My Father the Czar Copyright 1998 Library of Congress number: 98-96138 by AUTHOR22@aol.com All rights reserved Chapter One Saturday Evening. I am very cold. Earlier, the winter sun had been out and I had sought the comfort of a park bench along the Seine; but the Parisian sky had darkened and it began to rain. My eyes sought for shelter, but there was none in view. The "coat" I was wearing was someone else's discarded bathrobe. The fabric absorbed the rain instead of repelling it and its dampness began to draw away from me what little body heat I had. A chill began to descend steadily upon me. I had been taught to suppress all signs of distress. Distress was weakness. Visible weakness made one vulnerable. I put my arms around my knees, tightening all of my muscles in an attempt to overcome the shivering which was spreading throughout my body. Then I forced my mind away from the here-and-now. It had been nearly two years since I fled from St. Petersburg and cautiously made my way north. If anyone had recognized me, it would have meant my death. I had scurried from field to field, hidden and out of sight. By the time I had reached the border with Finland I had traded my warm, fur- lined coat for a cheap cloth one and a loaf of bread. I knew that I must rid myself of anything that might suggest that I was Russian. My mind fixed on that loaf of bread. I could taste it. My mouth began to water. I had no idea how many days had passed since I had last eaten. I pried my mind away from the bread and willed it back to the journey that would take me across Finland and finally to Paris. It was on my first day in Finland that I luckily came across a farmer whose cartwheel had come loose. After helping him repair the vehicle, he offered to let me ride with him then offered me a meal, and then a job. My blonde hair and steely gray eyes were more Germanic than Russian. The many hours of tutoring in foreign languages had paid off. Being fluent in German, French, and English, as well as my own native tongue, my origins were much less obvious. The farm was small, and I am certain that my employment was more a matter of charity than it was a matter of the farmer's need. Six months had passed since I crossed into Finland. I heard rumors that the Bolsheviks were surreptitiously crossing the border looking for any aristocrats who might have escaped the death squads in Russia. So, again I moved on. I proceeded further west and then to the south. I had deliberately let my hair grow long and ragged. I had not let it be cut since I fled Russia. I knew what I looked like. I had seen my reflection in a window as I had come into this park along the Seine. It had been weeks since I had bathed. I no longer possessed a brush or comb. Even though I was only seventeen, the ravages of being on the road had taken their toll, and I could have passed for twenty-five. The rain let up, and I uncoiled my body. A man walked past me. I could feel his eyes on me, but I did not look up. I knew why he was looking at me. A few minutes later he again came into view, but this time he paused and held his gaze. I had learned a trick from my foster mother. If you moved your eyes to look up and to the side it gave the illusion that you were curious... but innocent. The stranger responded by walking over to me. Then in French he asked if he could join me. I hesitated before responding, then nodded "yes," but asked whether he spoke English. I felt that the more complicated language, which was not his mother tongue, would hide my Russian accent. A quick glance told me that he was in his mid-thirties. He was not a man of wealth, but neither was he poor. He opened a small paper bag, extracted a sweet roll, and offered it to me. I do not remember taking it, nor even putting it my mouth; but, seconds later, the roll was gone. I could taste it on my tongue and my fingers were sticky from the sugar icing. "Thank you sir. I didn't realize that I was hungry," I lied. I hoped that if I was friendly he might invite me to eat with him. I knew what he wanted from me and had no compunctions about letting him enjoy my companionship. At this point it was a matter of survival. I just hoped that I was physically capable of fulfilling my part of the trade. "My name is Charles," I was expecting him to shake my hand, but instead, he offered me a second sweet roll. This time I remember accepting the roll, and eating it in several bites instead of a single gulp. His eyes were looking at me in the expectation that I would give him my name. But what name should I use? I had always been known as "Alexis"; yet that was not my name. "Well, no mind", he said. "We can talk later. Would you like to come home with me for dinner? I live just a few blocks away." "Oh, Yes!" I replied far too fast. Despite all of my training, I had given him the advantage. "But I need to wash up first." "You can bathe at my apartment while I am cooking." His eyes scanned my rags, then he added, "I think I have some clothes you could wear that might be more comfortable." "Thank you. My name is Peter." We walked south and a little east, exiting the park, and then down a small residential street. It was a nice, quiet neighborhood that seemed a bit out of place in the otherwise noisy environs of the Paris of the early 1920's. We came to a tall narrow building that was distinguished from its neighbors only by the color of the paint. Weakness struck my legs as we started to climb to the second floor. I paused and steadied myself on the handrail. My host was in front of me so he didn't see my hesitation. Once the outer door of his building closed behind us, I could smell myself. Charles must have been starving from loneliness to have sought me out in my present condition. His apartment was the first one on the second landing. He paused before it while removing a ring of keys from his coat pocket. There were two locks on the door. The first one resisted opening, but the second one snapped aside quickly. He motioned me inside, and then closed the door behind us. "Would you care for some brandy before bathing?" He opened a door and ushered me into a small bathroom. He pointed toward a chair. "You can put your clothes there." "I think the brandy might put some life into me. Thank you." I removed my "coat" and hung it on the back of the chair. Charles had turned on a spigot and water flowed into the tub. He poured a light pink liquid into the water. It immediately created a carpet of bubbles. He walked past me, and further down the hall, then returned with a small glass filled with a brown liquid. I had removed my clothes and stood before him nude. Surreptitiously, he examined me as I drew the glass to my lips and inhaled the warming fumes. He closed the spigot and motioned me into the tub. I had expected him to leave, but, instead, he opened a cupboard, withdrew a brush and a bar of soap. It appeared that he was intent on bathing me. So be it. It had been years since anyone had attend me in my bath. I leaned back into the warm water and the bubbles covered me to my neck. "Move down and wet your hair." He ordered. I bent my knees and submerged. He took hold of my hair, gave it several good rubs, then pulled me up. The soapy water flowed over my closed eyes and down my face. "Here, take this." He placed a wash cloth in my hand, and I wiped the water from my eyes. Then I felt a cool, viscous liquid hit the top of my head, followed by his fingers, which vigorously worked shampoo into my scalp. Charles ordered me to move forward and immediately attacked my back with soap and scrub brush. He worked his way down to my rump and then around to my front. His hand began scrubbing my abdomen and my stomach. I had expected him to wash lower, but was surprised to note that he was working his way up toward my chest and neck. "You are a good-looking fellow. You should take better care of yourself." His comment was unexpected; I didn't have a ready reply. So I simply smiled. I looked down and saw that the bubbles had thinned out. The water below them was quite dirty. "You'd better step out of the tub. I'll wash your hair in the basin, and draw you a fresh bath." I stood. The water flowed down my body and almost squirted off of my penis. Charles wiped my upper body with a towel before helping me out of the tub and into a chair at the basin. He pushed my head down, and then I felt the cold water from the tap slosh through my hair as he worked in more shampoo. At that moment, I felt better than I ever remembered feeling. At that moment, he could have demanded any price and I would have gladly paid it. He rinsed the shampoo from my hair, and then began to brush out the tangles. My hair dealt with, he motioned me back to the tub and I sank peacefully into the clean, warm water. He handed me the soap, saying: "You finish up and I'll start fixing dinner. Do you like fish?" I nodded and he left the room. I slumped deeper into the water 'til it warmed the bottom of my chin. Remembering the unfinished brandy, I sat up, found the glass and sipped. It was quite good. The taste was silky smooth without being thick. The flavor of grape still remained. I had been given something that should have been reserved for very special guests. It was a classic. I knew that I had tasted it before, but not in recent years. A scene popped into my mind. The "other" Alexis and I had explored the wine cellar. This time it was his turn to dress as a girl. As two pre- pubescent boys are likely to do, we sampled, and then consumed the entire bottle. Still unfinished, I set the glass down on the chair while I continued to absorb the warmth from the bath. Charles stuck his head through the door. "Dinner will be ready in just a moment, so you'd better get that handsome butt of yours out here as soon as you can." My eyes glanced toward the filthy garments I had been wearing. He intercepted the look, and said: "Just wrap a towel around you, and we'll see what we can find to fit you." He returned to the kitchen and I raised myself out of the water. We had not discussed his interest in me. There was little doubt in my mind that he was homosexual. His "...get that handsome butt..." phrase gently reinforced his interest without becoming crude. I hoped that all he would want to do would be to cuddle and to suck on my cock. I doubted that I would be up to anything else. As I wrapped the towel around my waist, I smiled inwardly at my change in attitude. A half-hour ago I would have paid any price for the hospitality that he had given me. Now, after the warm bath, I was beginning to place limits around what we might do. No! That would be wrong. I had been taught to be a man of my word, and even though it had been unspoken, I had silently agreed to his interest while I was cold and wet sitting in the park. I paused in front of the bathroom mirror and inspected myself. My hair, which had seemed a dirty light brown, was now its natural bright blonde. I took the scrub brush and used it to smooth my hair. I stepped back from the mirror and smiled. The last half hour had washed away the road ravages. I looked my age; or maybe even fifteen. My eyes traveled down my hairless chest. There was not enough meat on my bones. The starvation had exposed my ribs. Further down I was surprised at the size of the bulge. I was not erect, but it was certainly there. Still, the question remained. Could I fulfill the obligation I had incurred? It had been a long time since I had had any interest in sex. ------------------------- Saturday Evening, according to Charles: My name is Charles McGee. My father is Irish. My mother is French. I have lived all of my 36 years in France, mostly in Paris. I look a lot like my father: red hair, a little on the stocky side. Unlike my father, I am homosexual. I matriculated through the Paris public school system and graduated from the Sorbonne, having specialized in journalism. When I left school, at the age of 26, a major newspaper hired me. At first it was part-time, but as France became immersed in the Great War, I was given more and more assignments. I enjoy writing. I seem to have a nose for unearthing things that others wish to hide and that is my major talent. Only one person at the newspaper knows of my sexual interest, not because we are attracted to each other, but because we are kindred spirits. He is a senior executive. He was not responsible for my initial hiring, but I am certain that he is responsible for my longevity at the newspaper. After the war, I found myself reassigned to the Sunday edition. That issue was locked up by Saturday afternoon, so I usually had Sundays and Mondays free. This last week had been a boring one. There was practically nothing of interest worthy of the space which needed to be filled. I had scoured the "Blotter" at all of the police stations. Nothing there. Eventually I wrote two "human interest" stories: one about some of the foreigners responsible for much of the city's famed cuisine, the other about the difficulty the authorities were having in enforcing the licensing of prostitutes. I knew both articles were far too long and much too eloquent. Needless to say, I was quite surprised to see both stories printed with not so much as a word changed and a line cut. A reporter must work much harder when there is nothing to report. Thus, I had put in a pretty solitary and long week. Once the Sunday edition had been put to bed, I was a free man ...at least until Tuesday. The weather Saturday had been unsettled. First it rained. Then the sun came out and promised a nice day. Within an hour, clouds had moved back in, and it became one of those days during which one craves companionship. You know, a pretty boy ...on a polar bear rug ...in front of a fire. On the way home, I decided to detour into the park area which stretches along the banks of the Seine. On a nice day, one usually may find there quite a selection of youths seeking to earn a few francs. This Saturday was the exception. There was no one. The earlier rain seemed to have driven everyone away. I had walked about a quarter of a mile when I noticed a most odd apparition. The first thing that demanded my attention was the coat he was wearing. It had been pink. It was one of those bathrobes one wears directly out of the bath. The fabric was chosen to absorb water not repel it. The trousers that extended below the robe were filthy and looked like they had been discarded by an overweight veteran of the Great War. They were baggy, and the legs were so long that the cuffs had been rolled up numerous times. There was little difference in color between his hair and his face; both looked a grimy gray. As I walked by, he curled himself into a ball, stressing his muscles. Then he looked up at me, but avoided my gaze. I walked on past him 'til he was out of my view, then crossed the street to buy a couple of sweet rolls for tomorrow's breakfast. There was something about the man that bothered me. I certainly was not attracted to him. But his obvious distress brought out my motherly instincts. I returned to the park. Again, I looked carefully at him. It was then that he looked at me, and his expression could be best described as that of a lost puppy. On closer inspection I realized he was much younger than I had thought. I removed one of the sweet rolls from the bag and offered it to him. His hand moved lightning-fast, grabbing the roll, stuffing the entire thing into his mouth in a single motion. It was gone in one gulp. I offered him the other roll. This time he politely accepted it and consumed it in several bites. He surprised me when I spoke to him. His reply was in English. I would have expected it to be German, if not French. He had that Germanic, blonde-haired, blue-eyed look. His English was remarkably good. He had an accent, but I was not certain of its origin. My compassion overruled my good sense and I invited the young man to come home with me. The least I could do was give him the opportunity to bathe, and then feed him. His strong body odor almost reversed my decision once we had entered my building. But, again, my concern for his welfare was the driving force. It was when I saw him without clothes that I knew I had won a prize. He was adorable. I would guess him to be somewhat less than six feet in height. His body was lean and firm. His cock was handsome. And his buttocks would have converted even a womanizer. But it was his eyes that were the crowning jewel. They were a light blue-gray, sometimes devoid of expression, other times absolutely smoldering. The only thing that bothered me was his ability to take total control of his emotions. The incident with the sweet roll was the only time I had seen him express an emotion that was not intentional ... almost calculated. I was standing next to the stove when he returned from the bathroom with that white towel wrapped around his waist. I almost swooned. He smiled at me and gave me that lost-puppy-dog look. His hair hung below his shoulders. "Would you prefer to eat now and dress later?" He nodded "Yes." I motioned him into a chair. I had placed bottles of both white and red wine on the table. I gestured for him to help himself while I brought the dinner plates. I had made a lemon white sauce for the fish. While I was serving that, Peter consumed two glasses of white wine. It was with great restraint that he forced himself to eat dinner without gulping it down. Of course, I was interested in who he was and where he came from, but he seemed reluctant to confide in me. Quite suddenly, he stood and walked into the bedroom, where he stretched out on my bed, face up, with a gentle smile on his lips. I moved toward him with the intention of asking him if he would like a back massage. Before I could say a word I noticed his breathing had changed. He was asleep. I returned to the kitchen and washed the dishes. After bathing, I came back into the bedroom. Peter's towel had come loose and lay open, exposing his extraordinary body. Quietly, I removed my clothing, turned out the light and lay next to him. Sometime, much later, I felt him move. His head came to rest on my shoulder. His cool body contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from mine. He moved even closer and his skin began to draw from my abundant warmth. It was a perfect match. Sunday morning, I woke with the knowledge that I was being observed. I opened my eyes. Peter was still laying as he had before, with his head on my shoulder. "Good morning, Charles. I am sorry that I fell asleep on you. Would you like for me to leave?" "Not unless you want to. Do you have anything planned?" He shook his head "No," then added, "but I have not fulfilled my obligation ... If you still want me, I will try to oblige." "I have both today and tomorrow free, so there is no rush and I enjoy your company." Deep down inside, I was hoping that Peter might become my lover, someone that I could care for and look after. "Thank you. I would like to stay." He moved his hand to his penis and began to fondle himself. It was obvious that he was simply trying to please me. "As I said, there is no rush. There is a nice sidewalk cafe just around the corner where I often go for Sunday breakfast. Are you hungry?" ------------------------- From Peter's perspective: I felt foolish lying there naked. Knowing that he looked upon me in sexual terms added to my discomfort. "Yes, I am hungry, but I can't wear my clothes unless I wash them, and even then they would not be suitable," I responded. Charles was turning out to be much more than I had hoped for. However, there is one point that I must make clear to him. I am not homosexual. We could become good friends and I will let him suck my penis as much as he likes, but that must be the limit of it. Yet, I must admit that I found great pleasure in sleeping with him last night. It was not a sexual pleasure. It was the pleasure that comes from close companionship. There had been far too little of that in my life, except for those years with the other "Alexis" which ended two years ago. Charles' next words broke in upon my reflection. "I sometimes get the cart before the horse. We should have attended to the matter of clothing last night, but you fell asleep before I had the chance." "I was very tired. Last night was the first good sleep that I have had in -- I have no idea how long." "You are taller than I realized, and thinner. All of my clothes would be too short and too wide." Charles walked over to a chest of drawers and began rummaging. "I may have a pair of trousers that a friend left here a couple of years ago. They are not particularly stylish, but they might do for the moment." Triumphantly, he yanked a pair free and tossed them to me. "Try these on," he said. I slid the smooth cotton cloth over my legs and hips. If I pulled them down for a proper position of the cuffs, then the crotch hung far too low. Further up, in the correct position, the cuffs were a good two inches above my ankles. When I buttoned the top button, the waist pulled across my hip bones and the crotch pushed up into my groin. The feeling caused by this tight fit was almost sexual and my penis began to inflate. For the first time, Charles did something that I should have expected. He reached into a drawer, withdrew a measuring tape, then knelt before me. "I should take your measurements so that I can find you clothes which will fit correctly." He seated one end of the tape firmly in my crotch and the other at my ankle. My penis went fully hard and popped out of the unbuttoned fly. He pretended to ignore it, concentrating on the ankle end of the tape, but his hot breath hit the head of my penis like a sudden desert wind. He tilted his head up to look into my eyes. What he saw was not passion, but rather embarrassment. "You had better tuck that thing away until later. If I took care of that now you would get no breakfast." Without being rude, he had again reinforced the condition of his kindness. This time the statement was more positive. I was being forced to either accept or reject the terms of this tentative relationship. He had no way of knowing that those terms had been accepted when I had left the park with him. I put my hand on the top of his head and patted it much like I would a small child. He seemed to soak up the offered token. "You have no idea how much your kindness has done for me and it is much appreciated. But it is only fair that I tell you that I am not homosexual." The momentary smile on his lips faded. In dismay, I hurriedly continued, "This morning I was surprised when I woke with my head on your shoulder. I felt neither shame nor remorse. It was more like -- that was where I belonged, where I was wanted and was appreciated. As for your sexual interest in me, I cannot deny the obvious." I pointed towards my now raging erection. "As long as we are together and no one is aware of it, you may suck on it as often as you like. But, be careful. Do not fall in love with me. I cannot become your lover. As I said, I am not homosexual. The most we could become is good friends." To an observer it would appear that I had taken a great deal for granted. In effect, I had subtly taken control and invited myself into his life as a semi-permanent guest. We remained in that position for a long moment, my hand on his head, his eyes locked to mine. He moved his head toward my waist and suddenly engulfed me. His tongue had encircled the head of my penis only twice when I erupted. In less than five seconds it was over. In less than five seconds the bargain had been sealed. In less than five seconds both of our lives became unalterably and permanently entwined. Charles suddenly seemed embarrassed. He stood and fumbled with a piece of paper, then jotted down the inseam measurement. Now, with great circumspection, he measured my waist, arm length, and chest dimensions. He handed me a shirt and left the room in search of a pair of canvas boating shoes which he said might fit me. Ten minutes later we were seated at a sidewalk table, ordering breakfast. ------------------------- Charles' view of Sunday morning: In retrospect, I really have to laugh at the sudden and almost frantic, coupling that had occurred between Peter and myself. Obviously, sex had preoccupied each of us, differently to be sure, but that event had been totally impromptu. It appeared that most of my hopes were beginning to take definite shape. The boy seemed to have presumed that he could stay with me for an imprecise period. Even though he was not accustomed to a sexual relationship, the fires of adolescent youth seemed to bridge that chasm. Before we left my apartment, he borrowed a hat, tucked his long hair completely within the covering, and made certain little of it showed. Just before his doing that, I had a momentary view of him that reminded me of someone I had seen before. The thought was fleeting and barely conscious. My usual Sunday morning table is the one in front, closest to the street; however, my companion insisted on a corner table in the back. Even there, he appeared uncomfortable and seated himself facing the wall. We ordered waffles with applesauce and hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. We talked of many things during the next hour. My major interest was to learn as much about him as I could. Peter did not linger over his meal and breakfast was soon over. I paid the bill and suggested we take a stroll in the park. He declined and asked if we could return to the apartment. His excuse was that the garments he was wearing were not comfortable, then jokingly added that he would have a perpetual erection if he didn't soon get out of those pants. On the way back, I was amused to discover that the boy had learned much more about me than I had about him. He was quite adept at taking control of the conversation and directing it where he wanted it to go. Thus I learned only that Peter had come to Paris from Amsterdam, had been here for two days, and that he was both cultured and well- educated. He learned almost everything about me that there was to know. However, there was one additional conclusion that I had drawn: he was a very frightened young man. There was no doubt in my mind that Peter was on the run from someone or something. We sat quietly on the divan. He asked whether I would mind if he looked through the books I had on the shelf. Several times he seemed to find one that struck his fancy. He would leaf through it and put it back. "Peter, come back over here and sit down. We need to talk." The boy sat in a chair opposite me. "Yes?" "There are a number of things I need to say to you. The first one is already pretty obvious. I like you very much. I like everything about you, from your sexuality to your personality. You have said that you are not homosexual and that is acceptable to me, at least within the bounds you have already agreed to. "But there is a great deal you are not telling me. I can live with that, too. You know that I am a journalist and you should know that that means my instincts are honed to ferret out the unknown. It is important that you understand that my highest priority is to keep you with me, and I will help you in every way that I can. Eventually you will learn to trust me, and to conclude that whatever your fears are, they can be averted better if both of us know what to watch for. "In the meantime, we need to do something to change your appearance and to give you an identity. Do you have any identification papers?" He shook his head, "No." "I would guess you to be somewhere between fifteen and seventeen. At that age you should either be in school or employed. Both would require identity papers. The only other option would be for people to think that you are my lover, my boy-wife." Peters face took on a crimson hue as that option began to settle upon him. "As a vagabond, the authorities pay little attention to you, but as a young man living with an older one, you should expect to be the subject of official inquiry. "The obvious solution is for you to become my cousin from Ireland, who has come to live with me. But, to pull that off, we need to change your appearance so that we look somewhat alike and get you a good set of identification papers which will pass for Irish. "We also will need to work on your English, to give you a pronounced Irish accent. How would you feel about cutting your hair short and dyeing it red, like mine?" Peter bowed his head, shifted his eyes up toward me in exactly the same way that he had done in the park and said "Hello cousin." I knew a woman, a hairdresser, who lived in the building next to us. We were not close friends, but we had shared Sunday breakfast at the sidewalk cafe on numerous occasions. We walked next door and knocked. Genevieve was in her mid-twenties and apparently had been sleeping late. She answered the door with a half- open dressing gown, which did little to hide the gossamer quality of her night gown. "Good morning, Charles. What brings you out so early?" "Early? It is almost noon. I would like for you to meet my . . . cousin, Sean." Peter looked a little surprised at his new name, grinned at the girl, and said, "Hello." I explained that we were in a spot, that Sean needed his hair cut short and dyed red, and that it must be done today, as he had work appointments on Monday. She invited us to sit while she checked to see whether she had any red hair dye. "Sean's hair is quite beautiful. Are you sure you want to cut it? "This is going to take two to three hours. I need to do a preliminary cut, then condition it, wait a while, then apply the dye. Only after it has set can we do the final cut. How do you want it?" "As near to mine as possible. His prospective employer already knows that he is my cousin, but I want him to look the part as well. In the meantime, I do need to do some shopping at the flea market." I felt in my pocket for the paper with Sean-Peter's measurements. "Is it all right if I leave him here with you?" ------------------------- Sean's Sunday afternoon: Charles was hardly out of the door before Genevieve had me sitting in the kitchen, a towel draped around my neck. With long, firm strokes of a brush she smoothed out my hair so that it was even. She stroked from many different directions, always bringing my head into firm contact with her body. There was the distinct odor of just-awakened woman. She carried on a conversation about many different things, as barbers always do, but mostly she flirted with me. To her, it was not sexual. It was the kind of games girls play with boys. However, there was an undercurrent of possibility that gave life to this encounter. She took a pair of scissors and cut my hair so that it hung evenly to the bottom of my ears in much the style that boys wear in Holland. This was followed by a wash and rinse, in preparation for the first application of the dye. "Keep your eyes closed. This formula can be irritating to them," she said. As she massaged the new substance into my hair, she pressed her body tightly against my shoulder. I could feel the heat from her crotch and my recently exercised tool immediately came back to life. Long ago I had learned not to listen to words, but rather to "listen" to the speaker's body. I tuned out her spoken words and concentrated on what would be the intelligent thing for me to do. Inwardly, I laughed to myself. Within a matter of two hours, I had the only two sexual opportunities to come my way in the past year. I needed to exercise will-power. It is more important to project the proper image than to have a bit of fun. Then there was the additional question that I must answer for myself. If I were to enjoy the girl, would I be doing so at Charles' expense? Finally, I decided that the smart thing to do would be to play along with the girl, but not to go "all the way." Bait was like money in the bank: save it, for it will have greater value later on. ------------------------- The rest of Sunday, according to Charles: I had caught the spark of interest between them when Peter had grinned at Genevieve. I had spent more time shopping than I needed to. As much as I wished otherwise, Peter was not my lover, and I certainly would never want to own him. What they chose to do was entirely a matter between them. Yet I could not help but imagine them having a wild orgy in my absence. I had found two suits made of a good Irish tweed, along with three pair of cotton trousers, several shirts, a rain coat, and an overcoat -- all in Peter's measurements. I left the matter of shoes to a later expedition, since I had not focused on taking that measurement. It was past five o'clock when I knocked on the girl's door. I half- expected to hear a scurrying around and experience a delay, but I was disabused of that image. The door was promptly opened by Peter. Genevieve was still in the kitchen, sweeping up hair trimmings. "I tried to cut his hair in a style as close to yours as I could, but Sean's hair is much finer, so I had to use styling gel to make it flare out like yours. He's going to have to use the gel every day, and I would guess touch up the dye job a couple of times a month. I'll bring home some supplies for him from the shop tomorrow." I replied, "It looks very good. You can hardly tell it's the same boy." She came out of the kitchen and I asked how much her charges would be. In the back of my mind, I wondered if Peter had already "paid the bill." "Ten francs will be more than enough." I handed her the note and then suggested, "OK, but only if you will join us for dinner at Fracoise's next weekend." When we got back to the apartment, I was tempted to try and rouse him, but that would not tell me anything. A sixteen-year-old boy can "get it up" more frequently than an athlete doing push-ups. For the next hour, Peter tried on the suits, pants and shirts. Even though the garments were used, the vendor had had them cleaned and pressed. The boy seemed quite pleased. He carried his new clothes into the bedroom and called out to me, "Which end of the closet is mine?" I began to prepare dinner. He walked up behind me, put his arms around my waist and gave me a big hug. "Thank you, cousin. I owe you much." I turned to return the squeeze and was surprised to find him in the all together. "You're welcome, but why are naked?" "Why not? You like it better that way, don't you?" I nodded. "Of course". "Then don't ask stupid questions." He laid his head on my shoulder and my heart melted. "Do I have time for a bath before dinner?" I answered in the affirmative, but warned him about getting his hair wet. Genevieve had told us to keep it dry for the next twenty-four hours. The rest of Sunday was a sweet night: two people still discovering one another, two people wondering what the future held for them. That night Peter once again slept with his head on my shoulder. I could feel a good deal of affection being projected from him, but the passion did not return. For me it was more than enough. "Beginning tomorrow, your name will be 'Sean'. Some day I would like for you to tell me your real name. It isn't Peter, is it?" He didn't reply, but instead brought his lips to my cheek and kissed me. I was awakened in the early hours of the morning. Sean was having a dream and he was speaking. It was not French, not English and it was not German. Those languages I understood. The words were Russian. A chill coursed through my body. I suddenly remembered who he reminded me of. That long blonde hair, the profile. If he had been female, he could have been a double for Alexandra Feodorovna Romanov, Empress of Russia, as she appeared when she first married the Czar. No wonder the boy was scared. But who was he? Could he be a close relative of the Czarina? The Bolsheviks had slaughtered the entire family. There had been photographs and stories in all of the newspapers when the murders had taken place in 1918. The reports were that all of the family had been murdered: the Czar, the Czarina, her four daughters and their young son. How old was the young prince when he died? Thirteen? fourteen? If he had lived, he would be the same age as Peter. What was his name? Alexis? Yes, Alexis Nickolaevich Romanov. More correctly Alexey Nickolaevich Romanov, heir to the throne. I calmed down, and listened. The boy was still asleep. I spoke to him, shaking him slightly, "Alex, are you awake?" The boy moaned at me... "No"... and continued to slumber. Oh, my GOD! My brain was screaming at me. There was no proof as to who had died. The murderers had destroyed their victims' bodies. 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