Exiles in America(20)

“Oh yeah. Norfolk is full of sailors. And marines, too.”

So Abbas didn’t want Daniel. He wanted only his data, his know-how, his

local knowledge. Which was a relief. It was a relief, wasn’t it? It was so much

safer and saner this way.

They sat together for another five minutes, companionably naked, making

plans while the perspiration poured off their bodies like tears.

f 2

“So I offered to take him down to Norfolk tomorrow and show him the bars

and go to a few tea dances. He and Elena have a deal where he takes care of

the kids on Saturday and can spend Sunday however he pleases. He usually

spends it painting. But man cannot live by bread alone.”

They were out in the garden behind the house, where Daniel had found

Zack when he got home. Zack was on his knees, his sleeves rolled up, his hair

and beard speckled with tiny brown leaves. He was clearing away the dead

vegetation, pulling up what was left of the tomato, squash, and cucumber

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

plants. Jocko lay in the grass a few feet away, dozing in the honey-colored sun-

light.

Zack said nothing for a moment. “Just your typical trilingual, bisexual

Iranian painter, huh? And his wife knows?”

“I don’t know if he gives her full reports. But he was all too happy to tell

me about their open marriage since he knew about ours. Here. Let me help

you.” Daniel crouched down and began to stack the extracted wooden stakes.

“What’re the kids like?”

“Cute. Adorable. He clearly adores them.”

“How old?”

“A little boy of six and his grumpy big sister, who must be ten.” The

grumpy sister had given Daniel the dirtiest look imaginable when he came out

of the gym with her father.

“And he wants you only for information?”

“That’s right. Silly man. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Zack didn’t laugh. “Just be careful,” he said.

“I always am, sweetheart. More careful than you are.”

Zack opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it and reached over to jig-

gle loose another stake.

“Anyway,” Daniel quickly added, “nothing’s going to happen. I’m not his

type and he’s not mine. We’re too much alike. We’re both painters. We’re

both married. And we’re both losing our hair.”

9

Sunday was usually a quiet day for both men. Daniel cooked break-

fast while Zack walked down to Merchants Square with Jocko to pick up

a Sunday New York Times. They spent the morning in the sunlit kitchen, read-

ing the paper and drinking coffee, occasionally discussing a play or museum

exhibition they might want to see if they were still living in New York. Their

if had grown softer over the past ten years, but it was still present.

After lunch, Daniel showered and shaved and tried on shirts before set-

tling on a nifty blue bowling shirt from the sixties. This was hardly a date, but

he wanted to look good. He didn’t expect to pick anyone up, but it’d be too

humiliating to get completely rejected in front of Abbas. All he hoped to do

was dance with a cute stranger.

“See you later, dear,” he told Zack. “I won’t be late.”

“Be safe,” said Zack—their old slogan from the eighties.

Daniel drove over to the campus, parked in front of PBK Hall, and walked

around back to Andrews. It was three o’clock. Abbas had suggested they

meet at his studio, not because Elena didn’t know, he said, but because he

preferred not to rub her nose in his other life. Well, maybe. Or maybe Abbas

and Elena had a don’t ask, don’t tell policy. Or maybe Abbas didn’t tell her a

thing. Whatever their story, it was none of Daniel’s business.

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

The artist in residence had been given the big studio on the second floor

for his private work space. Daniel went up the stairs and down the hall. He

could hear music ahead. The door was half open. A boom box played loudly

inside, some kind of buzzing, rhythmic, Middle Eastern chanting. Daniel

knocked on the door as he pushed it open. There was a rich, savory smell of

oil paint.

Abbas stood with his back to the door, bent forward in a pair of white bib

overalls, hunched over a narrow canvas on stretchers that lay flat on the floor.

He was barefoot and shirtless.

Daniel knocked again.

The man’s angular butt slowly swung around as he laid a long, slow brush-

stroke across the canvas.

“Hey!” Daniel called out.

Abbas stopped and looked over his bare shoulder. He stared at Daniel

through his raccoon glasses. He looked down at the painting, then back at

Daniel, then at the painting again. He hit his head with the heel of his hand.