This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Fifty

(Saturday, October 22nd)

By the time I walk round the place de l’Alma, I’m on automatic pilot. Now, I only have to go up the length of avenue du Président Wilson until I get to my own front door.

So far on this long walk, I’ve come to the decision to make Paris my home, and I’m determined to give Raph the freedom to make up his own mind about himself, about us. True to the way I feel, they will have to be his decisions to make without my influence. They’ll be important, possibly life-altering, but I’ll accept whatever he decides.

I’ve already made up my mind as regards myself. If he wants to stay with me, fine. And if he doesn’t, I’ll accept it. And at least for the immediate future, I’m going to remain British, but I’ll live in France.

I’ve arrived at the place, where I feel most comfortable. I’m home. But for practical purposes related to military service and the ability to have foreign bank accounts without authorities prying, it’ll be advantageous not to have the nationality of the country in which I reside.

Guess I inherited that from Dad. It must have been when I was about twelve; I asked him why he didn't become an American citizen. He told me that it’s always better to have a place to go when shit happens. Now, looking back on that philosophy and knowing what I now do, he was very wise.

I wonder what Raph thinks about it. At that, I have to stop to take a deep breath. Right now, I don’t think that he has any ideas on anything, other than finding out who and what he is.

One part of him still wants me as a close protective friend, but another part is trying to break away. The possibility is still in the back of my mind that he’s just going along with our sexual relationship, because he might be afraid of losing me.

Again, I have to stop for a deep breath because it’s now just dawning on me that such a fear probably works in both directions. I was afraid of losing him by telling him about my feelings, and he's afraid of losing my friendship if he doesn’t actively reciprocate.

Looking back on our lives, I was the only close friend he’d ever had. Not so with me. I had several close friends, of whom Raph was my best one. He may have been afraid of my finding another partner, as I had with Mack, leaving him out.

Then it hits me like a bolt of lightening. I have to steady myself on one of the trees along avenue du Président Wilson. I had other friends because I’m white. I belong to the majority, and he didn’t fit in on either side of the racial divide. Wanda’s words ring in my ears: As far as my family’s concerned, he’s a white Frenchman with a good tan.

But now in Europe, where it doesn’t appear to be that much of an issue, he could be reconsidering. Even in England, our family regards him as Raphaël rather than ‘Little Black Raphaël’.

Now, also remembering his undecided reactions in the car on the way to the birthday party for Bob's dad, after Seph asked me about wanting children, I think that he’s perhaps made up his mind. I don't want him to regret that, if he stays with me for whatever reason, he would never have kids of his own and hating me for it, when we’re too set in our ways to do anything about it.

It also dawns on me that the brutality he demonstrated while having sex last night, might have been the way his subconscious chose to tell me that he’s not queer. But, he doesn’t know how to talk about it. At the end of the day, I imagine that it’s going to be up to me to cut him free. This is, after all, an issue of his being happy.

Not that I want to get rid of him. Yves-Raphaël is not a Mormon missionary; he’s a permanent fixture in my life. He always has been; he always will be.

At that thought, I’m standing in front of our door. The early-morning sun is reflecting its rose colour off our limestone façade as I pull the key out of my trouser's pocket. I close the door to the building quietly and go to the lift’s cage door, when a very attractive man peeks through the concierge’s window. « Bonjour. » I try for a light whispered greeting, but my mouth is dry and it comes out scratchy.

« Ah, bonjour, monsieur Mongrain-Bourke. » His voice is as easy on the ears as his appearance is on the eyes. When he reads my thoughts, he explains that he is the concierge’s nephew and earns pocket money by doing the night shifts for his aunt and uncle, while finishing his doctorate in theatre and English literature.

As Jean-Michel and I are talking in stage whispers, the motor of the lift whirls into motion and the cage travels all the way to the top. It doesn’t take long for the lift to descend. To my surprise, Dad and Marty are in the cage.

“And a good morning to you.” My friendly wishes are greeted with a snarl from Seph and a sad glare from Marty, as they rush past. My recent emotional stress has made my tolerance span very short. So, when they don’t reply, I do: “Okay, fuck you, then.”

Seph turns back to me. “Surprised to see you’ve not been nicked, as well."

“Nicked?” My brain is putting things together. “Françoise and Raph got nicked?”

Marty has a morbidly sad air about him. “Yeah, we’re going to get them from the les-Halles police station. Seems that there was a raid." Despite the generally foul mood, he gives me a hesitant kiss on the mouth, when the taxi driver rings the concierge’s bell.

“Can I come with you?” They act as if they don’t hear the question as the heavy front door starts to close. As I wonder why the only ones who react to me today are tourists and Mormon missionaries, my tears flow freely again, again without sobbing. I turn to open the door to the cage lift.

Before I can actually grasp the brass door handle, arms have me encompassed, and sweet breath is whispering into my ear: “Please, don’t be sad, my precious, young friend.” Jean-Michel turns me round slowly and inadvertently wipes my tears on his neatly groomed but bushy black beard. “There is no tragedy conceivable that is worthy of your tears.”

My knees buckle; he catches me. Jean-Michel is nicely muscled without the overdevelopment of an athlete's body. He sets me on a marble step of the stairs leading up to the first floor and sits down beside me.

He doesn’t ask me what the matter is. He doesn’t pry. He only reacts to my emotional emergency. When I look into his face, framed by his wavy hair and fluffy beard, I read concern. It’s not empathy; he’s not vicariously experiencing the hurt. He is looking at me as would a concerned older brother. His look conveys care. It’s as if he were giving me an emotional massage.

« Es-tu comme moi…? »

He puts his index finger across my lips. “Daniel, please.” His smile hides demurely behind the bushy edges of his moustache where it meets his beard. “let me practice my English with you. Your French needs no practice.” He kisses my hand.

That tickles. Since the nerves in the back of my hand are screaming for more, I have to know if he’s queer or just kissy European.

“Queer?” He chuckles softly. “Queen, I know; queer, I don’t.”

“Are you homosexual?”

“For you, yes.” He kisses the back of my hand again.

His answer intrigues me. “And otherwise?”

“Otherwise?” His demeanour turns serious. “Otherwise, I have never given it really any thought.”

“Do you have sex with women?” My voice becomes weak as he kisses my hand again.

“Yes, I have had.” His sensuous smile formed by very kissable lips is once again hiding behind his beard as he gives me an open-faced look.

“And with men?” I gaze into his expressive golden-amber eyes, a colour I've never seen.

His long lashes wink at me. “Of course.” His gentle manner is intoxicating.

“And which do you prefer?” My cock is growing in anticipation.

“You.” His voice is matter-of-fact but soft, and he’s looking me in the eyes, smiling.

Although in normal circumstances, I would be looking for ulterior motives with this sort of come-on answer. And had there been even the slightest hint of opportunism, I would have been on my way upstairs. But he radiates the same fresh, naïve quality that Marty does, causing me to deduce that he hasn’t been in the big city long enough to have become jaded.

“You’re not from Paris, are you?” The question seems to make him withdraw.

He lets my hand go. “No, does that disappoint you?”

I take hold of his hand and kiss it. “Not in the slightest."

“I’m not even from Europe.” He kisses my hand again.

“Neither am I.” I grin. This time his warm smile appears to emerge just a bit more from its hiding place behind his beard.

“You’re blond, so are you a pied noir?” I hear a hint of the hope that he once must have misplaced at some point in his youth.

It dawns on me that I’m talking to a kindred being, another discarded human, whom no one wants. “No, but I do know what it’s like to be forced to emigrate. I was born and grew up in America.” He looks surprised, which seems to add to his discomfort. I continue. “And like you, I can never go back. Are you from the Maghreb?” When he nods, I naturally want to know whereabouts.

“Constantine.” And the moment he says this, the article I read a couple of years ago about the plight of the Jews of Constantine and their less than successful assimilation into metropolitan France flashes through my mind. His face looks tensely at mine, trying to read my reaction.

I’m trying for an expression of understanding, and I deeply hope that he will read it correctly. “And your name isn’t really Jean-Michel, is it?”

His large, golden-amber eyes glance rapidly between mine; looking for a reason why I would ask something this intrusive. Then he relaxes a little, looking at our intertwined fingers, anticipating that I have already guessed. “No, my name is Jaén-Masmuda Maatouk.”

I like the sound. “And what does Jaén-Masmuda mean?”

His face flushes instantly, making his high cheek bones become more prominent. “Jaén is the province in Spain, where my family originated. And Masmuda is our Berber tribe. But my friends call me Jaén."

I kiss his scarred cheek covered by soft beard. “May I call you Jaén?” He blinks and shows a soft smile. ”It’s so much more charming than Jean-Michel.”

“Of course you may, Daniel. It is my name.” The concierge, wearing a dressing gown, peeks through the window of her loge to locate her nephew. When she sees me, she clutches the top of the gown but smiles and tells Jaén that she’ll be taking over.

“We can go, then?” I get up off the step. “Of course, I have to take these upstairs," I hold up the ducks and chestnuts. "before they rot."

“Rot?” He wonders, and it dawns on me that it’s not a topic of everyday conversation.

I chuckle and pull a face, « pourrir ».

Rather than looking disgusted, he only nods and opens the cage door. I fish in my pocket for the jetton for the lift. Jaén clicks with his tongue, shakes his head and inserts his key. The cage jolts slightly and starts its upward journey.

As we enter the apartment, I smell a joint in progress. Geneviève is smoking and drinking coffee at the dining-room table, looking worried.

“Good morning.” I wish her, and she startles. “May I introduce Jaén, the nephew of the concierge? Jaén, my mother.”

“I thought your name was Jean-Michel.” She is very jumpy, making her dismissive. “At least that’s what your aunt called you, when I arrived.”

“It’s a long story, Mrs. Mongrain.” Then he looks at me questioningly. “And Mrs. Mongrain is your mother?”

“That too, is a long story.” I hold up the net, looking at Geneviève. “What do you want me to do with the ducks?”

She gets up and hands me the joint and takes the poultry and, regaining composure, smiles approvingly at Jaén. “Your English pronunciation is excellent. My complements.” We follow her into the kitchen. She places the chestnuts on the counter and puts the ducks in the refrigerator and then glares at me. “And how did you get out of gaol before the others, Daniel?”

I take a deep toke and pass the J to Jaén. When he shakes his head, I hand it to Geneviève. “I wasn’t in gaol.” Her stare demands further explanation. “When Raph and Françoise decided that they wanted to play patty cakes and went off to be alone, I was left with dead ducks for company. So, I came home."

"Patty cakes?" Her sonorous chuckles are somewhere between a growl and a sneer. “Françoise is being charged with running an illegal brothel, and they’ve got Raphaël booked for being an underage pimp.”

“And they call America the land of opportunity.” I take another toke and put it out.

She looks as if she were disgusted with me. “And where were you when all of this was going on?”

“And why do you keep repeating yourself?” I give her a watered-down version of Seph’s Irish look.

She counters with her school-teacher scowl of disapproval. “Because Françoise claimed on the phone that you were the one who informed the police."

“As I said, I walked home.” Again her demeanour wants details. “I was trying to avoid an emotional breakdown because of what seems to be a fundamental change to Raph’s and my relationship, while having to fend off Mormon missionaries on the place de la Concorde during my early-morning jaunt back from Auntie’s whorehouse, where my partner had chosen to shag her instead of someone like me.”

I don’t think that I have ever been this outraged for being accused of something that I did not do. Maybe because it’s family who are turning against me, this time. “But, I didn’t go near a telephone. Besides, I have been in this country less than three days and have no idea how to use a pay phone much less how to call the pigs to report an illegal maison de passe.”

I pause to let that sink in. “And I had no idea that whorehouses are illegal in France.” The feeling of hurt and betrayal resurfaces, gripping my chest. My tears return. “So, in case anyone should actually give a shit about where I am, I’m going for a walk and will be back later to stand trial.”

Leaving her standing in the kitchen, I take Jaén by the arm, and we go to the cage. We travel in silence to the ground floor, wave at his aunt and exit the building. Half way up to place du Trocadéro, I look back and see a taxi arriving at our building. No one calls after me, so we keep walking. "Are you shocked, Jaén?”

“No.” He takes my hand, pats it and kisses it. “I just hate seeing you so upset over nothing.”

“Do you have the time to go sightseeing with me tomorrow?” My attempt at an upbeat tone brings a hopeful smile to his face behind the beard as he nods. “Okay, let’s go for breakfast and talk.”

“Are you really hungry?” He squeezes my hand, his fingers intertwined in mine. “I would imagine that your stomach is closed.”

“You're right. How about you?” I squeeze his hand back.

“I had breakfast shortly before you came in.” Of a sudden, he’s pulling me across the avenue and toward the Palais de Chaillot. We cross the vast stone plaza, separating the two expansive wings of the structure, which is rapidly filling with tourists, gawking at the Eiffel Tower, taking pictures of it and each other, and generally just milling about in the wide, open space. He guides me through the throngs and down the stairs to the right and then down another flight not quite as grand. The park to the right is quiet and pleasantly empty. And, surrounded by a hedge on three sides, is a group of park benches. “May I kiss you properly?”

I nod, taking his face between my hands. Since I have never kissed a man with a beard before, I’m surprised just how silky soft it is. It also surprises me how it collects the moisture from our breath, like morning dew on grass. His tongue and luscious lips taste of peppermint, presumably from his breakfast tea. And I can readily identify the scent rising from his body as cumin and coriander mingling with a hint of musky testosterone.

My cock is throbbing in my underwear. Since we’re not directly facing one another, I reach down to feel if he’s hard. He is. And it’s almost the size of my forearm. He breaks the kiss. “Please, Daniel. Let’s wait until we can get into a bed with each other. What do you say?”

“All right.” I grin mischievously. “But you’ll have to stop kissing me.” I adjust my cock and sit on a bench. I offer him a cigarette, which he accepts. He is still standing, as he uses miniscule wax matches to light both. I pat the bench for him to sit down.

He blushes and clears his throat. “I can’t just now. Give me a couple of minutes for the pressure to decrease.”

I nod and inhale deeply. “Tell me about yourself.”

At first he’s hesitant, I would think after having been in hiding for so many years on so many counts. He looks at me helplessly, clears his throat and starts. He was born during the war and is six years older than me, making him Marty's age.

His family is Sephardic but fell away from religion due to the shoah, a word I had never previously heard, and which he only explains simply as that massive genocide. “As it turns out, we aren’t the chosen people but the targeted people. Consequently, I’ve chosen to let god play his silly games by himself. I'm no longer in the sandbox.”

“Well put.” I laugh at his brave comedy embedded in tragedy.

“How about you?” He puts out the cigarette on the ground and sits down, grinning shyly. “Are you religious?”

I shake my head and tell him how I ended up an atheist at an early age. I tell him about Mack and how he blew his own bowels out for Jesus’ sake. And finally, I sketch my history with Raph, and how I’ve never considered him to be queer.

“What could make you not love your Yves-Raphaël any longer?” He looks at me in gloomy anticipation.

“Nothing.” My immediate truthful answer causes a shift in Jaén’s mood; he brightens.

“Exactly what I wanted to hear.” He kisses the back of my hand. “Is your heart big enough for others?”

I nod in affirmation, and he nods that he has, in fact, understood and drops the subject. “You’ll have to get back to your trial.” His meek laughter reflects a sense of worry.

“Yeah,” I get up and offer him another cigarette, which he declines. I light one. “I’ve got a lot to clear up. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.” He kisses the tip of my nose. "What do you want to see, first?"

“Something that won’t get us arrested.”

He chuckles again, this time loaded with humour, which escalates into heart-felt laughter. “We can arrange that, I believe. And at what time?”

“What time do you get off?” We walk toward the stairs, leading up to the Palais de Chaillot.

“Tomorrow is Sunday." He catches me by the arm as I stumble on a broken step. “It will be about 9:30 in the morning.”

“Sounds fine.” I take another look into his expressive golden-amber eyes. “And is there space in your heart for me?” I can’t explain why of a sudden I feel an urgency to know this.

“There is.” His smile comes out of hiding from behind the sides of his silky moustache. “But the real question is, if you have patience enough to search for it and make it yours.” Again, he quickly kisses the tip of my nose.

Of course, I can see his point. “I would imagine that you find people become too easily preoccupied with your dick?”

“Dick?”

« Bite. » I brush my index finger across his long, slender nose. “I can also imagine that people could even become obsessed with it, while forgetting that it’s connected to a man with feelings, needs and desires, someone whom they can’t quite figure out.”

“Do you think that I’m difficult to figure out?” Jaén looks at me intensely, as if he expects me to contradict him.

“For narrow-minded people, that would certainly be an issue.” He appears to withdraw a bit. “For anyone who is not willing to find out how your background and upbringing has moulded you, not to mention that you’re being forced to live somewhere, other than where you once belonged, here amongst people who are much more worried about fashion than feelings.”

At this, my own eyes again fill with tears; this time, however, they are accompanied with violent sobbing. I have to stop on the corner of place du Trocadéro and avenue du Président Wilson. And again his arms engulf me, but this time Jaén is sobbing as well.

After my sobs have stopped, I whisper into his ear: “Is this tragedy worthy of our tears?”

“This is not tragedy, Daniel.” He pushes me back at arm’s length to look at me. “It’s simply sympathy.”

Jaén accompanies me as far as the door, promising to be off work by 9:30. As I enter, the concierge informs me that Seph has phoned down several times, wondering about my whereabouts. I thank her and push the button for the lift, fishing out my jetton.

When I enter my home, the jury is ready to hand down its verdict of guilty as charged. Seph glares at me, looking ready to pounce. “There he is.”

“I never thought that a member of my own family--” Françoise is building up, but I cut her short.

“--Stop right there!” I enter the dining room. “You haven’t as much as asked me once, whether I called the cops.”

“Then how did you know that someone called the cops?” She bellows.

“Because Geneviève and Seph told me that you’d been arrested.” I yell back at her. “Besides, until this morning when Geneviève told me, I had no idea that whorehouses are illegal in France. To my mind that would be like having a ban on paedophiles in the Vatican.”

Marty snickers; everyone else remains serious. "Well," Françoise starts out like an Irish version of Mildred. “if it wasn’t you, who was it?”

“How the Fuck should I know?” My volume and my glare at everyone individually are informing them that I’ve had enough. Disappointment has a grip on my guts, and it’s about to erupt in a fashion that I don’t want. I take a deep breath. “Haven’t you ever heard of an informant?” I return my glare to Françoise. “I seem to remember that you’ve had some experience along those lines.”

“That’s preposterous.” She retorts curtly. “I’ve known those women for years.” She pauses. “Well, with the exception of Susanne. She’s only been there for a couple of months.”

“Not to point the finger at anyone,” I take another deep breath to vent my disappointment cum anger. “but she was sitting at the bar when I left with the ducks.”

“Oh.” is Françoise’s only response, and possibly the only one viable.

“And for you,” I look at Seph, Geneviève and Raph pleadingly. “when have I ever given you any reason to think that I would rat on anyone?” They’re staring at the table top, presumably listening. “When have I ever let any of you--?” The tears are back. I interrupt myself and leave to go to our rooms.

I run up the stairs two at a time. And when I arrive, I discover that Raph has removed his belongings, the manifestation of his final decision. I collapse onto the couch, pull off my shoes and light a cigarette when there’s a rap at the door.

“Can we talk?” Raph’s head is peeking in.

“Of course.” I motion him in. “You know that I’m always here for you.”

“Um,” He tries to look at me but fails, preferring to glare at the carpet. “I don’t know how to start.”

I exhale, letting smoke surround my head like a shroud. "How about telling me how much you wish you could love me the way I love you but you just can’t?”

“That would be a start, I guess.” Raph’s eyes meet mine and show relief, underscored by a sigh. “How did you know?”

“Because I love you more than I can explain.” I rest my head on the hand with the cigarette. “I’ve always known that you aren’t queer, Raph.” I take another drag and put it out.

“You’re not angry with me, then?” His relief is short lived.

“Oh, but I am.” I stop to qualify that. “No, it’s more disappointed. I’m horribly disappointed with you, Maman and Dad.” I wipe my eyes again on the back of my hand. “I can’t remember ever feeling this betrayed.”

“Can I make it up to you?” He moves toward me.

“No,” I block his move. “I don’t know what you could do or say to make this better, right at this moment.” I smile at my man. “But trying to be something you’re not doesn’t help. Just let it be.”

“Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

“That’s what makes me so sad, Raph.” I try to smile. “I seriously do not know.”