Cartography for Beginners (3 page)

Stuart could get away with sleeping with younger men because he'd always slept with younger men. Leo had no such history. It seemed like desperation to him, if he started it now, like he was trying to recapture a lost youth through young lovers.

The phone rang again, and he hoped it was Stuart again so they could talk while he drank his coffee. It was a phone number he didn't recognize, though. "Leo Bellamy," he said when he picked up the phone.

There was a brief pause. A familiar voice said thickly, "Leo. It's Jack."

"Jack! Hello. Is the theater recovering from the concert last night?"

"Um," Jack said and Leo heard him sniffle.

Leo's skin pricked. "What's wrong?"

"It's Malcolm. He. We're. We're at Saint Francis Memorial." Jack's voice was quivering with emotion. "Malcolm had a stroke early this morning, Leo. He died about an hour ago."

Leo sank down to the floor, his back against the cabinet. "Oh," he breathed and his eyes stung. "Oh, Jack."

"Yeah. I haven't been able to reach Emily yet but I expect she'll--" Jack laughed humorlessly. "She'll have something to say, I'm sure. Anyway. I'll let you know the details about the funeral as soon as I figure it out."

"If you need any help," Leo said, "don't hesitate to ask me. I've done a couple of these now."

"Sure. Thank you. I'll remember that. I can't-- I'm not-- it doesn't seem quite real yet." He sniffled again. "Look, I have a ton of calls to make and I-- I can't-- everything is so--"

"Jack," Leo said, "why don't I come down to the hospital and help you? I can bring my cell, I know who Malcolm knows, and I can make calls for you--"

"No, but thank you," Jack said, his voice shaking. "I want to do this. I keep hoping it'll sink in if I keep saying it. I'll talk to you later, okay?" He hung up before Leo could answer.

Leo turned off his phone. Malcolm.
Gone.
His friend, gone.

Chapter Two

Stuart hung up the phone and leaned back in his armchair to catalogue the boy he'd brought home for the night: a slender back under a thin white T-shirt, lean muscular arms, a flat belly, narrow waist and hips, smooth skin, dark eyes, and long, strong legs. The boy was perfect. Of course he was perfect. Stuart would never have noticed him otherwise.

The boy -- his name was Kaushal -- had parked himself in front of Stuart's television the moment they entered his house. Stuart forgot about the thing half the time, and couldn't bring himself to join Kaushal when the boy started cackling at two men in outlandish costumes who spoke to each other in high-pitched voices. The trouble with these boys was that physical perfection did not guarantee any kind of mental understanding. He'd fallen in love with a beautiful boy who challenged him mentally once, but only once -- he'd never found an equal since.

He had no hope of connecting with Kaushal, either. He'd called Leo instead. Leo was calm and sensible and would tell him about the boys, their loves and heartbreaks and triumphs.

That's the trouble with living so far from your friends,
Stuart thought.
You have to hear about everything second-hand.
Even though he spent several weeks out of the year in California now, he still felt like he was merely a background character in the boys' lives. They welcomed him when he visited, but he doubted any of them missed him. Jamie had his Ben, Micah his Dune, and Leo his family.

Peripheral,
he thought with a sigh.
I'm as important as Santa Claus in April.

Kaushal laughed at the television again and turned around to look at Stuart. "Bored with me already, mate?"

"What are you watching?" Stuart said.

"
The Mighty Boosh.
Come watch, it's funny." He patted the sofa and Stuart sat beside him. The air around the boy was thick with his cologne -- a common mistake of the young, Stuart thought -- but his skin was as smooth in this light as it had been in the bar, and he smiled when Stuart stroked his thick hair, dark and bleached gold at the tips. "I'm ready for bed," he said, putting his hand on Stuart's knee.

"Of course you are," Stuart said, and made a startled "omph" when Kaushal leaned forward and clumsily kissed him. Kaushal was all tongue and spittle -- as soon as he could get his hands free Stuart put them on the Kaushal's shoulders and pushed him away.

Kaushal pouted at him, confused. "Don't you like me anymore?"

"Yes," Stuart said, wiping his chin, "but I also like breathing. Whoever taught you to kiss needs to be taken out and shot."

"My boyfriend," Kaushal said, still pouting. "He thinks I kiss just fine."

"Children don't know any better," Stuart said and wondered what the hell he was doing with this boy.

"I'm not a child," said Kaushal, and his eyes narrowed as he added, "old man. Can't even get it up for me, can you? Have to take a pill first?"

Stuart said calmly, "Go home to your boyfriend. I'll call you a cab."

"Nothing but an old man," Kaushal sneered and Stuart picked up his phone again. He didn't even have to look up the number for a cab service anymore -- he'd been sending boys home a lot more than asking them to stay lately. Micah had been the last one he asked to stay, and he had left even after Stuart had offered him a job in London or Paris, whichever he preferred.

He hadn't met a man he wanted to live with for years, Stuart realized as he watched Kaushal get into the cab. As much as he enjoyed Micah's company, he'd had no illusions Micah would want to stay with him. That wasn't how it worked. Boys grew up, found their own loves, and Stuart found himself another protégé.

That was the plan, anyway. There hadn't been anyone since Jamie, no one whose talent needed nurturing, and no one who needed a refuge in which to grow.

Stuart closed the curtains and turned out the lights, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He supposed he could have slept with Kaushal and then sent him home, but why bother? There was less and less he was willing to excuse for beauty anymore, and there was nothing special about Kaushal aside from his beauty.

He almost reached for the phone again as he lay in bed, wanting to talk to Leo again so much it was like a compulsion.
That's what I'm looking for,
he thought.
Someone to talk to before I go to sleep.

He laughed out loud. Oh, Leo. A good friend, a good man, but nothing like what Stuart wanted in a lover. Leo had no need for him. Leo was the caretaker, the loving father to anyone who needed one. Leo was, Stuart supposed, what he had always fancied himself to be, but Leo made it look effortless, as if caring for someone was as natural as breathing. Leo judged no one without good cause and was willing to give anyone another chance -- even Stuart himself, when all of Jamie's other friends would have been happy to turn against him because of their mutual past. Leo had simply not allowed it: when Stuart came to San Francisco, Leo asked him to eat with them, to stay with him and Adam, to go out with them even when Jamie's lover Ben glowered at him, practically seething with possession and jealousy.

He and Ben would never be friends, Stuart supposed, but they mostly managed to be civil to each other, thanks to Leo. And when his friends had worried about Micah during his European tour they'd felt comfortable enough to call on Stuart to check on him, which Stuart had happily done. He had lost Jamie as a lover but was regaining him as a friend, and it was as exciting as ever to be a part of Jamie's rising art career.

Stuart had never been a man to have many friends -- acquaintances, certainly, or business associates, or lovers, but not friends. But in the last few years he found himself with at least one friend in San Francisco no matter what the time of day, and it was an enjoyable enough experience to keep.

***

In the morning, Stuart had a swim in the Thames and ate a small breakfast, then decided to spend the rest of the day at his gallery. He didn't need to be there. His assistants were so well-trained the gallery could nearly run on its own. Still, he had an urge to be there today, to be hands-on while they made arrangements for Jamie's show later in the summer. He could do this from home, or simply write the gallery manager a memo and she would take care of it before the day was out, but not today. At the very least he would remind his employees of what their boss looked like.

The gallery was quiet when he opened the front door: there was softly-playing flute music over the speakers, carefully hidden in the uppermost corners of the wings, and the half-dozen customers browsed the art, speaking in low murmurs while they sipped from glasses of sparkling water or cups of espresso.

"Mr. Huntsman," said Deborah, coming forward to greet him with a pleased smile and outstretched hands. "I didn't know you were coming in today."

"I didn't know myself." He took her hands and kissed her cheeks. Pretty and efficient, Deborah had managed the gallery for him for five years, and he was proud of her taste and discerning eye. "Good morning, my dear. I've come to see the progress for the Makepeace show."

"Wonderful! I received the samples for the advertising yesterday. They're in my office. Shall I get them for you?"

"Yes, please." He folded his hands behind his back when Deborah left him, smiling when she paused to instruct one of the assistants to bring him a coffee.

Stuart wandered along the length of the gallery, thanked the assistant when he brought the tiny cup of cappuccino, and watched the potential buyers as he sipped. There was a middle-aged woman and a much younger man inspecting a landscape, a young couple discussing a nude, and three young men speaking to each other in French as they looked at a small sculpture of a dancing girl.

It was clear in a moment they didn't think anyone around them understood them. They mocked the middle-aged woman for her heavy makeup and gaudy jewelry. The young couple did not meet their approval either, for the husband was sloppily dressed and the wife was too plump.

Stuart turned away, deciding not to point out to the Frenchmen that the young wife was pregnant, but he stopped one of the assistants to ask him to offer the woman a chair. He was still amused when he noticed the Frenchmen had turned their critique on himself. He was a handsome fellow, declared one, but another said no, he was merely distinguished, and obviously not here to buy art. "He is here to find a plaything," the young man said. "I know the look."

The third said nothing, and he studied Stuart without bothering to hide it. Stuart raised an eyebrow -- he was a handsome boy, tall with a Roman nose and dark blond hair -- but the young man returned a look of disinterest and moved on to another piece.

No matter,
Stuart thought and turned to Deborah as she returned with the advertising samples. They focused on Jamie's masterpiece, a fantasy portrait of his lover Ben as a fallen angel, and Stuart nodded in approval. "Perfect."

"I look forward to meeting Mr. Makepeace," Deborah said. "He seems so charming in his interviews."

"He's very charming," Stuart said and watched the young Frenchmen leave without purchasing anything. The third one, the one who had offered no opinion on him but dismissal, stopped in the lobby archway and looked back once more, his expression still detached.

Their eyes met. Often, when Stuart met a man to whom he was attracted, he would feel a thrill at that first moment, a rush of knowledge that they would soon be alone and naked. There was no such rush here. It was something else, something Stuart couldn't name, a feeling that made him twitch and be the first to look away.

He was never the first to look away.

He said to Deborah, "Jamie is charming. I think you'll like him."

"I hope so, sir."

"I think I'll poke around the storeroom for a bit," Stuart said and started for the back of the gallery.

"His name is Jean-Claude," Deborah said quickly, and Stuart stopped and looked back at her. "Those young men who just left. I spoke to them briefly. The blond one's name is Jean-Claude and he said he's here to visit family."

"You talked to him quite a bit."

"Yes. His English is very good."

"I feel as if I've met him before," Stuart said. "I can't think of where that might be, though."

"You spend so much time in Paris. Perhaps you've seen him on the street."

"Perhaps." He held up his coffee cup. "I'll be in the storeroom."

"Yes, Mr. Huntsman," Deborah said, and hurried to attend to the bejeweled matron who had finally made a decision.

***

Leo made pasta salad -- it could be served cold and lasted for days -- and drove to Malcolm and Jack's house.
Just Jack's house now,
he thought sadly as he walked up the front steps. He steadied himself, exhaling and closing his eyes, before he rang the bell.

The door opened after a few minutes, and Jack said into his cell phone, "I'll have to call you back, okay?" He clicked it off and hugged Leo tight. "Hi, friend."

"Hi, friend. I made you supper."

"Come on in," said Jack and led him into the kitchen.

"Do you want to eat now?" Leo said, and Jack paused and scrubbed his hand through his short red hair.

"Yes," he said at last. "I haven't eaten for hours. Not since this morning. I haven't been hungry."

"Or you haven't had time to get hungry," said Leo and opened the plastic container of salad. "I didn't think of wine or bread or anything."

"I have both." Jack took a half-eaten loaf of sourdough bread from the breadbox and a bottle of wine from the cupboard. "Malcolm didn't make a funeral plan," he said quietly as he began slicing the bread. "I have no idea what I'm doing, and I don't want Emily barging in and making everything about her."

Leo nodded. "I can help any way you want."

"Thanks. It looks like the funeral will be Wednesday -- there'll be a lot of people coming in from out of town. So many students, Leo."

Leo opened the bottle and poured them both glasses. "Drink," he said as he pressed one into Jack's hand, and Jack obediently sipped. "People will probably want a wake. We could do it at my place, if you don't want to have it here."