Kutkhay had been given to his new master by his father in law, mainly to be his secretary, as he was a learned and handsome slave. Since Mr. Hogwood did not want his slaves to wear the old liveries with breeches, jabot, and wig, and also because of the role the boy had to play, he had some suits made for Kutkhay, simple but elegant, in the current fashion. Thus the boy had his first frock coat and his first top hat. So dressed he really didn't seem to be a slave any more.
In the first days Mr. Hogwood explained carefully to his slave-secretary what his tasks were, took Kutkhay downtown with him so that he got to know the places he might have to go, and put a small desk in the library for him. As the boy often had to run errands for his master, he now enjoyed a certain amount of freedom. During the first days he managed to send another letter to his young master to tell him his present residence, sorrowfully begging him to come and take him back.
After he had been with Mr. Hogwood for more than a month, he was already carrying out his new tasks quite well. He was not unhappy, his new master was happy with him and treated him fine, but Kutkhay continued to miss Patrick all the same. The more he thought of him, the more he felt that he was terribly in love with him. Even if Patrick had not wanted to make love, just being at his side would have been enough for Kutkhay.
One afternoon Kutkhay was returning home after his errands when he got the impression that a young man, dressed with extreme simplicity but indefinable elegance, was following him. He was an interesting type, well proportioned, and Kutkhay felt attracted to him at once. Since he was not really sure the other was following him, he stopped in front of a shop window and pretended to look at the goods display so that he could see the man's reflection on the glass.
The young man stopped at his side and at once, with a frank smile but without effrontery, asked him: "Are you a newcomer in this town, sir?"
Kutkhay turned to look at him, somewhat taken aback by his daring, but gently answered: "In a sense, I am. I have lived here less than two months... But I am not a 'sir', sir, I am just a slave."
The young man raised one eyebrow, looked at him, and said: "You a slave? But you are a white man, and dressed like one to boot... Are you pulling my leg, sir?"
Kutkhay shook his head in amusement: "No, I may seem to be a white man but I am not. I am the slave of Mr. Hogwood, Junior, and I am his secretary."
"Ah, the lawyer, I know who he is. But it seems impossible that you are a slave, and not just because of the color of your skin nor for your attire, even if you are better dressed than me, but also for your countenance -- you have really fine and gentle traits, noble, really beautiful."
Kutkhay noticed the unconscious shift to a more familiar manner of address, and smiled: "Anyway, I am just a slave, sir."
The young man smiled in turn, and said: "My name is Andrey Kotnich. Yours?"
"Goldie, sir."
"Goldie... and then?"
"Goldie and stop. I never had a family name, sir, I am just a slave."
"You know, I am a painter, and was looking at you... I would like you to come and pose for me."
"I don't think that could be possible, sir. I don't think that my master would allow me the necessary free time. I am always very busy."
"Come now! Once in a while, can't you steal thirty minutes from your errands? It would be enough, and I would be really happy to have you as a model. I have my studio close by, why don't you come see it?"
"Now? No, sir, I have to go back at once, the master is waiting for me... I would like to, but I cannot, sir."
Andrey smiled and nodded: "But you said you would like to, didn't you?"
"Certainly, sir, but I am not free. Forgive me, sir." Kutkhay bade him good bye and continued on hurriedly towards his master's house.
On his way back he thought that it was really a pity -- he would have liked to pose for a portrait, and he liked that young man, even if he had hoped that he had followed him for a different reason...
But Kotnich didn't intend to miss the chance to have so handsome a model, and made up his mind to go meet the lawyer. He asked Mr. Hogwood to permit the boy to pose for him. At first Kutkhay's master was not too well disposed toward the idea, but when Andrey offered to pay him back by painting his portrait, and told him that he had already painted that portrait of his mother which Mr. Hogwood had seen at his father's home, and which he really admired for its verism. Mr. Hogwood accepted and asked the painter to make two portraits, his own and that of his wife, to hang in the hall. He then summoned Kutkhay and told him that, if when there were no urgent tasks for him, he could spend one hour every day in the painter's studio and pose for him. The boy was excited -- being the model of a painter, being represented in a painting! It seemed to him a wonderful thing. So, the next day, he went to knock at the door of Andrey's studio.
The young man face, when he saw Kutkhay, brightened in a wide smile: "Welcome, Goldie. I was hoping to see you. Come in."
Beyond the small entrance room, there was the studio. Kutkhay looked around -- it was a wide hall, fully lit by the light entering through wide sloping windows high on the wall. In a corner there was a low platform covered with a carpet and spread with cushions, at its back a rich velvet curtain hanging from the wall and skillfully draped. To one side there was an ancient sofa-lounge, and then a bare double bed on which was spread a lamb- hide cover. Here and there several paintings were hanging on the wall or leaning against it. An easel with a virgin canvas, two tables crammed with papers and books, a small bookshelf overloaded with books, a big pot-bellied cast iron stove, some chairs and stools, all different from each other, completed the furnishings. It was a kind of harmonic disorder, really agreeable. The finished canvasses represented landscapes, still lifes, and portraits of a striking verism and yet suffused with a romantic aura.
"Do you like them?"
"They are wonderful, they seem real... You are a real artist, sir."
"Thank you. I like painting very much, and even if it doesn't make me wealthy, it allows me to have a comfortable life. My father was a painter too, so I started to paint while I was learning to walk and to talk. But now, sit on that stool and keep still -- I want to take some sketches of your fine face... look more upwards... That's it, hold still!" the young man said. He took some wide sheets of paper, a crimson pastel, and started to sketch rapidly, filling one sheet after the other. When he had finished, he stood up with a satisfied expression: "That's all for today. Will you come tomorrow?"
"Yes, certainly. But in the afternoon, sir."
"I will be looking forward to seeing you. Drawing your features is pleasurable. You are a wonderful subject."
"May I look at your sketches, sir?"
"Of course, come here."
Kutkhay looked at them one by one, slowly: "That's really me! How skilled you are, sir! I would like to be able to draw in such a way."
"I can teach you, if you like."
"You really would teach me, sir?"
"With the utmost pleasure."
"But... do you think I will be able?"
"We just have to try. But if you work hard, you may just succeed."
Kutkhay nodded, satisfied, and his eyes shone: "See you tomorrow, then, sir. And thank you!"
The boy frequented the studio for a little more than three weeks. He posed for the painter, then took some lessons, and already was starting to lay his drawings down finely. The painter told him that he was talented and that, if he trained a lot, without doubt he would become quite skilled. So Kutkhay started to draw sketches all day long, each time he had some free minutes, using scraps of discarded paper and a pencil.
One day Kutkhay went to Andrey's studio shortly after lunch. He knocked at the door but there was no answer. He waited a while, then was about to return home, when he saw the young man approaching.
"Happily you are back, sir. Today my master is out of town, and this morning I did all the errands he gave me so, if you wish, I can stay longer than usual..."
Andrey brightened up: "Very good, Goldie. How long can you stay?"
"As long as you want. I just have to be back for supper."
"Come, then. Today I want to start a big oil painting I've been planning for a while..."
Once inside, the painter looked for a book on his bookshelf, rapidly thumbed through it, found what he was looking for and showed it to the boy.
"This drawing is from a famous painting by an Italian painter, the well-known Michelangelo. It represents man's creation. I want to represent you in a pose similar to this of Adam."
Kutkhay looked at the book, then stared in amazement at the young man: "But he is stark naked, sir!"
"Yes. Are you ashamed to pose naked for me?"
"Oh no, rather... I like the idea, sir."
"Good, I'm glad. So then, undress and lie on the bed. Look carefully at the book image and assume that same pose."
Kutkhay undressed rapidly, and was disappointed that the painter wasn't looking at him.
"I'm ready, sir."
Andrey turned, looked at him and went near him: "You are perfect, Goldie, gorgeous! Do you know that I never saw such harmonious proportions as these of your body? You really are splendid, boy, really splendid!"
Kutkhay, although appreciating these compliments, lightly blushed: "Don't exaggerate, sir..."
"No, no, I'm not exaggerating. I have had several models, but never one as beautiful as you are. Now, lie down like this... stretch this leg more... bend a the other a little more... yes, so. Now, your arm, more soft..."
Kutkhay, feeling the light hands of the young man on his body, shuddered. Andrey was looking and looking at him again, without showing any sign of starting to paint. Rather, he passed his hand lightly over Kutkhay's side: "What a velvety skin, smooth... It will be a pleasure for me, painting such a sensual body..."
Kutkhay felt that the light, prolonged caress was turning him on, so, with simplicity, said: "Sir, please... if you continue to touch me so, you'll arouse me..."
Andrey smiled, but continued to caress the boy, moving his hand on the boy's chest and underlining the nipples with his finger tips: "It doesn't matter, Goldie. Aroused, you will be even more beautiful. How old are you?"
"Nineteen, almost twenty, I presume."
"Yes, you really are beautiful. I wasn't mistaken when I saw you the first time. I immediately desired to see your nudity, to touch with my hands this masterwork that is your body... and I can at last do it. Your beauty surpasses all fantasies, all hopes..."
Kutkhay abandoned himself to those light caresses, to the sound of that warm voice, low and persuasive, no longer worrying about the excitement that was pervading his body but rather enjoying it. Now Andrey was touching him with both his hands underlining his body's muscles, almost as if he were modeling a clay statue. When those hands went lower still and came to rest on his legs, Kutkhay, no longer able restrain his excitement, closed his eyes, shuddering and lightly panting. Then finally the painter seized the boy by his shoulders, pulled him to himself and ardently kissed him deeply in his mouth. Kutkhay at once reciprocated with enthusiasm, and the man's caresses became more daring.
"Undress yourself, sir, please... I would like to caress your body... to see you naked..." the boy murmured, excitedly.
Andrey rapidly freed himself of his clothes and, climbing on the bed, lay on top of the boy, holding him tightly to himself, and resumed kissing him, his tongue playing with the boy's.
Kutkhay returned the embrace and started to caress him with desire: "Ah, sir, how beautiful this is..."
The painter smiled: "Don't call me sir any more, I'm not your master. Call me simply Andrey."
"Yes, Andrey." Kutkhay whispered, shuddering with pleasure.
They kissed again and their limbs tightly intertwined, each of them searching for the sweet heat of the other's body, abandoning himself to the wonderful sensations he was feeling. Despite the fact that Andrey was five years older than the boy, it was Kutkhay who gradually took the lead, and the painter abandoned himself to the boy's caresses with increasing pleasure.
"Goldie, I desire you, I want you..." the young man murmured.
"Yes, I too want you Andrey... but you go first."
They made love with joy and transport, taking each other, until both reached the peak of pleasure. Then, abandoning himself on the bed, Kutkhay sweetly relaxed between Andrey's legs, his cheek leaning on the man's belly.
Andrey gently caressed his hair: "Goldie, you are fantastic at making love."
"You too. You are not only a skilled painter, but you are great also... in these things."
In fact Andrey was really talented both as a painter and as a lover -- he was tireless, full of inspiration and fantasy, and the joy of living. Thus Kutkhay, day after day, learned from him not only to draw, but also a thousand variations in the art of making love. Above all he liked it when Andrey taught him to penetrate from the front -- being able to look at the other while taking him, or while he took you, seemed to him a splendid thing. He understood that sexuality could be expressed in a way that becomes a true form of art.
The painting that Andrey was doing of Kutkhay was proceeding nicely -- the boy's nude was at once gentle and sensual, subtly erotic and pure, and Kutkhay loved it very much. The boy continued to practice drawing, and filled sheets and slips of paper with his drawings, quick sketches, representing what he saw, or making fantasy drawings, and he was gradually developing a very personal style that Andrey deeply appreciated. Just as in his first attempts he was able to capture the essential, so in the later he was able to create true scenes of fantasy. When still a little child he had spent hours and hours observing the carvers at work in his village; he unconsciously absorbed their rich and highly imaginative style, full of the unconscious symbolism which he was now transfusing into his fantasy drawings.
One day his master saw one of these drawings: "Did you draw this, Goldie?"
The boy feared he would be scolded but, his eyes lowered, nodded and then said in a low voice: "Forgive me, sir..."
The man gave one of his rare smiles: "I am not reproving you, boy. Do you have other drawings of yours, by chance?"
"Yes, sir..."
"Show them to me."
So Kutkhay went up to his room and came back with a box full of scraps of paper, which he gave to his master. The man examined them for a long while, then asked him: "Who taught you to draw?"
"Mister Kotnich, sir."
"Very good. You are gifted, boy. I'll see about getting you some good drawing paper; it's a pity you use those pieces of discarded paper. I really can't understand how the master previous to my father-in-law could decide to get rid of a slave so gifted and reliable as you are." It was not a question, so Kutkhay didn't answer. His master added: "Well, it doesn't matter. Anyway now the luck is mine, having you, especially now that we will move to the capital."
"To the capital, sir? When?" Kutkhay asked alarmed.
"In about a couple of months."
Kutkhay felt dazed -- he had been Andrey's lover just four months, and soon he would have to part from him also. If only Mr. De Bruine, his Patrick, could have come to take him back! But now his hope was nearing rock bottom. Three years had elapsed without anything happening, without any answer to his letters... And yet, deep inside his heart, Kutkhay rebelled at that thought -- no, his master will come to look for him, will take him back with him!
Two days later he met Andrey again and told him the news of his approaching departure. His friend was pained: "It was too beautiful to last! But at least I'll have your portrait to look at, to remember you by, to dream of you with. I have to finish it quickly. I would like to be rich enough to be able to buy you and to keep you with me forever... You are the first and the only one with whom I have made love more than two or three times. Before you, each time I made love with somebody, I soon felt the yen to do it with somebody else, to change my partner... I'll never forget you. I really believe, you know, that I was falling in love with you..."
Kutkhay embraced him tightly: "Andrey, I too will never forget you. I... I cannot say I fell in love with you, because I am in love with another person, even if possibly I will never again meet him... But I love you and I was so happy with you. You taught me a lot of beautiful and important things; that is why you'll always be in my heart. Now... let's try to live in the best way we can the little time that remains to us."
With great tenderness, Andrey lightly caressed his cheek, then the fire of passion burned again in him and he pulled the boy tightly to him, kissing him strongly in his mouth: "You drive me crazy, boy. You are too desirable, too beautiful... Feel here how much I want you! Is it only because I now know I'm about to lose you? Words cannot suffice, I want our bodies to speak on our behalf, now..."
Andrey took him with sweet violence and the boy fully abandoned himself to those fiery attentions, enjoying each moment of their union and reciprocating, filled with passion. In those days Kutkhay continued to meet Andrey often, but feeling the moving day approach, he decided to send his young master the umpteenth letter, sorrowful, sad, but still filled with hope, telling him of the imminence of his new move.
Andrey finished the boy's nude and made a beautiful frame for it. He hung it on one of the walls of his studio: "I will never sell this one, even if I shall one day be starving..." he declared to his friend.
Then he wanted to take more sketches of Kutkhay, in all poses, both dressed and naked, so that he could enjoy him even after the boy left. They were odd days, they both lived in an atmosphere of joy, to meet again and to unite, to give each other the utmost pleasure, to express the mutual desires, to savor to the last the sweetness of being together, but all this mixed with the increasing sadness of the approaching parting.
Andrey was really in love with his young friend, model, pupil, and at times he let himself go in bitter reflections on the cruelty of destiny: "Having known somebody like you, and having to lose you... can you understand me, Goldie?"
The boy looked at him sweetly and nodded: "Yes I can, because it already happened to me with my first master. And I didn't even have the joy of making love with him, I don't even know if he were interested in me or not. That is, I mean, yes, he loved me, I'm sure of that... but in the year I spent at his side he never showed any indication of desiring me, and in the three years after I was separated from him, I wrote him so many letters, beseeching him to come to take me, but nothing happened... Why? What meaning could there be in all this? Is there a meaning? If there is, I cannot understand it."
Andrey sadly nodded, put his arms around Kutkhay, and embraced him tightly. He wanted to console his friend, he wanted to be consoled by him, but each was too sad to be able to do anything for the other, beside share their sadness.
At the Hogwood home everybody was very excited about the coming move, and preparations proceeded feverishly. The master is moving to the capital, he is starting his political career -- they will live in a larger and more beautiful house, the master will buy more slaves... The future seemed to be a happy one for everybody, masters and slaves. But not for Kutkhay who was withdrawing more and more into a state of resigned mutism.
A few evenings before the event, the boy was leaning out the window of his little room and looking at the sky quilted with stars. He knew them well, since his childhood he had looked at them often and for a long while, and the sky, at least the sky, was always the same. He looked at the stars and was seized by a strong nostalgia, he thought back on his village, and inevitably there came to his mind the figure of his friend Mokoa. He asked himself to what end had his first lover come -- was he still alive? Was he too a slave in a foreign land, amongst foreign people? He hoped it was so because at least, even if life had parted them, they were sharing something. How was Mokoa now? Kutkhay regretted no longer having his whistle that he called "lover"... at least he could have something more of his friend than the simple memory.
In his mind he called out: "If you are still alive, are you thinking of me? And if instead you are back with our ancestors, then, can't you came here near me? Do you see me? Can you feel me? Do you still love me? Can spirits still love humans? If it is so, my friend, my lover forever, help me, please! I feel so sad, I can't see the road, I don't know what to do... Do I try again to flee? Or instead wait, wait more?"
A shooting star suddenly glided through the sky.
Kutkhay deeply sighed: "Yes, you cry too, spirit of the sky. Cry with me. You know it -- I gave myself to my young master, to mister Patrick, when he saved my life on the big boat, when the sailors wanted to throw me in the waves to die. I gave myself to him, and I loved him, I love him so much. I belong to him, I belong only to him -- these men who sold and bought my body, who used my body, who stole me or gave me as a present, those men are not my real masters. Why have I to be so far from you, my dear master? When will you came to look for me, to take me away with you? Will you come? You didn't forget me, did you?"
The evening was cool and Kutkhay shuddered slightly; as was his wont when he was alone in his room, he wore nothing. He passed his hands over his body, half embracing himself, and continued to think: "Hi, spirit of the moon! You too came this night to keep me company? Why don't you pull me to you? Why don't you make me fly away from this window, and why don't you take me to my dear master Patrick? If it is true that you are a powerful spirit, why don't you show me your power? How many times did your light shine on my dear master's body, painting his skin with gold and making him even more desirable in my eyes? Do you know? it is also a little your fault if I fell on love with my master. And now you are there looking at me, indifferent. How is my master? Where is he? What is he doing? Has he perhaps forgotten his Goldfinch? But you stare at us and keep silent, you cold spirit of the moon!"
Kutkhay left the window and lay down on his bed, but he didn't feel sleepy, not even a little bit. Lying down, still, he recalled his lovers. Mokoa who opened for him the doors of love, who gave himself to him in the midst of friendly Nature, and who taught him the spontaneity, naturalness, and merry lightness of love between males. Then Rodney, his teacher -- with him too it had been beautiful making love. He saw him again, lit by the last little flames of the fireplace, the red light dancing on the smooth skin of his body and shining in his eyes filled with desire. He heard again his low, sexy voice. Rodney taught him to recognize the quivers of the senses and to awaken them, to control them, then to free them with the other and for the other. Then he recalled Jimmy, who taught him the gentleness and availability of true friendship, the dedication and the patience of a true affection, the healing power for the soul of a union made out of affection more than greed. And then Lee, so vigorous and gentle, merry, and always ready to give himself without ever asking for something in return, who made him see how much joy there could be in giving of himself and how much virility there could be in being taken. And last, the other teacher, the passionate Andrey, who taught him the art of love, the joy of giving himself, the pleasure of being taken. He had certainly not lacked lovers, and each of them had been more beautiful and more pleasurable than the others, and yet...
And yet he missed the one, the essential, the one to whom he gave himself, soul and body, but to whom he could never really give his body, as he could never make love with him. He missed his young, dear master, his wonderful Patrick. His thoughts always returned to him -- he saw again the splendid body he knew so well, having washed it so many times, having moved his hands over it, slippery with soap, in long secret caresses, feeling prey to so deep and strong a troubled concern, but also such a great one! He could feel again the fresh smell of his skin, he could see again his smile, so sweet and beautiful, so stirring and attracting, and he felt again his desire to put his lips on those so sensual lips... that sweet torture to be half embraced with him in the night, lightly caressed, then to feel his light breath so close to his face, and at times, during the night, to feel his excitement waking up, his turgidity unconsciously pushing against him, and his hope, his desire to be for him the only true reason for those unaware erections... and his quivers, his barely repressed desires.
Restless, Kutkhay arose again and went once more to the window. A very light breeze barely rustled the leaves of the garden's trees with a subdued but unending swish, a humming like that of a thousand faraway voices, the voices of his memories, of his desires chasing one another, overlapping and piling up, at times very lucid, at times confused, inside his mind. And that breeze lightly caressed his young body thirsty for love.
He then closed his eyes, slowly raised his face towards the sky, deeply breathed in the fresh air of the night, and in his mind there echoed a mournful scream:
"Patrick, sir, where are you?"