Chapter Text
PART ONE
1937-1938
- Paris, France. September 1937.
The first time is a Friday. He’s been here near three months now.
He sits at the bar, head in his hand. There’s the stink of cigarette smoke through the place— cigars, cigarillos. It has him coughing, the thick of it catching at the back if his throat, fog of it hanging heavy like cataracts.
It’s busier than usual, tables crowded with chairs; people stand, lean against walls.
Charles watches as Ruth stands from her seat behind the piano. She’s beautiful, what he’d expected of Paris, City of Light, but he can’t understand what she’s saying. She speaks too fast, too French.
His ears catch none of it, couldn’t even if he were sober, her voice a muddle of vowels, quick, and she’s talking to the crowd, everyone turned to look at her; smiles soft with alcohol. Her hair is curled and her eyes are bright.
Charles is leant on an elbow, drink in other hand, twisted around on his stool to see. He watches, straightens as a man with a violin stands up, walks out of the people and the tables. The man grins, ducks his head, holds his bow in his left hand. A round of applause spreads its way around the room.
Charles frowns to himself. He can’t ask Gabrielle, who’s this, what’s going on, she’s still too busy serving drinks, cleaning glasses.
He keeps his eye on the violinist. Even across the floor, above the heads of customers, on the backs of four empty glasses, Charles can see his good looks. Tall, white shirt, no tie.
Paris offers him handsome men in handfuls. A look-don’t-touch tease. He’s slept with three in the two months he’s had the flat upstairs. Two Parisians and a Slovak. The language barrier was walked around with raised eyebrows, crude gestures; touches and noises in his bedroom.
Ruth starts playing, alone, and Charles hasn’t heard this one. She’s never played this one with him here.
He watches the man with the violin as he lifts it under his chin, starts to play.
Charles cocks his head, glass held to his mouth, watches the man’s fingers move, eyebrows furrow, twitch of the bow back and forth, song a fast-paced melancholy that settles in him.
Charles claps with the rest of them when it comes to an end, abrupt.
They play for twenty minutes. Each song gets an applause and there’s sweat shiny on the violinist’s forehead.
The saloon quietens down when the music ends, Ruth moving out from the piano and onto dealing poker at the table in the corner, Gabrielle serving last drinks, last orders. Charles leans his elbows on the bar top, chin in one hand, other holding his book open. He stares at the page. He can’t concentrate, has read the last sentence over and over until it means nothing to him, eyes blurry with gin.
There’s the tap of knuckles on the bar, opposite end to Charles.
“Hey, Haller. Tu sais ce que je veux. Whisky. Pas de glace.”
It’s the violinist. Charles tilts his head. The man is grinning, big teeth in a big wide mouth as Gabrielle shakes her head, says something with half a sneer that Charles doesn’t catch, doesn’t understand.
He waits for her to serve the violinist. His eyes move from her to the man’s forearms, how the muscles jump as his hands tighten and loosen, fingers linked together.
Charles lifts a hand. “Gabrielle,” he says. She walks to him, hair shifting where it’s cut blunt to her chin.
“Oui, Charles?”
Her voice is bored, tired; she always gets this way near closing time, can’t wait to get home, to bed, to sleep. He can’t blame her.
He gives a tiny jerk of his head, subtle. Subtle as he can be with the liquor warm in him.
“Who’s that?” he asks. His fingers fidget with the edges of his book. Gabrielle raises an eyebrow. Her smirk is slow. She’s had an idea; a cat seen a mouse. She lifts a finger.
Charles goes to stop her, says, “wait,” but she’s walking away, few steps down the bar, back to the violinist.
The language barrier has seen him shyer. Back in London, back in the queer bars, he’d knock back a drink and be good for the night, could talk to anyone, fearless. Here it’s harder, despite the legality of it. He doesn’t know who’s who or who’s what. Those last three were difficult enough, a game of charades, three words, are you queer?
He scratches at the side of his neck, nerves pricking at him, can feel eyes on him.
Next thing he knows the violinist is pulling up the stool beside him, drink in his hand, and Charles sees the pads of his fingers, calloused and peeling from violin strings. He looks Charles up and down. Charles straightens his back.
He tries his best accent, still God awful, says, “Salut.”
The man nods. “Salut,” he says. He’s handsome. There’s something peculiar about it. Good looking in the old way, the stern way; the Michelangelo way, harsh lines in the straightness of his eyebrows, his mouth. But he’s got big eyes. “You’re British.”
Charles chews at the inside of his lip, feels confidence stirring, familiar ground with the English, no need for hand gestures and pointed fingers.
He nods, says, “Yes.” He closes his book, wasn’t getting far with it, anyways, and he says, “I’m Charles.”
He gets a hum. The man picks up the book, tilts it towards him.
“Wilde,” he says. He sets it flat, nudges it back. “Interesting choice. Erik.”
He’s not French. He speaks his English with a different accent. Charles smiles.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “You play the violin very well. Have you done it long?”
Erik nods. “Since I was a kid,” he says. He knocks back his drink, says, “Is what Gabrielle told me correct?”
Charles frowns. His eyes flick to Gabrielle.
“That depends,” he says. He looks back. “What did she say?”
Erik sets his glass on the bar, moves to stand, one foot on the floor, other on the rest of the stool. He’s taller than Charles. Maybe half a head.
“That you’re queer and have her old flat upstairs,” he says.
“Oh,” Charles says. There’s no giveaway on Erik’s face, poker flat. Charles nods, unsure, says, “Yes, that’s— what she said is correct.”
It gets him a smirk, slow, quirk at one side of the mouth.
“Forgive the presumptuousness,” Erik says. Charles looks him up and down, the length of his torso, the collarbones at the open neck of his shirt. “But would you like to go upstairs?”
The bed creaks with the weight of them, their movements. There’s grabbing, pulling, Charles’ eyes scrunched, grin on his face as Erik fights with the buttons of his shirt, pulls the tails of it from Charles’ trousers. His hands are big and warm on Charles’ stomach.
“Here,” Charles says. He grabs at the back of Erik’s neck, pulls him down.
Their noses bump, Erik’s mouth opening, nails scratching lines into Charles’ chest, fingers dragging up to the base of his throat. Charles hooks a leg over Erik’s waist.
His cock is hot between his thighs, tight knot in his groin; the way Erik kisses has him wanting more, the heavy push of his mouth, the wetness, the heat of it; it has Charles’ fist clenching in hair, breath short through his nose, warm, boneless.
He closes his eyes; opens them when Erik pulls back, mouths still close, panting against each other.
“What do you want?” Erik asks. The movement of his lips moves Charles’ in turn. His violin fingers run the length of Charles’ torso. “Just tell me what you need,” he says. “I’ll give it to you.” He says, “I have to go soon.”
Charles breathes. There’s sweat at his back, shirt sticking to him.
He blinks, once, looks back up to big eyes.
“Touch me,” he says. His back arches, hips shifting up. Erik sits back on his haunches, Charles’ hand coming down from his neck, sliding over the flatness of his chest, the bump of a nipple through his shirt. “My cock. Touch me, please.”
Erik nods. He dips back down to kiss, hands going to Charles’ trousers, and Charles hums, lifts his head into it before Erik moves, mouth trailing over Charles’ chin, his jaw, his neck. Charles’ hands go back to Erik’s hair, soft where it’s combed back.
He moans, head pushing into the pillow, Erik’s fist shoved in his underwear, curled around his dick. There’s the blunt point of teeth at Charles’ collarbone.
Charles whines, breath pushing through his nose. Erik’s hand is tight, big enough to have almost all of Charles’ cock in its warmth, and Charles’ toes curl as he slicks up, down, too slow to be anything but a tease; hot press of Erik’s tongue leaving cool wetness down his chest.
He bucks his hips, choked noise at his throat as Erik bites, sucks at a nipple.
Charles holds Erik’s head in place, eyes shut as he feels Erik leave his mark, teeth sharp. He groans as Erik’s hand squeezes, as he speeds up, fast jerks of his fist between them. His voice is low as he swears, says, “Fuck.”
He feels his body running warm. There’s the uncomfortable itch of sweat at his hairline hidden behind the aching pleasure at his groin; the sting at his chest.
His eyes screw shut, mouth open in a gormless O, like a shock, a surprise, and one of his hands drops to crease in the bedsheets. Erik pulls off from his chest, and Charles looks to see him, straight-backed, watching his hand tug at Charles’ cock, dark red head of it pushing up between the circle of his fingers. Charles bites at his lip, knows how thin these walls are.
He doesn’t take long to come. Erik’s spare hand flattens down over his belly, stretches up to rub over his peaked nipple.
There’s the sounds of their breathing, murmurs of voices downstairs, and Charles can’t help himself, moans dragging out, stomaching caving in, chest tight as Erik works him, lets him thrust upwards into his fist, tight, tightening at the base, and Charles catches the look on Erik’s face, hungry.
He closes his eyes. The knot between his thighs tightens as his head tips back.
It’s always the same when he comes, staccato moans, oh, oh, choked out of him, and it has Erik bending down to kiss him, shut him up, come warm where it spills over onto his stomach, Erik’s fingers.
He digs his nails into Erik’s shoulder blades, scratching through the cotton.
He breathes; drops back into the pillows. He feels himself unwind. He opens his eyes to a grin. He grins back.
Charles convinces him to stay; long enough to have his hands on Erik’s bare chest, Erik’s trousers and underwear tugged halfway down his thighs, cock thick, curved up to his belly. There’s an odd mark at his neck from the violin.
- Paris, France. October 1937.
There’s no sign of him for the next two weeks. Charles sits at the bar, waits, but he doesn’t come.
He’s sat poking at his lunch, rubbing the end of a piece of bread in a knob of butter.
The place is a bar at night, a café at midday. There are white marks on wood tables from wet glasses; brown marks on blue cushions from coffees. There’s a stain at one wall where someone’s spilt their cocktail.
He asks the girls about him. He’s Erik Lehnsherr, is what they say— journalist, came to Paris last year. Stayed at Madame’s B&B until he found his own place; just as Charles did a few months back. And they’re unsure where he is. Maybe Vienna, they say. Maybe not.
“He’s been in Prague before,” Ruth says. She’s smoking, one elbow on one of the round tables, feet up on the seat opposite her.
Gabrielle hums. They’ve closed for the afternoon, and she’s sweeping up crumbs.
“I think he mentioned Salzburg,” she says.
“Brave of him.” Ruth stubs out her cigarette. “Closer to the Fatherland than I’d like to be.”
He gets up early, does everyday, except Saturdays and Mondays, no lunch on Saturdays, no bar open Sundays, and he has to drag himself out of bed. He’ll crawl back into it when he’s done cleaning, read a book, maybe, wander ‘round the city come afternoon. The Bouquinistes by the river sell him books he can’t read; Shakespeare and Company on the rue de l’Odéon sell him books he can read.
When he was younger, imagining what he’d be when he was older, he was never a cleaner. Unclogging a sink that someone has vomited in; mopping up yellow tracks where men have missed their marks. He doesn’t much mind wiping the spilt drinks in the bar, the ashes that haven’t made it to their trays— it’s the bathrooms he hates. There’s no glamour to a saloon at eight in the morning. Not even in Paris.
[JOURNAL ENTRY, SAT 9 OCT]
Walked around le Marais again. Tried to sketch l’Hôtel de Ville. Didn’t go well. Haven’t been to the zoological gardens in a while— may go in the next week or so. Haven’t seen Erik yet. Maybe it’s the fact he speaks English, is queer, I want to see him again. Maybe it is his good looks. I hope to see him soon.
It’s a Monday this time. It isn’t busy. Charles is long done with Wilde by now, is reading James Joyce. The noise doesn’t bother him.
He hears him asking for a drink. Charles lifts his head.
“Hey,” he says. Erik turns. His mouth quirks. He looks tired.
“Hey,” he says. He thanks Gabrielle for the drink, whisky, again, and he says something in French. Charles is getting better, but he doesn’t catch it. He should have thought through coming to a country whose language he cannot speak.
Erik moves over to him, few steps it takes along the side of the bar. Charles smiles.
“How have you been?”
Erik shrugs. He doesn’t sit on one of the stools. “Good,” he says. He swirls his glass. “You?”
Charles nods. He hasn’t had anything to drink yet. He’s trying to cut back. Living above a saloon isn’t doing anything for his passed-down almost-alcoholism.
“Good,” he says. “I’ve been fine. Bored, but. I’ve been good.”
Erik hums. He looks down to Charles’ book. He lifts a hand to it— Charles edges it towards him.
“I read this when I was at university,” he says. He huffs, pushes it back to Charles. Charles sees the ink on his fingers, black stains in the grains of prints, tucked up under his nails. A journalist. “Too long,” Erik says. He nods at it. “The book.”
Charles flips through the pages. He can’t disagree. He’s stopped and started with it a few times now. He purses his lips.
“Want to go upstairs?”
The B&B he’d stayed at for the first month is a ten-minute walk from the bar. Chambre d’hôtes Mouret.
He’d spent an hour or so stumbling through the city, late June, big fat suitcase in his hand, big fat satchel over each shoulder. The boat made him sick and the train made him sleepy. The rain woke him up, soaked him through.
He’d found the B&B, big townhouse, cream, flowers on the doorstep, ivy crawling up one side, and the relief he’d felt at finding Madame Mouret, English-speaking, was enough to have him in a king-size bed half an hour later.
Madame hands him the sack of potatoes, knife on the side by the sink. It’s all he’s good for, peeling things— carrots, potatoes. He comes by at least once a week to help out.
Madame turns to him, hands dusting flour off on her apron. She says, “Are you staying for dinner?”
Charles hums. He peels a potato, careful of his fingers, brown skin of it falling into the water of the sink. He’s learnt his lesson by now; fingertips still pink from cuts and nicks.
“I think so,” he says. All that’s left in his kitchen is half a baguette, some soft cheese he doesn’t much like, some cold sliced beef. There’s a stale croissant in the breadbin he could warm up, put butter on.
“You think so,” Madame says. She looks to him. “Does that mean yes?”
Charles smiles. He nods. “Yes,” he says. She mothers him. All her kids flew the nest years ago. Her husband died in the war. “If you’ll have me.”
There are market stalls all over the city. Madame took him the day after he arrived; needed food for the days’ lunch, dinner. She taught him how to say beef, potatoes, chicken. He likes the word for potato. Pomme de terre. Apple of the ground. Earth apple. Des carottes, des oignons. There’s a stall that sells coffees from around the world. Another sells spices.
She’s sent him off with a list, today. Told him how to pronounce each and every word, who to ask; Monsieur Reno with the round glasses, the grey beard, Madame Brochet with the flower pinned to her dress, the ten different types of cheese.
He mostly goes to the same places over and over, the market, the zoological gardens, the familiar streets of the third arrondissement. He loves the buildings here, looking at them, sketching them. It’s how he spends his time. It’s simpler here than it ever was in London, in Oxford. Sometimes he misses the excitement of rallies. He’s seen groups of students here, stood in circles, holding banners, shouting through cupped hands.
Ruth told him the place is falling apart. A few years back saw the worst of it. 1934.
He stops at that strong smell of cheese. He smiles at the woman behind the piles of it, Madame Brochet, purple pansy pinned to her white apron.
“Deux cent cinquante grammes de Camembert, s’il vous plaît.”
They’d arranged to do something. Charles had asked, after the last time, the third time, and Erik had looked at him a while before saying yes.
He’d pulled his trousers on, bare feet sticking out the ends, and Charles couldn’t help watching. Just looking. The darkness of his room didn’t show much, curtains open, yellowing street light against Erik’s chest, hair sparse in the centre, circling around his nipples, paling, softening where it spreads down to his navel; below it darker, coarser.
“What did you have in mind?” he’d asked. Grabbed his shirt from the bottom of Charles’ bed.
“Not sure,” Charles had said. He felt teenage nervousness in his belly, butterflies. “Have you been to the zoological gardens in Vincennes?”
Erik had shaken his head, buttoned his shirt, rubbed hands through his hair.
“I go there to sketch the animals,” Charles said. “Would you like to go? They have monkeys. Elephants, wolves. Bears. Bears, too, lots of them, and—”
“I’ll meet you there.” Erik had smiled, cutting through Charles’ rambles. Charles’ stomach had settled and he smiled back, relieved, giddy with it in a way that would have him laying awake once Erik had left. “Next Friday. Noon. Okay?”
“Here,” Erik says. He stops by Charles’ side, reaches for the sketchbook. He tugs at the top of it, Charles lets it go. He hums. “You’re good.”
Charles grins. He preens in the light of compliments, always has, eager to please.
They’re stood by the wolves. Erik flips through the rest of the book, stopping at certain pages to look for longer, smudges of charcoal, ink. He pokes at the sketch of an elephant, smiles at the black tip of his finger. He looks up.
“Can I try?” he asks. He shrugs, wry turn at his mouth. “It won’t be very pretty, I must warn you.”
Charles nods, says, “Yeah, yes— of course. Here.” He hands over his pencil, graphite, this one, and he says, “Just don’t press too hard, it might snap.” He points at the blank page, smooths a hand over it. Their closeness has him feeling warm. “And lighter lines are easier. Just— look at the animal and then at the paper, and, well— draw what you see.”
Erik smiles. He does as he’s told, makes soft marks, and Charles puts his hands in his pockets, smiles to himself, at his shoes.
“I think I may have ruined your sketchbook,” Erik says. Charles huffs a laugh.
“Let me see,” he says.
Erik tilts the book, shows Charles the sketch. It’s more of a drawing, like Charles’ in school, proportions off. It’s not bad, a little wobbly, eyes two little black almonds. Charles nods.
“It’s good,” he says. He can see Erik smirking. “No,” he says, “it is, don’t look like that. It’s your first go. You’ll get better if you practice.”
Erik hums. He brings the book back to his chest, scribbles something below the wolf. His name.
“There,” he says. He hands it back to Charles, nods at it, says, “When I become a famous artist, you can sell that. Might get you out of cleaning toilets and tables.”
Charles laughs. He shakes his head, says, “Thank you.” He tucks the book back in his satchel, lifts his pencil to wave it at Erik. “I’ll make sure to keep it safe.”
Charles wants to kiss him. Out here, walking for the Métro, on the Métro, elbow to elbow on the balustrade by the river. He’s fairly sure the social graces of Paris match those of London. Some people care. Some people don’t. It’s better if he doesn’t. But oh, he wants to.
This is the first time that they fuck. Charles will scratch the date down in his journal, in his head, keep it there.
He’s on his back, legs spread wide, Erik between them. His chest feels tight, Erik’s face hovering only inches above his, whites of his eyes a strange glow. Charles pants as Erik’s hips roll. The bed creaks.
Erik groans, low, quiet, and Charles watches his eyebrows furrow, his teeth grit.
“Erik,” Charles says. He hooks his feet around Erik’s waist, hand at the back of Erik’s head, holding him down to his neck, holding him still. He breathes, nose scrunching, it’s been a while since the last time, says, “Give me a minute.”
He feels Erik grin against his throat. His hips cant forward, barely, and Charles scratches nails into Erik’s scalp, moans. Erik lifts his head; Charles lets him.
“Alright?”
Charles nods. He leans upward, weight on one forearm. Erik’s mouth is soft, his movements gentle. He tastes of the scotch Charles had grabbed before they’d come upstairs.
Charles lifts a hand to Erik’s face, rough with end-of-the-day stubble, cups his jaw, fingers below his ear.
He presses harder, teeth biting at Erik’s lips, heels digging at the small of Erik’s back. His head drops back and his eyes shut when Erik thrusts, hard. The fingers of one hand curl up in the bedsheets, others scraping down to mark lines in Erik’s shoulder blade.
“More,” he says. “I’m ready, now, Erik— more, please.”
Erik looks down at him. His cock is thick, long; hot where it pushes in, out. It feels good where he moves, slow, a drag that almost burns with pleasure. Charles breathes through his nose. Erik doesn’t say anything, just moves back on his knees, hands tight on Charles’ thighs where he pulls them apart.
He’s beautiful. He’s lean, stomach flat, hair dark against his winter-pale skin.
Charles curves his back upwards, gives Erik better leverage, better access, and his breaths are short as Erik fucks into him, gritted teeth, the bed moving beneath them. The sound of the headboard against the wall has Charles laughing, breathless, and Erik has a grin on his face.
He moves his hands from Charles’ legs, drops down, length of his torso pressed to Charles’, Charles’ cock caught between them, a deep ache. His mouth pants open, Erik’s chin against his. He meets Erik’s eyes. He moves to kiss him, but Erik tips his head away.
There’s a smirk, hands wrapping around Charles’ wrists, pinned either side of his head. His hips roll, a slow push-pull, and Charles’ skin is sweaty, tight, and he can barely breathe, panting, moaning.
“Erik,” he says. The bottoms of his feet slip at Erik’s thighs. He moves to meet Erik’s thrusts. “Erik.”
Erik presses his mouth to Charles’ shoulder, open, wet. He moves along Charles collarbone, his throat. Charles is caught between Erik’s mouth and Erik’s cock; he swears he can feel the head of it, thicker, it’s driving him mad.
He moves against Erik’s hold on his wrists; Erik keeps one, lets one go. His hand grabs a fistful of Erik’s hair. He feels Erik grunt against his skin, a vibration, his teeth nipping into Charles’ earlobe.
It’s Erik who comes first, his thrusts harsher, faster. His movements are restless; he drives his cock deep as he moans, over, over. His face scrunches; Charles paws at it, free hands, pushing hair back, stroking at sweat-slick cheeks, forehead.
He feels it, the warmth of it, inside of him.
“Erik,” he says.
Erik presses his face to the side of Charles’, to Charles’ hair, moans. Charles’ hands move to Erik’s backside, nails digging in, pulling him deeper, still.
He pants against Erik’s neck. He feels almost claustrophobic, can barely breathe, Erik all around him, against his chest, his throat, face. He grins to himself, up at the ceiling, nose twitching as Erik pulls out, string of pain flashing up his back.
Erik kisses him, once, then starts down. Down Charles’ chin to his belly. Charles moans, loud, neck arching back. Erik’s mouth is at his cock, hot, wet; Charles’ lungs feel tight, ready to burst.
“God.” He says it, again; says Erik’s name.
His toes curl. Erik sucks at the head of his dick, swallows down, fingers pushing up and into him, filling him up again, all wet inside with Erik’s come.
He cries out, gasping for air. He comes and Erik takes it, takes Charles’ cock all the way down; smiles when he pulls off, grins like a cat. Charles grabs his shoulders and brings him to his face.
[JOURNAL ENTRY, FRI 22 OCT SAT 23 OCT]
I dare to think Paris has worked its magic. I didn’t intend for it to do so…I feel the childish giddiness in me, the butterflies in my stomach. Maybe I am getting too far ahead of myself, I cannot help it.
Today we went to the zoological gardens. I suppose it is not today any longer, it is tomorrow, Saturday, the clock by my bed reads 12:40. He is beside me— Erik, sleeping. I write by the light of the tiny lamp. He makes soft noises. He has to wake early for Shabbat service, the same one the girls attend. That awful connection was made in my head— he is Jewish, he is German. I didn’t say anything and I did not ask anything— what is there to say, after all?
We wandered the streets for a while after the zoo. He showed me the Pletzl, le Marais’ Jewish quarter. We ate at a Kosher café, shared sweet wine. It was nice.
And tonight, oh, tonight we slept together. Not just mouths, hands. I feel sore in the best way, ache snug along my spine. We will meet again after the Synagogue.
They’re meeting at a café along the rue de Rosiers. Charles is sat at a table outside, despite the cold, the October breeze. He waits, stirring a spoon in a fancy French coffee, metal clinking the side of the cup.
He’s always been too fast to fall. In school it took him less than a week to fall for the prefect two years ahead of him; in London it took three days for the man who punched a fascist flat in the face at Cable Street, just over a year ago. His heart is fickle. He’d fall a little for the Métro conductor if they gave him a smile. But this is different. Maybe; somehow.
His chest tightens when Erik arrives, long grey overcoat, skullcap still sat at the back of his head. He smiles.
“I must say, I admire your bravery,” Erik says. Charles looks at him. “Coming here with none of the language.”
Charles hums. “Not sure it’s bravery,” he says. “Maybe more stupidity. A lack of thinking on my behalf.”
Erik huffs a laugh. It’s soft, barely there.
The café is dark, deep red walls having the place cosy. They sit at the back corner, quiet, painting of the street outside pinned to the wall beside them. The table is small enough to have their knees almost touching. There’s a plate of crêpes between them to share.
Erik pulls one in front of him. “I could help,” he says. He dips his chin, says, “With your French. I started learning when I was about six. It’s not so bad, once you get used to every other word sounding the same.”
Charles smiles. There’s that warmth in his gut.
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to— well, waste your time.” He shrugs, says, “The girls have tried, believe me, but all I’ve gotten out of that is swearwords and chat-up lines.”
Erik raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” he says. He tears off a part of his crêpe. “Go on.”
Charles licks at his teeth, fights off a grin. “Okay,” he says. He thinks. His memory is like a sieve. He looks at Erik’s eyes, thinks, says, “On va chez vous ou chez moi? Erm.” His accent is useless. There’s a long pause after each word, syllables stretched out, he couldn’t look more like a clueless Englishman if he tried. “Vous venez ici souvent? Voulez-vous danser avec moi?”
Erik snorts a laugh, a snigger with no malice, shakes his head. “Très bien,” he says. “Those phrases come in useful?”
Charles shakes his head, “No, not at all. Unless you’d like to dance?”
Erik smiles. Soft, no teeth. “Maybe later,” he says.
Charles is left with the last crêpe. He’s grown too fond of them, would eat them come morning, noon, evening, if he could.
“What part of England are you from?”
Charles takes a bite, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. All table manners were left at the family home. It’s an odd sense of freedom. He’s got his elbows on the table.
“Oxford,” he says. “Lived in London awhile. But Oxford was where I was born, raised. Hence the accent.”
Erik smiles. “My sister moved there,” he says. “England. Same time I came here.”
“Yeah?” Charles says. “Whereabouts?” He finishes the crêpe, washes it down with his coffee, still warm, bitter enough to scrunch his nose.
“Manchester,” Erik says. “Salford, by the river. Old haunt of Engels.”
Charles nods. He’s been to Manchester before, a few times, buses full of men and women with placards, badges.
“Manchester’s nice,” he says. “The people there, too.” He rests his cheek in a palm, head tilted. “How come you didn’t move there?”
Erik lifts a shoulder, lazy shrug, says, “I prefer Paris. She didn’t particularly care where she went, as long as it was out of Germany. And her husband has friends there, in England.” He huffs. “She wanted me to go with them. Farther away, Channel between there and Hitler. But I like it here. Always have.”
Part of Charles wants to ask what made them move. He already knows, of course he does, but something in him still wants to ask it, wants Erik to tell him; wants to know all of Erik he can. He doesn’t. He asks, “Is she your only sibling?”
Erik nods. “Older. Smarter, too,” he says. “Got herself a husband and a kid before everything went to hell.”
Charles can’t help a smile. “You’re an uncle?”
Erik looks at him, wry little curl to his mouth. “Yes,” he says.
“Niece or nephew?”
“Niece,” Erik says. “Madeleine. Maddie— she’ll be five come January.” He scratches at the side of his jaw, looks almost sad, for a second. “What about you?” he asks; looks to Charles. “Siblings?”
Charles shakes his head. “No,” he says. “A stepbrother who’s better left unmentioned. That’s it.”
“What do you do?” Charles asks. “The girls told me you’re a journalist, but— what? What do you write about?”
Erik shrugs. He’s got both hands around his cup, says, “Politics, mostly. Social issues. War. I’ve got friends in Spain who send me letters. We publish them.”
Charles looks at him. “I have friends there, too. International Brigades.” Erik nods. “Did you think about it?” Charles asks. “Going there?” he says. “Spain?”
“I’ve thought about it,” Erik says. He huffs, sarcastic twist of his mouth. “I thought about it for a long time, but I have my work here; have enough on my plate with Nazis. I’m not sure there’s much room for any more fascists.” He looks to Charles, sips at his drink, asks, “You?”
Charles nods, yes, he’d thought about it. He’s thinking about what Erik just said, his work here; Nazis. They’ve always felt like some fairytale villain to him; in England they were nothing but a horror story too far away to seem real. Here they’re closer.
“I thought about it, when everyone else was leaving,” he says. He watches Erik’s hands, his fingers, a slow, soundless tap against the porcelain, palms big enough to split it. “Last December. But part of me has always been a coward; I don’t think I could do that.” He looks at his own hands. “Fight a war. Use guns.”
“Not even against fascists?”
There’s a strange look on Erik’s face. Charles isn’t sure what to say.
He says, “I don’t know.”
His feet take him further into the city than they have before. He feels restless.
Why hadn’t he gone to Spain? His friends had asked, last year, when they were packing their bags— their sunglasses for the Spanish summer to come. They’d thought nothing of it, it was so obvious that they had to go, that the fight wasn’t just Spain’s— was theirs, too. But he was scared. He still is, at the thought of it; how easy it would be to die, left forgotten in the ditches of a country he’d never seen before.
In England it was easier, it was simpler, there were no guns and no militiamen, just the Blackshirts and their razor flat caps; the London streets and the fistfights. There’s a scar down his forearm where a blade had cut through his jacket and his shirt; pink, faded. It was easy, to be young and radical in London, where everything was only bruises and sharp edges.
He thinks of his friends in the hillsides, lost, bullet wounds. He doesn’t think he’s ready to die for the cause. He thinks Erik is; almost knows Erik is. And Charles is drawn to it. It’s strange.
The Jardin des Plantes is a part of the National History Museum. The Muséum national d’Histoire naturelle. Charles has never been, has never known it was there, just across the Seine, but it is.
“They have a small zoo,” Erik says. “I thought you’d like it.”
Charles grins, can’t help it. “I do,” he says. “Thank you.”
They walk among the gardens, the flowers, the shrubs, trees. Charles has his sketchbook, stops every now and then. He’s like a child in a sweet shop. They’ll have to come again in the spring, in the sun. There are clouds and some flowers aren’t flowering.
“Have you been?” Erik asks. “The museum?”
Charles shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’m not entirely certain why. I went to the one in London about once a fortnight. The staff all knew me by name.” He smiles to himself. “But how is it,” he asks, “the one here? Any good?”
Erik nods, looks down at the tortoises. Their stumpy legs rise, drop, slow. They eat lettuce leaves and greens and the orange of chopped carrots.
“I’ve not been to the one in London,” Erik says. “But I imagine they’re on par with one another. I’m surprised you haven’t been. Too busy cleaning toilets?”
Charles elbows him; he huffs a laugh.
“Maybe we could go,” Charles says. He’s drawn three of the tortoises. They might be his favourite. Lumpy, craggy. He looks to Erik, smiles. “If you’d like to.”
Erik smiles back at him, small, says, “I’d like to.”
- Paris, France. November 1937.
November comes easy. He spends at least two nights a week with Erik— most times three, four— above the saloon, sated, happy.
There are some nights when Erik talks. He’s not sure where it comes from. But he likes those nights. They’ll both be staring up at the ceiling, and Erik will talk, keep talking, won’t stop. There’s nothing important in there, not really, just childhood tales, favourite books, breaking Nazi Party windows with university friends.
Charles stays the night at Erik’s flat for the first time. The building is a maze, a rabbit warren, he could get lost; too many rooms, too many doors. There are photos by Erik’s bed, old, creased; about half a dozen apples in the bowl by the kitchen sink. Red and yellow ones. It feels like Erik, there.
He knows he’s falling; almost fallen. He can’t help himself, as always, too fast; he looks at Erik and he listens to Erik and he thinks, oh, I’m so glad to be here.
One night Erik takes him to the opera, told him he had to go, at least once; a classic Parisian experience.
They grow bored midway through the first half. Erik’s hand is on Charles’ thigh, hidden in the darkness of the theatre, and Charles can’t concentrate on anything else. He’s sure the woman with the large breasts heaving out the top of her dress is a wonderful singer, but Erik’s hand is warm, right at the crease at the top of his leg. Charles drags him out as soon as the curtain falls for the interlude.
He’s never had sex in a theatre before. Erik smirks at him as Charles shoves him in a toilet cubicle.
“Not a fan of opera, then?” he says. Charles shuts him up with hands in his hair, tongue in his mouth.
“He’d just come back from Warsaw the day before you met him,” Gabrielle says. It’s early, 8PM, Tuesday. The place isn’t busy. There’s a stool behind the bar they keep for when it’s quiet. She sits on it, elbows on the bar top. “A few weeks before that was Vienna. He’s been coming and going since he got here. Poland, Austria, Hungary. Czechoslovakia. Mostly Austria. It’s bad there.”
They taught her how to speak English at school. She kept on with it through university. Her accent pokes through.
“Is it dangerous?”
She shakes her head; stops. “Well,” she says. She looks up from her game of cards— patience. Charles won’t play pontoon with her. He’s learnt his lesson, too many lost bets. “It’s safer than Germany,” she says. “But not as safe as here.” She shrugs. “Nazis.”
Charles rubs under his nose. The word smarts.
“Why does he go?” he asks. “If it’s dangerous?”
“It’s not dangerous,” Gabrielle says. She sighs, has reached a dead end with her game. The cards scrape as she drags them together, makes a pile, shuffles them. “It’s not like he’s walking into warzones. Worst he’s ever come back is a black eye and a bruise the shape of Africa on his stomach.”
Charles frowns. “Could you translate some of his articles for me?”
He’s sought them out, in the newsletters, found his name, tiny, beneath headlines he can’t understand: ERIK LEHNSHERR.
Gabrielle looks at him. “Why?” she asks. She deals out her cards again. “Can he not do it for you?”
“Well, yes, but— I don’t know,” Charles says. He shrugs, scratches at the back of his neck. “I don’t want to bother him. Or seem like I’m trying to shove my nose where it’s not wanted.”
He doesn’t want to pry— Erik hasn’t shown him any of his articles, hasn’t mentioned any of them; Charles doesn’t want to misstep, make a mistake. It’s sensitive, maybe, this issue of politics, of Nazis.
Gabrielle hums. “Fine,” she says. “But only a few. And you buy me some of those chocolates at the market.”
Charles smiles. “Deal.”
There are letters from men in Spain. Gabrielle’s handwriting is scrawled, messy. Charles has to squint in places.
‘They have taken all of Northern Spain. We retreated to Barcelona a few days ago. A comrade of mine, Marcel, is lost. I have not seen him for weeks— I fear he is dead. The city here is so beautiful and they are going to destroy it. I haven’t slept properly for months and the other day I saw a man’s gut spilt out like lines of string. They have Hitler and Mussolini, we have nothing— when Blum turned his back we knew this would be hard. The Soviets are not helping as much as they should, I fear without them we will lose. The Brigades can only do so much without airpower, without tanks.’
There’s an article about a trip to Vienna, a few months back, a tobacconist’s shop with smashed windows, pig’s blood thrown across its front— Jude. A man stabbed the day before, children bullied, synagogues defaced. Charles’ stomach turns with it.
There’s a bar on the rue Daunou that’s owned by an American, Harry’s New York Bar. The one Hemingway drank at. Now even he is in Spain.
They take the long way there, almost an hour spent wandering, walking alongside the river. Their fingers brush, shoulders together. They pass the Musée du Louvre. It’s dark, is getting darker earlier, now, but everywhere is lit up. They can see the tower.
“I need to tell you something,” Erik says. His hair is out of place from the wind. Charles looks at him across their table.
“What?”
Erik itches at an eyebrow. “I’m going back to Vienna,” he says. “I don’t know when. Not yet. But within the next three weeks.”
“Oh,” Charles says. He can’t say he’s surprised, has been waiting for it, almost; all those times the girls have mentioned, all the places Erik has been. He bubbles with nerves. “Okay. Is everything alright over there?”
Erik huffs. He’s got his elbows leant on the table, chin resting on the knuckles of one hand, other busy with a glass of whisky.
“Not particularly,” he says. His fingers move to scratch at his jaw, a few days unshaven, stubble rasping against his skin. “I’ve had a letter from a friend.” He rubs at his forehead. “They want me to go back and see what’s going on. My editor has okayed another article.”
See what’s going on. More pig’s blood? Smashed windows? Stabbed men?
Charles nods. He chews at the inside of his cheek, toes curling in his shoes.
“Will you be there long?”
Erik shrugs. He gulps down half his glass. “Don’t think so,” he says. For once, they’re not the only ones speaking English. Charles can hear it around the room, American accents. “I’m not certain, but I don’t think so.”
“You’ll be safe?” Charles asks. It blurts its way out of him; Erik’s eyes snap up from his drink. “I’ve read some of your articles,” Charles says. “It doesn’t sound very safe.”
There’s a twitch at the corner of Erik’s mouth. His eyebrow quirks with it. “How’ve you read those?” he asks. “Have you been learning French behind my back?”
Charles can’t help a smile. He can never keep serious for long, even when he needs to, when he intends to.
“Gabrielle translated them for me,” he says. Erik nods his head, ah, sips his whisky. “But you will?” Charles asks. “You’ll be safe?”
Erik nods, again, soft movement of his chin. “I’ll be fine,” he says.
Erik’s place is closer. They go back there, it’s a Friday night, Charles doesn’t have to be awake early to clean, Erik can walk five minutes to his synagogue come 9AM.
They stumble along the streets. Charles is drunk, the happy kind, and Erik is tipsy, keeps smiling, grinning, will have lines there when he stops.
He’s glad he came here. To Paris. He misses London, his friends, but they’re carrying on without him, most of them in Spain, in Catalonia. Everything is that little bit simpler here; he gets what feels like love and his friends get war. He knows it was their choice. But he finds himself thinking about it, lying awake, looking at the ceiling, at the walls, turning over and looking at the nape of Erik’s neck. There’s a right and a wrong in all this fight; he feels a coward.
He stays in bed late. He hears Erik leave, just before nine, a brush of fingers through his hair.
He’s woken when Erik returns, kisses to the side of his face, hand reaching down under the covers. Charles grins. He opens his eyes to Erik smirking at him.
- Paris, France. December 1937.
The buzz of the city hovers around him. Some days he feels as though he’s drowning in it, surrounded by a language he’s not yet learnt, a culture he’s not yet part of. He’s learning, Erik a good teacher, but it’s taking time. He loses patience with it every now and then.
His first winter in Paris is growing closer. The nights are colder; only most nights there’s a body beside him, keeping him warm like the cat by the fire.
“Erik,” he says. He’s not entirely sure what time it is. He wraps himself further in the blanket, the duvet, plastering himself to Erik’s back. “Erik.”
He hears a sigh. “What?”
“What time are you leaving?”
He dips his head, nose pressing at the bottom of Erik’s neck, where shoulder blades meet.
“One,” Erik says. His voice is thick with sleep; Charles can feel it when he yawns.
“Okay,” Charles says.
They go quiet, and it isn’t long before there’s the soft sound of Erik’s snores, open-mouthed breaths that leave wet patches on the pillows.
The day’s come. He’s going to Vienna. Only for a week. He’s had more letters from more friends that say things are getting worse. Things are getting worse, what more is to come?
Charles goes with him to the station. They’d kissed when Charles had finished work, arms aching, still half-asleep, and Erik had hovered over him and dragged himself down Charles’ front, mouthing at his throat, his nipples, his belly, his baby fat. He’d sucked Charles’ cock, Charles’ back arching inwards, outwards. Left him boneless.
“I’ll see you next week,” Erik says. He’s wearing his hat. The stupid black pork pie one. “Tell the girls I said bye— and that I’ll bring them something back.”
Charles smiles. “Will do,” he says. He watches Erik haul his suitcase onto the carriage. “Bring back some food.”
Erik grins at him. There’s something in his eyes that Charles can’t place; it worries him. He wants to grab hold of Erik’s sleeve and pull him out onto the platform, just as the whistle blows, as the train leaves.
“Don’t worry,” Erik says. “Madame told me all about your sweet tooth, remember?”
They can’t kiss, not here. Charles steps forwards, fistful of Erik’s coat sleeve.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says. Erik looks at him. “I mean it.”
[JOURNAL ENTRY, SUN 5 DEC]
He has been gone three days. Only three days. And yet it feels strange not to have seen him in that long. It feels colder waking up along. It is boring without someone to talk to. I’ve grown used to it, especially over the last month, and I like it. I want him back here. I wonder if I’d have fallen for him anywhere else. I think I would have. Paris has just exacerbated it, maybe, made it faster. It feels like living in a fairytale with the big bad wolf just across the border.
Madame has him cleaning. He’s found himself back with more spare time, restless, wants Erik back. He wonders the streets and eats pastries. He thinks it might snow soon.
It’s been eleven days. It was supposed to be a week, ten days, at most, but he’s still not here, he still hasn’t come back.
Charles paces the length of the bar. There’s an awful feeling in him that’s been there since day nine; it won’t leave him. Gabrielle watches. She’s caught between frowning and smirking, doesn’t know whether he’s funny or pathetic.
“Sit down,” she says.
Charles ignores her. He walks over to Ruth, the piano. He smiles at people as he passes them, regulars.
He leans on his forearms on the piano’s top board, says, “Have you heard anything from Erik?”
Ruth looks up, looks at him awhile. She shakes her head, fingers still playing. “Still nothing,” she says. “I’m sorry, Charles.”
“What about at the synagogue?” he asks. He wants to know. Wants to hear that Erik is safe, Erik is fine, he’s just been busy. Lots of friends to see, people to talk to.
Ruth just shakes her head again.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Charles frowns. He stands straight, runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know what to do. His mind keeps running away from him.
“He’ll be fine,” Ruth says. Charles looks to her. She gives a smile. Her hair is tied in a bun at the back of her neck, shiny brown, curls loose to frame her face. “He’s been before. And he’s been worse places before. Just wait,” she says. “He’ll be back,” she says. “He’ll be fine,” she says.
Charles lies awake; stares at the ceiling. He’d been back to Erik’s building. The concierge told him the same thing she did a few days ago— she hasn’t seen Erik.
He sighs, turns on his side, tucks the duvet close to himself.
There’s a letter waiting for him when he comes down to clean, Thursday. It’s been two weeks.
He recognises the handwriting, his name on the envelope, his address, the saloon. He tears it open with his fingers, paper splitting. He swears as it cuts his skin.
Charles,
I’m sorry. Seeing what I saw in Vienna has made me realise this is no time to be in love. It has snapped me back to reality— war is coming; I cannot be in love with you when it will end in blood.
All I can say is sorry. I’d ask for your forgiveness, but I do not deserve it.
Thank you for the past few months. I hope you find someone and something better. I’m sorry for wasting your time.
Erik.
His hands twitch. He reads it again; again. He knew something was wrong, that look in Erik’s eyes— damned Vienna, what has he seen this time? More pig’s blood? Murder? Jude?
He feels himself welling up, hot behind his eyes. He shoves the letter back in its envelope and leaves it on the bar top. He goes to clean.
The girls know. They mix him drinks, play him songs. Gabrielle smiles at him.
It jars him. They’d been a routine, the two of them, he’d grown used to it. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Too fast, all over again. Maybe this is just what Paris is— love affairs, flings, walks along the Seine. He feels heartbroken and lovesick like a child; he can’t help it. War is coming, I cannot be in love with you…What kind of damned excuse, war, when it isn’t even here?
There’s a stand at the corner where two streets meet, five minutes walk away, near the bakery that sells cheap macaroons, and they sell English newspapers, magazines.
Charles sits and reads one, sits in the back of the bakery and stuffs his face.
There’s an article written by a correspondent who’d just spent a week in Munich. Charles’ chest aches as he reads it, tale familiar, Nazis, Nazis, Hitler Youth, Juden. He turns the pages to similar news, taxation of German emigrants increasing, Jews paying out thousands just to escape their own homes. The world is going mad and what is he to do about it?
He comes back on Christmas Eve. It hasn’t snowed.
He comes when Charles is dancing. There’s no reason for it, except it’s Christmas Eve. There’s no excuse for it, except it’s Christmas Eve.
He doesn’t know exactly what it is he’s dancing to. It’s one of Gabrielle’s old records, on Gabrielle’s old record player. He thinks it’s Maurice Chevalier. He’s not sure. He doesn’t particularly care, tumbler of gin held tight in one hand. The bottle sits near empty beside the turntable.
His body is loose; feet bare on the living room rug. He stops when he hears knocking.
The bar downstairs is closed. It’s late, not many people come to a saloon on Christmas Eve; no point in hanging around to serve two people, is what Gabrielle had said.
Charles hums to himself. He turns the music down.
Maybe one of the girls needs something. They have the keys to the back door; need them to get up the stairs and to his flat, through the alleyway.
He sets his glass down on the sideboard, doesn’t bother fastening his shirt; it hangs open at his chest, top four buttons undone. His hair is stuck up from his hands running through it.
The knocking at his door turns louder, someone banging their fist against it.
“Alright,” he says. “Jesus Christ.”
He undoes the chain, opens the door.
He stops. He’s wavering on his tiptoes, unsteady; drops back down, feet flat.
Erik lifts a hand. “Salut.”
Charles frowns. He stands there, surprise welling up in him. Erik, woollen hat, scarf.
He should close the door. Go back to dancing, drinking, Maurice Chevalier, this never happened. But he doesn’t.
The thinks to himself, looks at Erik, his jumper, his coat, his face beaten red by wind, by cold, and oh, sod it. The alcohol dares him, heart caught in his throat. He reaches for Erik, grabs a cheek in each palm, cold skin prickling. He pulls Erik down to kiss.
Erik startles. Charles feels him lift his arms; his hands hover between them.
Charles presses closer, two of them stood in the doorway, frame around, above, and Erik presses back, cool hands in the front of Charles’ shirt, backs of cool fingers brushing Charles’ chest, jolts. Charles screws his eyes shut, Erik is back, Erik is here, forget the letter, he’s here.
Erik dips his head, mouth dropping from Charles’. Charles breathes. He moves his hands, kisses a cheekbone, the lid of an eye, an eyebrow.
“Stop,” Erik says. His arms move down to his sides only to come back, push Charles away. “Charles— stop. Enough.”
His voice is what stops him. Charles steps back, feels his anger ebbing forward, God, how he shouldn’t have had so much gin.
“What?” he says. “What are you here for, then? What do you want, if not a fuck? To say goodbye in person? Leave and never come back?”
Erik reaches towards him, towards an outstretched arm, but Charles pulls it back, snaps it to his chest.
“Charles, I’m sorry.”
He looks the same. It’s only been three weeks; he takes off his hat— his hair is starting to grow longer, starting to curl at the nape of his neck, strands loose, framing his face where the weather has had its way. But he’s the same. His stubble has grown out, russet red, he looks like a fisherman. Charles swallows.
“You said that in your letter,” he says.
Erik looks down; like a chided child. “I know,” he says. “I’m not good at— I’ve never—” He stops. He looks back up. “Can I come in?”
Charles stares at him. He wants Erik to come in— he wants Erik in his bed, between his legs, his arms. And what’s to stop him? What does any of it matter?
He walks backwards. He doesn’t say anything, just turns, walks to his bedroom.
There’s a quietness. Then the sound of the door, of the lock, Erik’s feet down the hallway.
“I didn’t come here for this,” he says. He’s taken his shoes off. His hands twist in his hat.
Charles pulls his shirt off over his head, easy with the buttons undone. Erik watches him. God, Charles wants him.
“For what?” Charles asks. He stands by the edge of his bed, watches Erik’s cheeks move with the clench of his jaw, his fingers tighten and loosen in the wool of his hat.
“I need to tell you something,” Erik says.
Charles shakes his head, moves to Erik, grabs his coat and starts tugging, pulling, says, “You can tell me after.”
Erik huffs, hands at Charles’ elbows. “Charles—”
“Shut up,” Charles says. “Just— shut up.”
He feels high, past-tipsy with gin, Erik above him, inside him, warm breath against his neck.
They’re curled around each other, Charles’ hands around Erik’s back, so close they’re hot in the cold of the room. Charles shuts his eyes, mouth wet, he’s so relieved he could cry with it. His anger seeps out of him and he cries out, hand around his cock. He wants this forever.
The post-coital silence settles around them, empty, half-awkward.
“I’m sorry,” Erik says. “About the letter, I thought— I thought I could stay away, cut it cold turkey. But I couldn't. I can’t.”
Charles doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what to say. He nudges a leg between Erik’s, edges himself closer.
“I don’t go to all these places because I’m a journalist,” Erik says. “I don’t just go to write articles, see friends, I—”
He sighs; shifts himself up to sit, knees tucked to his chest. Charles watches him, his hands rubbing over his cheeks, through his hair, there’s this haunted look on his face. He looks younger, like this. Charles moves to sit beside him.
“I’m sorry,” Erik says, again. “I’m no good at— at this. Talking. My sister used to call me a robot.”
Charles smiles, soft; what else is he to do? He wishes Erik never left to Vienna, those weeks ago, he wishes this last month away; he wishes the Nazis away, why are the fascists all here, now, just when he and Erik are? Why is the timing so cruel?
“We’re trying to build a resistance,” Erik says. “Against Nazis. Fascists. We’ve stockpiled guns, weapons— hidden them in safe places. We’ve smuggled people out of Germany, brought them here. Four came back with me this time.”
Charles looks at him. “A resistance?”
Erik nods, pulls a hand harsh through his hair. Charles sees it tug at his scalp.
“The things they told me, Charles.” He closes his eyes, scrubs at one of them. “I left before they could arrest me, but everyone I know, everyone I left behind— they’ve been round up. I haven’t heard from my parents in months.” He looks to Charles, big eyes, says, “It’s bad. Everything is going to hell.”
He tells Charles of all the people he meets, the ones in Prague, Warsaw, Kraków, Budapest— all over, they have the same stories. Communists, Jews, homosexuals. Ones who fled Germany, whose families have disappeared, in camps, in graves, in ditches. Everything is getting worse and they’re just waiting for the punchline.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Charles asks. He’d understand— he does, he does. “Before— why didn’t you just tell me? That damned letter, Erik—”
“I know,” Erik says. “I know. I’m sorry.” He offers a smile, timid. Charles grits his teeth, bites his tongue, I’m sorry. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to drag you into it, I didn’t think I’d need to— when this started, that night at the saloon, I thought it would just be sex, I thought— I didn’t think it would be this.”
Charles frowns.
“I thought it would be easy to leave,” Erik says. “It wasn’t.”
“So what?” Charles says. “You just want sex? Nothing else, just sex, and you can leave whenever you want?”
Erik looks up at him, shakes his head, no, says, “No, Charles, I— Christ. I want you. I want you, I do, all of it, what all these other damned Parisian lovers have, but I— I need you to know that there’s a war coming. And don’t say there isn’t.” Charles shuts his mouth. “Because there is. There is, and when it comes, I won’t be staying here, and war— it ruins things. It’s no place for lovers.”
Charles just looks at him, this stupid earnest look in his eyes, everything so black and white, so bleak beyond the borders, and he doesn’t want to think about a war, or when it will come— he doesn’t want to think about Erik leaving, only Erik staying. War isn’t here, not yet.
“But you’ll stay,” he says. “As long as war isn’t here. You’ll stay.”
Erik looks at him, his fingers fidgeting; Charles grabs hold of them.
He knows, of course he does, as much as he wants to stick his head in the sand, sometimes, as easy as it’s been to ignore it all, hideaway in Paris, in Erik’s arms, God, he knows.
Erik nods his head. “I’ll still need to go back,” he says. “To Vienna— to wherever.”
“But you’ll tell me,” Charles says. “You’ll tell me where you go— what you do. Maybe I can help.”
Erik’s face softens. In this low light he looks like an old painting, baroque, Charles could look at him forever.
“Yes,” he says.
- Paris, France. January 1938.
He escapes New Year’s without injury. They get drunk downstairs, with the rest of the crowd, and Charles says it as 1937 turns into 1938.
“I love you,” he says. Sloppy with alcohol, hands pawing at Erik’s face, he says it, over and over, “I love you. Je t’aime. Ich liebe dich. I—”
Erik ducks his head, kisses him, once, to shut him up. They’d spent the last few days together, only separated for work, for the Synagogue, and Erik had told him everything. All of it, from its ugly beginnings those years ago, to the Nuremberg Laws, the beatings, the camps and the crackdowns. Charles had told him about Cable Street, just to see him smile.
Erik walks forward, nudging Charles back down the hallway of his flat, fingers fiddling to undo the buttons of Charles’ shirt. His face is smooth where he’s shaven, where Charles reaches for, forgetting, the fisherman whiskers gone.
It’s past 3AM. They’ve been drinking since ten o’clock, gin, wine, champagne at midnight.
“Bed,” Erik says. He yawns, wide stretch of his mouth. His breath smells of vodka.
Charles concedes to him, lets Erik undress him, lazy. They sleep, too drunk, too tired for anything else, Erik curled along Charles’ back, nose in Charles’ hair. Charles smiles to himself in the dark, head swimming.