change their principles. I never arrived at a final decision.

Chapter 4

Interrogation by Ordeal

The next morning, at the appointed time, I reported to the Federal Court for the Southern District of New York State together with my attorney. There I had a surprise waiting for me: I was charged with the premeditated murder of former police officer Jacob Stein, and I had a warrant of arrest for seventy-two hours, during which time the investigation would either confirm the charges against me or exonerate me. According to the current laws, I was prohibited from meeting with my attorney during my preliminary detention. The judge read the warrant, gave a copy to my attorney, and sent us our separate ways; my attorney was dismissed, and I was sent to my preliminary detention cell.

My first hours behind bars began with a humiliating strip search, after which I was shoved into a stuffy cell without air conditioning, full of drug dealers, pimps and street thieves. They were in no rush to summon me for my interrogation; they gave me the opportunity to experience the “charms” of imprisonment. Twenty-four hours later, after they got their fill of mocking me, they took me out of the cell and sent me to the interrogator.

The detective assigned to the investigation created a loathsome impression right away. A fat, red-faced hog with a sullen look and small, evil eyes, ready to tear his victim apart. He curtly asked the standard questions: Last name? First name? Year of birth? Sexual orientation? The answers were sitting on the table in front of him; he rushed through the questionnaire, merely observing the formalities. Then the detective bellowed at me, and I could not think of a better example of a dog’s voice:

“What was your relationship with Jacob Stein?”

As calmly as possible, I responded: “We were acquaintances. Nothing more. I only saw him three times.”

“You stinking heterosexual!” the detective roared. His neck filled with blood, and he looked like a bulldog straining at his leash and ready to tear me apart. “If you don’t start telling the truth, I’ll turn you into a homosexual right now!”

He pressed a button on the panel. Five ugly brutes came into the room, made a show of unzipping their flies, folded their arms over their chests and stared at me with insolent smirks, waiting for the chief inquisitor’s instructions.

“This is against the law,” I implored him. “Call off your gorillas, and I’ll sign whatever papers you like saying we were lovers.”

“There’s no need for that.” The detective curled his lips contemptuously. In his eyes I was an insignificant insect, and if he did not need to conduct the inquiry, he would have immediately crushed me with the tip of his shoe, not wanting to get his hands dirty.

“After yesterday’s examination, the doctor confirms that from a homosexual point of view, you are a virgin. The coroner examined Jacob. There was no evidence of a homosexual relationship.”

“I told you so,” I said, glad of the opportunity to justify myself. “I can tell you honestly how it all happened.”

“I’m waiting,” said the “bulldog,” softening his tone and replacing his contemptuous grimace with a sour smile. “But be straightforward. A sincere confession will make things easier for you, and the jury will take that into consideration.” He bared his teeth and began tapping his fingers on the table impatiently.

I was on my guard. What was I accused of? What confession was the interrogator aiming for?

“I’ll begin in order,” I said carefully, feverishly running through yesterday’s conversation with Peter, who had unequivocally advised me to admit that I was Jacob’s lover. “Could I have some water?” I continued to play for time, hoping for a miracle.

“Of course.”

The detective opened a can of Pepsi, poured the contents into a plastic cup and handed it to me. I drank half the cup in small sips, and when I couldn’t think of anything, I unhurriedly began to make my confession.

“On that ill-fated day we went to the Botanical Garden and had lunch at a Chinese restaurant. You can find out the time we left from the copies of the check and the slip from the credit card Jacob used to pay the bill. We went to my place in Jacob’s car. He suggested we have some coffee. I felt uncomfortable; my body was covered with sweat. I decided to freshen up and take a shower. I left Jacob in the living room. When I came back, he wasn’t there. It looked like he wasn’t feeling well. For some reason, he had gotten undressed and was lying in the bed…”

I became silent, not wishing to add that Jacob had stripped naked and asked me to come to him. I decided to avoid provocative questions by cutting some corners and sticking to a dry statement of facts.

The detective listened attentively. My testimony was being videotaped.

“And after that?” he demanded impatiently, when I became silent.

I had to lie.

“When I came into the bedroom, he was already dead. A heart attack, I assumed.” I explained: “You know New York. The weather is so crazy, it can turn a healthy person into an invalid in half a year.”

“Is that all?” the “bulldog” grinned distrustfully. “Just like an innocent child. And now, you little cherub, tell us how the prints from your tender little fingers happened to be on the box and bottle of Viagara-Plus.”

“That’s very simple. I was looking for his son’s phone number. I searched his pockets and accidentally discovered the medicine. I’m not a doctor, and I can’t say for sure, but maybe this was what caused the heart attack. At his age…” I said significantly. I smiled carefully, trying to rouse the interrogator’s sympathy. “An overdose of medicine. He wanted to put on a good show.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” the detective repeated with an ironic intonation. “But the fact is that the Viagra Plus bottle contained tablets of Horsein. If you don’t know what that is, I’ll explain: they are pills prescribed for stallions to raise their muscle tone. But Stein was not interested in horse racing. Therefore…” the detective did not finish his phrase.

“He couldn’t have had horse medicine,” I surmised, covering my mouth with my palm.

“Exactly!” exclaimed the interrogator.

Now that he had cracked open the lid of the coffin where he intended to thrust his victim, the “bulldog” became silent. In his incinerating gaze I could read his mocking question: “Did I trap you?”

I sat still. Fear constrained my ability to think logically and somehow refute these arising suspicions. Having enjoyed the “boa constrictor and rabbit” effect, the detective continued the pressure, gradually pushing his victim to the precipice.

“We researched Jacob Stein’s history of diseases, and we used the computer database to check all the veterinary pharmacies in America. The results were disturbing: no one had prescribed Horsein for him. He did not buy it.”

I grew numb. The detective leaned back in his chair, and with barely concealed hatred, he inquired:

“Shall we continue? Or are these facts enough? By the way, Horsein is prohibited for human use, it isn’t available on the open market, and you can’t get it without a receipt written by a veterinarian. Therefore, someone deliberately exchanged the tablets. Well?” Raising his voice, he summed up his argument. “Will we confess or continue to be stubborn? The only fingerprints on the bottle were yours.”

My heart skipped a beat. My orderly system of defense had collapsed. I realized that I was being accused of exchanging the tablets, and I didn’t know how to prove my innocence. The irrefutable facts testified against me: a former police officer had died in my bed, after taking a deadly medicine, and my fingerprints had been discovered on the bottle.

I kept silent, not knowing how to refute the charges against me. The “bulldog” took my silence to mean just one thing — “the client was ready to make a sincere confession” — and decided to tighten the noose around the suspect’s neck.

“How do you like it, with Vaseline or dry?” the interrogator inquired. He took an enormous device out of the safe and put it on the table in front of me to frighten me. “Well, how do you like this little thing?” The gorillas simultaneously began laughing and rubbing their hands in anticipation of satisfaction.

When I saw the torture instrument, I collapsed from the chair.

…I came to in a hospital room. From distant space I heard Peter Robinson’s lulling voice: “Remember the homosexual’s basic commandment: love thy neighbor.” However, what I heard may have been a hallucination; aside from two unknown men standing at a distance, there was no one else in the room.

My fear began to return. I remembered the preceding events, and since the men having the discussion had not noticed my awakening, I examined the strangers. One was tall and thin, apparently a doctor. The other, judging from the careless way he had thrown a medical gown over his jacket, looked like he was from the criminal division of the police. They were having a quiet conversation, oblivious to the patient who had regained consciousness.

“It looks like Kevin overdid it.”

“With his methods, he may find himself on the defendant’s chair.”

“Will Marcus be able to give testimony?”

“It’s hard to say…” The doctor glanced at me. Seeing that the patient had recovered, he nodded to the detective. “You can try. But don’t be overzealous.”

The detective inclined towards my face and began gazing into my pupils.

“Marcus, do you hear me?”

“What time is it?” I heard my own voice, weak and indistinct. “Where am I?”

“Don’t worry,” the detective smiled benevolently. He placed his hand on the blanket over my chest and said in a sweet voice: “You’re safe.”

“He shouldn’t be disturbed,” warned the doctor. “He has preinfarction angina.”

“Just a few simple questions,” the detective answered, and with an ingratiating smile, he turned to me.

“How do you feel? Are you able to answer some questions?”

I nodded my head. The fog dispersed. I could clearly see the face of the man who was leaning over me and informing me in his unctuous voice:

“I’m the special FBI agent coordinating the investigation of Jacob Stein’s death.”

I was stupefied; the level of the investigation attested to the fact that Jacob’s death had become an event of national importance.

“You have nothing to worry about,” the special agent “reassured” me, noticing the shadow of terror that flickered on my face. “No one touched you. I ask your forgiveness for the emotional way your previous interrogator handled the investigation. You must understand, he worked with Jacob for many years, he was his student, and he was trying to find the perpetrator quickly. All the evidence seems to point towards you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I confirmed despondently.

“You see,” the special agent said cheerfully, “you also agree with me. Despite the fact that there is not YET any proof that you were the one who exchanged the tablets.”

“If only this nightmare would end quickly,” I thought. “After all, there is the presumption of innocence.”

The FBI agent seemed to read my thoughts.

“Given the lack of definitive evidence, we are obliged to release you. But let us reason together: if it was not you, then who could have placed the Horsein? When? What were the criminal’s motives? Could you answer these questions?”

“I’d like to find out the answer myself.”

The FBI agent nodded and said sympathetically:

“You will have a hard time convincing the jury of your innocence.”

“I am innocent.”

“Let us assume so.” The FBI agent became silent for a moment, compressed his lips involuntarily, and then said resolutely: “That will do for now. Call me if you think of anything.”

The FBI agent left his business card on the bedside table, politely bid me farewell and left the room, accompanied by the doctor.

I was not alone for long; a minute later my lawyer Antony Cowan appeared, disheveled and cheerful. We had known each other for about five years, thanks to my former “spouse,” Daniel, to whom he was related. I used his services occasionally.

Paying no heed to the patient’s condition, Antony began babbling:

“Your release is in my hands. American courts are a mirror of justice and lawfulness. You are not required to prove your innocence. On the contrary, it is their responsibility to find not just circumstantial but direct evidence proving your guilt. As long as the investigation is still underway and you are prohibited from leaving the country, we will not file a complaint to the prosecutor about the actions of the police. Neither will we appeal to the court for compensation for moral damages. Then we’ll see which direction the investigation takes.”

“They tortured me,” I complained in a weak voice. “They threatened me with gang rape.”

Antony was filled with indignation.

“The investigators threw aside all restraint. They were happy with the vice-president’s decree that the limitations on methods of conducting investigations did not extend to persons suspected of committing serious crimes. Tomorrow I will file a complaint.”

The doctor and a nurse entered, disconnected the medicine dropper, did a cardiogram and determined that my heart was functioning without any apparent complications, and the patient could be discharged. The physician recommended that I visit my family doctor regularly and gave his consent for me to leave the hospital.

The nurse brought my clothes. I got dressed and went outside, accompanied by Antony. My mood was cheerless. In addition to the questions asked by the investigators, I had two others. What was the role being performed by Peter, who so persistently advised me to acknowledge my homosexual relationship with Jacob? And to what extent was Liza aware of the tragic events that had affected me and her father?

Antony seemed to read my thoughts. He put his arm around my shoulder, and with his lawyer’s characteristic cynicism, he assured me:

“Put these nasty thoughts out of your head, and don’t panic too soon. As long as you are solvent, life is beautiful.”

Chapter 5

“Poor” Liza

Thanks to the efforts of the court reporters, the news about the arrest of Robert Marcus, suspected of the deliberate murder of former police officer Jacob Stein, filled the front pages of the newspapers.

The Freedom of Information Act, one of the pillars of a democratic state — a great achievement by previous generations — has one inevitable flaw: whether you want it or not, your personality immediately becomes known to everyone. Making it to the tabloid pages just once is all it takes.

The newspapers reported the shocking details. It seems that before killing the former police officer, I had used deceit — this was supposedly an element of my amorous game — to lock him to the back of the bed with handcuffs and force him to have sex with a woman, my mistress. The old man’s heart could not endure the mockery, and he died.

The journalists relished the details, excelling in their epithets, and explained to the readers how heterosexuals, of whom the accused is one, are perverted and dangerous to society. After an official announcement by the Attorney General of the State of New York (who was obliged to hold an unplanned press conference at the insistence of the press and to promulgate the police’s version of the substitution of medicines), the ravings of the newspapermen diminished. They did not apologize. The main reason the nonsense was invented had been achieved: the readers’ avid interest in the sensation had begun to swell, as if it were made with yeast.

I had entered the court building as an unknown programmer, and I had left as the “criminal authority of the heterosexual mafia.”

When I got home, the first thing I did was to send an e-mail to my manager. I asked him if I could take the seven vacation days that were due to me. His answer was brief: “Granted.” He did not ask any questions, avoiding dangerous contacts.

In the judge’s opinion, a day for recuperation was more than enough time. A day after my release from the hospital, an insistent ringing at my doorbell produced a court clerk who handed me a summons to appear in court. I sighed despondently, signed the acknowledgement of receipt, and called Antony. The secretary picked up the receiver, informed me that the attorney was busy, and suggested that I call back in twenty minutes. I called back twice. Finally Antony was free, and the secretary connected me with the attorney. I had a hard time convincing him to take my case. He was very reluctant to do this, and he demanded twice his regular fee, explaining that because of his appearance in court tomorrow, he would have to rearrange his schedule and cancel several business meetings.

The next day we arrived in court at the time appointed by the judge. The appearance of the accused was merely a formality. The judge asked only one question, carelessly inquiring about the first line in the biographical particulars. He spent the rest of the time — about fifteen minutes — talking with Antony, and as a result, he postponed the hearing of the case for two weeks.

Accompanied by the attorney, I left the federal court building. Reporters, standing on the staircase in anticipation of “fresh meat,” fell on us with questions. Antony decisively cut short their attempts at an interview, seated me in his helicopter, and transported me to a ranch he owned not far from Albany, a little farther from the crazy New York media.

“You can stay here in the quiet for a week, until the stir calms down,” he said, explaining his spontaneous decision.

For three days I enjoyed the rural silence — I didn’t even turn on the television — and I gladly accepted the services of Antony’s domestic servant Miguel, a kind, good-natured, stout fellow who never left the stove and was always thinking about what other food he could cram into me. I was never a fan of Latin American cooking, and I had to pour gallons of liquid into my stomach to quench the fiery spices Miguel was feeding me. Miguel continued to demonstrate his skills, always promising to prepare something special, and he tempted his victim with delicate aromas. It was difficult to refuse him. If I set a dish aside, he would get touchy, pout his lips and say that he was trying this just for me. I would respond that I was already stuffed with refined delicacies. I asked if I could take a little break. Miguel began sobbing and lamenting that I didn’t appreciate his attention and care.

On the fourth day of my culinary tortures, Liza called. She told me she had gotten the telephone number from Cowan. I didn’t express any feelings of joy; I coldly responded “Good,” and then fell silent. Liza was prepared for such a reaction. Without any discomfiture, she suggested:

“Shall I visit you?”

“How?”

My indifferent tone did not discourage Liza, and she began to babble:

“Antony is flying to his ranch on Saturday. If you have no objection, I could join you.”

I was torn by conflicting feelings: offense, my unwillingness to see her, and my need to find out the truth.

“All right,” I agreed coldly and hung up, not wishing to prolong the conversation.

“Peter’s revelations have added many questions. Some of them can be resolved with her appearance,” I tried to convince myself. “Be restrained.” After I calmed down, I called Antony and got some more information. Liza had called his office. When he talked with her, he realized that if the case went to court, she would be a valuable witness.

 

…On Saturday Cowan had a lot of clients in his Manhattan office. He tore himself away at around four in the afternoon. Between one thing and another, he arrived at the ranch just after six. Liza had left our daughter with Helen; despite their official divorce, she was still responsible for raising the girl. Helen had no objection; she loved Hanna and still considered her to be her daughter.

Michael, Antony’s spouse, made a pleasing impression. A neat, well-groomed, stout man with refined manners, it was immediately obvious that his spouse was a successful attorney who never refused him anything. They had no children. Michael said: “As long as we’re young, we want to live for ourselves.”

The four of us had dinner; Miguel prepared a substantial supper, flavored with Californian wine to whet the appetite. He was indignant at the appearance of a woman; he stopped conversing with me and glanced at Liza with hostility, making no secret of the fact that she was not welcome in this house.

Antony smiled, winked at me slyly, and when Miguel had gone off to get the next course, he confirmed:

“Congratulations, you are very popular here.”

Liza chuckled and covered her mouth with her hand, but didn’t say a word.

As he devoured a hen, Antony told me the latest news.

“The investigation has reached a dead end. Despite the fact that the analyses revealed Horsein in Jacob’s blood, the experts are not a hundred percent certain that this was what caused the heart attack. Ninety-nine percent assumptions will not be enough to convince the jury. Secondly, “Viagra Plus” and Horsein tablets are different colors, and a professional like Jacob could not fail to notice this. This leads us to suppose that he willingly took a medicine that would be harmful to him. The other question is where he obtained it. Horsein is not available on the open market. But we’ll let the investigator worry about that. That doesn’t concern us.”

“Is the case against Robert closed?” Liza asked carefully. “Can he come back to New York?”

“That will be a matter of a few days. A week at most. They will have to dismiss the case due to lack of evidence.”

“You have a good lawyer,” Liza said to me. Then she turned to Antony and coquettishly inquired:

“Could I call on you if I need to?”

“I’m afraid not,” Antony responded dryly, dropping the playful tone. “I am not authorized to work with heterosexuals. If need be, I can recommend an experienced attorney for you. She works in my office.”

“Fortunately, I don’t need one yet,” Liza smiled. “With doctors and lawyers, it’s best to be on friendly terms as families.”

For the third course, Miguel had prepared an apple pudding. He demonstratively placed the dish next to me and away from Liza, cut a large piece and put it on my plate. Naturally, Miguel ignored Liza. She didn’t care; she was indifferent about apple pudding. So as not to offend Miguel, I forced myself to swallow a few bites. I was stuffed. I had no strength to continue the meal.

Antony wisely distracted Miguel, sending him off to Price Chopper to buy some groceries, and invited Michael for a walk to the lake. How did they have the strength left to move after such a heavy supper?

I remained alone with Liza.

“Shall we revive old times?” Liza suggested as soon as the door closed behind them, and began to unbuckle her trouser belt.

I dismissed her offer; after the troubles I had experienced because of her, I no longer had any desire to be intimate with her.

“Let’s talk.”

“Yes, let’s,” Liza willingly agreed, leaving her belt alone. “That’s why I came here. Where shall we begin?”

There was nothing to lose. Looking at her point-blank, I laid out my cards.

“Jacob was your father. You didn’t tell me about that.”

Liza stammered. She raised her eyebrows.”

“How did you know?”

“Peter told me.”

“Ahhh.” Liza’s face darkened, and she became quite sullen.

“So is it true?”

“Yes,” Liza confirmed after a pause. “Now that he’s dead, there’s no point in concealing it.”

“And the million dollars he offered you so you would divorce me and become a lesbian. There’s no point in concealing that either?”

“But I turned it down…”

“And you acted like the last prostitute. You dumped me and went off with Richard.”

Liza burst into tears and ran out of the room.

The facts agree, I thought despondently. I had been rough with her, but she deserved it. An eye for an eye. I still had to find out why Peter had forced his conversation on me, revealed his best friend’s secret and insistently urged me to confess to an intimate relationship with Jacob. Apparently his role in this loathsome story was far from over.

Antony and Michael returned from their walk happy and blissful, at almost the same time as Miguel.

Liza had stopped crying and sat frowning with an indifferent expression, staring at the television. They were showing the multi-serial television film “Anna Karenina” about the unhappy love of a lesbian who could not endure the betrayal of the fickle Vronskaya, and in despair she threw herself under the wheels of a subway train. Usually Liza watched this show with her mouth open. This time she was indifferent to the romantic drama, which had won nine Oscars a year earlier. Absorbed in her own suffering, she was not following the action; the TV screen was just an icon to show other people that she was busy.

Antony surmised that an impartial conversation had taken place during his absence. He said goodnight to everyone, put his arm around Michael’s waist and retired to the bedroom.

Miguel could not contain himself; he asked Liza how long she would be staying, and he was satisfied with her answer: “for one day.” He dryly informed her that he had prepared a room for her on the first floor. For the record, I was sleeping on the second floor.

Liza thanked him, but did not move from her spot. After half an hour of playing the silent game — Liza stared persistently at the television — we went to our separate “corners.” Despite the unlocked doors and our long separation, after our impetuous scandal Liza had no inclination to open them. Miguel remained in the dining room. Apparently he was keeping a jealous eye on Liza.

The resentment continued during breakfast. Not looking in my direction, Liza silently ate some fried eggs and bacon and absent-mindedly listened to Michael’s enthusiastic story about the History of Italian Fashion exhibit at the Guggenheim Museum of Arts in Soho. Michael chattered away incessantly. He was stopped only by the telephone ringing. The caller asked for Antony. The conversation lasted about twenty minutes, and by then everyone except Antony had already finished breakfast.

When Antony was free, he informed Michael that circumstances had changed, and they had to go back to New York immediately at noon.

“What’s the hurry?” Michael said in an irritated voice and capriciously raised his tone. We were planning to go for a boat ride!”

“Stewart is in prison,” Antony responded. By way of explanation to his guests as to who Stewart was, and why he was in prison, he shared his story.

“He’s our attorney, and he’s in the process of a lengthy and messy divorce with his spouse. They have a lot to divide: the house, the children, their shares… During one of their arguments, Stewart’s spouse called the police and said he had been attacked. As a result, he got a restraining order for six months. Now Stewart is prohibited from appearing in his own house. As you know, yesterday was Saturday. Stewart is such an idiot, even though he’s a lawyer, damn it. He showed up at his house to collect his personal items. He rang the doorbell for a long time, and no one answered. He decided no one was home. He opened the door with his key and fell into the trap. His spouse was standing behind the curtain and waiting for him to show up. When Stewart entered the room, his spouse pulled out a pistol and called the police. Since he had the restraining order in his hands, signed by the judge, they handcuffed Stewart and sent him to prison. Yesterday evening they couldn’t find any of his lawyers; they’d all left. The poor guy had to spend the night in the preliminary detention cell with the drug addicts and street thieves held by the police for minor offenses. This morning they let Stewart call his office. Now I have to go back to New York immediately to have him released on bail.”

“Damn!” growled Michael.

“That’s just the beginning,” agreed Antony. “The worst is yet to come. The divorce process is already squeezing all the juice out of Stewart, and now he’s faced with criminal court. And all because of his screw-up on Saturday.”

Michael remarked unhappily: “Something always happens as soon as we leave the city.” He rose from the table and reluctantly went to gather his things.

While Antony was talking on the telephone, I made an attempt at reconciliation; there was no reason to sever my relationship with Liza for good. I talked about Hanna. It was a safe topic, and pleasant to both sides. Before they took off, as I walked her to the helicopter, I asked her offhandedly:

“When was the last time you saw Peter?”

Liza frowned.

“The day of the funeral. The next day he left on his yacht for a cruise around the world. No one knows when he’ll be back. He didn’t let anyone know his plans until the yacht had left the territorial waters of the USA. Peter’s spouse suspects that he was not alone when he set out for his journey.”

“Aren’t you surprised by that?”

“What do you mean?”

“That Peter sailed away so hastily.”

“No. A mysterious disappearance often has to do with spousal infidelity.”

“That’s obvious to you. You’re the specialist in that field,” I couldn’t resist taunting her. Due to the noise of the engine, Liza didn’t hear what I said and asked:

“What? What did you say?”

“Nothing important.” I decided not to repeat the caustic remark.

Before she got into the helicopter, she gave me a peck on the cheek, and Antony and Michael turned away in shame. A chuckle sparkled in her eyes. She inquired:

“Have you already become a homosexual?”

I answered honestly.

“I’m making the effort.”

Liza was exuberant.

“Good luck with your new venture! I’ll give your regards to Hanna.”

Scarcely had I returned to the house when Miguel’s tormented heart could endure no more, and he declared his love for me. Not as passionately as Tatian Larin had professed his love to Eugene Onegin, but it was similar. His eyes filled with tears.

I thought: if it was decreed by fate that I was not destined to become Jacob’s spouse, perhaps I would be a good husband for Miguel? I would have to make a small effort and overcome my shyness that was characteristic of the first wedding night, but after that everything would go smoothly. The time had come to return to the ranks of normal people and stop being a social outcast. I embraced him, kissed his lips and whispered tenderly in his ear:

“Go to your bedroom, I’ll be there soon.”

I took a shower, went into the kitchen, rummaged in the beverages and found some gin. Without diluting it, I drank a glass to give me courage, opened the refrigerator and had a pickled cucumber to go with it, which I had never done before. It would be better this time as well…

Miguel was waiting in the bed, half-covered by the sheet. He had succeeded in creating an intimate setting: he had turned off the light, lit some aromatic candles and turned on some languid music. The French scents he had managed to put on were familiar: Liza had used the same kind.

I lay beside him under the sheet. Miguel placed his hand on my chest and began stroking me, working his way down to the perineum. When his hand gradually reached my groin, it was like an electric shock, and I stiffened from a sharp pain in my stomach.

“Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” I said through clenched teeth and ran to the toilet, hunched up in pain.

Five minutes later, having taken a shower first, I returned to Miguel.

Ten seconds went by. The previous scene repeated itself precisely, except for the fact that my rush to the toilet was even faster. I relaxed, took a shower, and returned to Miguel once more.

This was not my day — the third attempt ended with the same run to the sanitary facilities.

Miguel began to go into hysterics.

“You scoundrel! You don’t love me! You’re laughing at my feelings!”

“I swear, that’s not true.”

The cucumber I had swallowed did not care about the apologies I was offering, and it continued to torment me. I retired in disgrace. Behind me I could hear poor Miguel’s curses through his tears and lamentations. If Liza had heard them, she would have joined in.

The next morning we met in the dining room. I felt awkward. On the other hand, Miguel was courteous and polite. Embarrassed at the sound of his own voice, he surmised:

“Could you be impotent, maybe?”

I didn’t have a chance to answer. Miguel went into a long lecture, the essence of which was that I didn’t need to be nervous.

“Failures in love are related to overexcitement of the psyche and are easily cured,” he assured me. “Let’s try again. Just so you won’t have to worry, I’ll take everything on myself.”

“All right,” I agreed.

Miguel happily ran into his room and returned carrying some thick albums of family photographs. He sat next to me and opened the black leather-bound album.

“I’d like to introduce you to my family.”

“My pleasure,” I responded.

The old photographs were a touch of a bygone era and a mirror image of the future. Someday future generations would look at our pictures the same way: with interest, superficially, indifferently, or respectfully; the difference would depend on what sort of memories we would leave of ourselves.

“My parents,” he said, flipping through the pages and pointing to photos. “My brothers. The older ones are married, and so is the younger one. I’m the only one who is still single.”

“You’ve never been married?”

“Twice. But both were unsuccessful. My first spouse,” he showed me a picture of a man riding a horse. “I’m next to him. Do you recognize me? I was only twenty. I tried to start a family early. I could have enjoyed the bachelor’s life a little longer.”

The rider’s face seemed familiar.

“What was his name?”

“Peter. He was a police officer.”

My heart missed a beat. “Robinson.” Hiding my agitation, I asked offhandedly:

“Did you enjoy horseback riding?”

“No. Peter raised race horses. He owned a small farm. And the key to a happy marriage is to be able to live by your husband’s interests. Do you agree?”

The circle closed. I had discovered the source of the Horsein. Had Jacob become the victim of his best friend? In that case, I would like to take a look at the terms of his million-dollar will.

Ah, Liza, Liza! What have you done, yielding to your father’s persuasions?