Exiles in America(77)

after all. But then a heroin addict doesn’t feel like an addict when he’s just had

his fix.

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Abbas came out of the shower, dried himself off, and did a few stretch ex-

ercises, as shameless as a cat. Daniel had never seen him naked in broad day-

light, only in the drab electric light or twilight of his studio. The body in its

delicate scribble of curly black hair was no longer opaque but translucent, lu-

minous. Daniel wished he had a camera so that he might keep this image for

later, when he’d forgotten everything else about Abbas.

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They ate breakfast at French Roast on the corner, which was hardly Paris, al-

though the café did allow smoking. They headed east to buy presents for

Elena and the kids.

“You disappoint me,” said Daniel. “You’re my selfish ideal, remember.”

“Oh, but I am selfish,” said Abbas. “I am buying back their affection.

Aren’t you going to buy something for Zack?”

“I wouldn’t know what to get. Whenever he wants something, which isn’t

often, he buys it himself.”

Daniel waited for thoughts of Zack to make him feel disloyal and guilty.

But no, he felt fine. Maybe he really was falling out of love with Abbas.

They worked their way down lower Broadway, buying glow-in-the-dark

ceiling stars for Osh and a Hello Kitty knapsack for Mina. At Shakespeare

and Company, Abbas picked out two recent volumes of poetry for Elena—

Daniel was impressed the faithless husband knew what his wife had and

hadn’t read. Daniel then took him to his favorite paint store, Soho Art Mate-

rials on Grand Street, a holdover from SoHo’s age of art. They entered a dark,

musty, atticlike space lit by a trio of bare lightbulbs dangling from the ceiling.

Fresh lumber and rolls of unsized canvas leaned against the back wall.

Stacked on the floor or set on tables were flat, narrow boxes filled with tubes

of paint—oil, acrylic, watercolor—neatly arranged like shotgun shells. Paint

sticks filled other boxes. There were metal trays full of camel hair brushes, lit-

tle drawers full of pen nibs, and shelves stacked with all varieties of paper. The

place was like a candy store for artists, yet it only made Daniel sad.

Abbas stocked up on Old Holland oils, which were too expensive for

stores in Virginia to carry. The colors bore magical names like Van Gogh yel-

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low, Pompeii red, or Caput mortuum—an ashy purple of death. The bill came

to $425; Abbas put it on a credit card.

“Money is never a problem, is it?” said Daniel outside.

“Elena watches our budget, but now and then I splurge.”

Walking up Lafayette, they approached a young male couple who wore

sunglasses and were holding hands. Abbas twisted around and looked over

his shoulder as they passed.

“Men didn’t hold hands back in the old days when we lived here,” Daniel

explained. “It wasn’t cool. But gay men are more sentimental now.”

“Take this,” said Abbas, and he gave the bag of boxed oils in his right hand

to Daniel—his left hand carried the bag of gifts. He reached down with his

newly free hand and took hold of Daniel’s free hand. His fingers were long

and slim, like a basketball player’s.

They walked down the street like that for a full minute, while Abbas

looked at passersby, checking out reactions. The gesture did not feel roman-

tic but exploratory, experimental. He didn’t resist when Daniel gently with-

drew his hand and slipped it into his pocket. The day was cold, and neither of

them was wearing gloves.

We are both only playing at love, imagining what love would be like,

Daniel decided. But we’re not really in love.

They returned to their hotel room to drop off the purchases. Daniel pro-

posed a quick nap—love might be only a myth, but lust was back. Abbas said

no, there’d be time for naps later. He wanted to get up to the Metropolitan

Museum, even though Daniel assured him it stayed open late on Saturdays.

f 2

Abbas had wanted to visit MoMA, the Museum of Modern Art, but it was

closed for renovation. Daniel preferred the Met anyway. It was friendlier,

more varied—cheaper, too—and there was always a lively crowd on Saturday

evenings.

They caught a train uptown—Abbas had never ridden the subway—and

arrived as the afternoon sun began to sink into the bare trees of Central Park

behind the museum. The coppery light cast a huge blue shadow over the

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monumental stairs out front. They went inside and checked their coats. “It is

like a giant bank,” grumbled Abbas in the Great Hall. “Why are there so