When Patrick De Bruine went back home, he ran at once to look for his Goldfinch. Not finding him anywhere, he started asking the other slaves. But they had been given a peremptory order from the old master to answer that they had no idea where the boy could be, so Patrick didn't know what to think. He guessed he could have run away, possibly fearing his father's wrath. But this didn't convince him at all, as he now knew the boy well enough, and he knew that having said he would wait for him, he would never go back on the word he gave. Moreover, what seemed strange to him was that nobody saw him leaving the villa or walking on the street. And also that, not having seen him for some days, nobody gave the alarm... He then went to see Rodney, hoping that al least he could tell him something, but the latter knew absolutely nothing. The last time he saw the boy it had been five days before -- precisely the evening before his father caught them in the same bed. The coincidence seemed somewhat strange to Patrick. Anyway Rodney excluded the possibility that Kutkhay could have run away.
"Run away from your home? But why? No, Mr. De Bruine, Goldie certainly had no intention to run away, I am sure. He was too happy being at your service, he admired you blindly..." the young man concluded thoughtfully, shaking his head.
At last Patrick, not knowing what to think or what to do, as a last resort, reported his disappearance to the city sheriff and to the federal marshal. He missed Kutkhay. He missed that quiet and efficient presence, the boy's thousand curious questions, his tales about the life of his tribe, he missed his slender and elegant figure, his luminous and always smiling glances, his frank and open expression... And the more the day passed, the more Patrick felt an emptiness at his side. He had never realized, he had never noticed before, how important to him the boy's proximity had been. At night, in his wide bed, he missed also that sweet and quiet nearness, that fresh body to lightly caress, the chatting in whispers until sleep came. And then to wake up with the boy at his side, ready to jump out of bed, to serve him with devotion. When he took his bath, he missed the light touch of the boy's hands on his skin... The emptiness resulting from Kutkhay absence was, he was gradually discovering, both on a spiritual and physical level, and also an emotional one...
"Where are you, Goldfinch? Why did you fly away?" he often caught himself asking, through a veil of sorrowful sadness.
It is true that beautiful things are mainly appreciated when you miss them.
Months elapsed and no news came about Kutkhay. Time did not attenuate that big sensation of emptiness he felt inside himself, near himself; rather it made it just grow the more. He still felt lonely, now, almost betrayed; if not by the boy, then by life. He wanted to keep the few personal objects of the boy, almost as precious relics. He wanted no one else for a personal servant, nor did he allow the small room adjoining his bedroom to be used. On the contrary, on this point he almost quarreled with his father who was insinuating that the ungrateful boy must have fled away.
"What do you expect? In spite of all you tried to do for him, he was just a dirty little savage. Rather, I'm astounded he didn't steal anything," his father said during supper one day.
But Patrick, recalling the absurd and painful scene with his father that morning, became more and more convinced that that was the real cause of the boy's disappearance. The absurd accusations of his father, when he heard then echoing in his mind, were producing a strange effect in Patrick. A new consciousness started gradually to bloom in his soul -- no, nothing of what his father insinuated had occurred between him and the boy, but even if it had...
Even if it had, what was so horrible in the fact that two people of the same gender could also express their affection physically? At first this question caused him a slightly uneasy feeling -- two men cannot make love... That's not so, he corrected himself, they can too. Patrick knew that these things happen at times -- it was no good talking about it, but whispers were heard... But these are things that should not happen, everybody knows that. Still, thinking about it again and again, for the first time in his life he began to ask himself why such things must not happen, are neither allowed nor accepted. The end of sex, they had taught him, was procreation... but then, what sense was there for a couple to continue to have sex even when they were aware that a child could not be born? And yet, nobody accused the sterile couples of being obscene, immoral. Moreover, it was evident that couples did not just make love only when and if they wanted to beget a child, or else it would mean that each couple had to procreate tens and tens of children, or else make love no more than three or four times in their life! And what is to be said about men having a mistress? Those women almost never had children - precautions were taken... Therefore, it was neither right nor true to say that sex has as its only aim procreation; sex has also as a goal reciprocal enjoyment. But in this case, why was it not accepted, not admitted that two people of the same gender gave each other enjoyment?
It was the first time that Patrick seriously, at length, and deeply, had reflected on these subjects. His awareness was slowly and gradually maturing. Society condemned with words things that it then did in abundance -- this was pure and simple hypocrisy! Thus Patrick, while analyzing in the secret depths of his mind and of his heart for the first time the period spent with Kutkhay, gradually started to see it in a new light -- he started to become aware of how much he always had been attracted to his Goldfinch, and not only intellectually or emotionally as he had always believed, but also physically.
Kutkhay had been missing for a year, when one night Patrick awoke suddenly with one thought clear in his head.
"I always loved him, I was in love with him, and I never became aware of that! But what about him? Yes, he too was in love with me -- how could I be so blind as not to realize that before? And the final straw of the irony is that my father accused us of entertaining a physical intercourse that never occurred, and that instead could, should happen!"
Reflecting further, Patrick discovered another thing about himself: he never felt attracted to any woman. Nor, consciously, to any man, it was true; but he was now aware that he had always felt nearer to, more fascinated and attracted by people of his own gender than by women... And he would never have felt the pleasure of having near him, in the nights, the naked body of his Goldfinch, had he had a girl in his bed, no matter how pretty she were! Rather, he would have felt ill at ease.
"How stupid, blind I have been... and now, who knows where my Goldfinch is! Will I never see him again? What can I do to find him again?" he asked himself more and more frequently.
Patrick didn't know that the boy had written him several times, beseeching his help, but that his father managed to intercept all of Kutkhay's letters and had burned them.
One day the young man, while at a book shop to see the latest arrivals, saw a print of a watercolor, representing a goldfinch. He bought it at once, made a nice frame for it, and hung it in his bedroom. In the evening, before falling asleep, he often talked to the picture, his only symbol of the lost boy.
"I love you, Goldfinch... too late did I became aware of it. Where did you fly? Did somebody harm you? God forbid..."
The period of parting, far from withering the memory of the boy in Patrick's heart, made it flower into love. He was now cultivating that sentiment, so new and so sweet, in the secret center of his heart. His father, after a period of quiet but careful surveillance, was no longer worried about his son, and thought that what he believed having discovered, was just a youth's prank. He began to think that it was time to find him a suitable wife, carefully chosen from the girls of marriageable age and of the best lineage with which he had the best contacts or business relations. During the parties held by the various good families, where Patrick attended with his family, the young man socialized easily with the girls, because of his natural kindness and gallantry, and his father was really happy with that, and was already starting to make his selection. One day he summoned his son and talked to him about the need and opportunity of a good marriage.
Patrick, on impulse, had the temptation to refuse, but he held back as he knew it would have been useless to face up to his father; it would possibly be wiser to feign indifference and play his game. When he frequented the homes of their acquaintances, he would pretend to be interested in some of the girls. But each time, comparing inside his heart any of those girls to his beloved Goldfinch, the balance, in his opinion, was always clearly in favor of the boy. At times he asked himself if he would ever meet him again, but he always concluded he should be patient; he had still to hope even when, each time he went to the sheriff's office seeking news, they repeated that no trace of the boy had been found. So his life flew amidst the collaboration with his father in the administration of their capital and expansion of the family's economic power, and the parties where he shone despite his reserved nature, or possibly because of it. He was a really handsome and elegant young man, he danced quite well, he was a perfect talker, learned and intelligent.
His sisters married, one shortly after the other, so that in the big and luxurious house there now lived just Patrick and his father, beside the numerous servants. His father was starting to insist that Patrick too choose a spouse, bringing her to the villa, filling it with many grand children and above all with a male heir. The aged man laid his eyes on a young girl, not really beautiful but neither was she ugly, rather was she pretty, the only child of an important banker: Henrietta Van Kleft.
Patrick reflected for a long while on his father's proposal -- should he refuse that marriage, to keep himself free for his Goldfinch? Or marry her to make his father happy, creating one more of the many middle class marriages that were purely facade? If he could find his Goldfinch, he could at least keep him at his side, as a lover... many men of the good society, although married, had another woman as a lover -- why not him with his beloved boy? That could be a solution, he thought. Moreover he was now starting to fear he would not find the boy, although he had not completely lost hope.
Henrietta seemed to have a good character, she seemed good- hearted and intelligent; she might not be an unpleasant partner, all things considered. Moreover her skinny body, her simple and direct manners, her slight shyness made her appear, amongst all the girls he had met, more like an adolescent boy, an ephebe, than a flirt, a coquette. Thus Patrick began to court her, discreetly but assiduously, to the great satisfaction of his father. Henrietta's family also seemed to appreciate Patrick's attentions, mainly perhaps because he was the sole heir of a rich ship owner and merchant -- uniting the two fortunes would make the new family one of the most influential in the whole State. Moreover it was said that the De Bruine were descended from the old French aristocracy and this, in the young middle-class democracy, was certainly a cause for pride. The matter gradually took shape, so that the two young people were officially engaged and began to meet more often, under the watchful eye of her mother. Neither was in love, but each of them found the other's company agreeable, and in any event the two families were openly favoring the union.
Henrietta was refined and learned, very reserved although not really shy. When they met, their relationship was more that of a meeting between friends than between two engaged people, but all proceeded well. Both liked to talk with the other. It was now two years since Kutkhay had disappeared, but his memory was always, and more than ever, alive in Patrick's heart. Anyway, the marriage between the two young people was decided upon. The two families organized a ceremony in the grand style -- imposing, with hundreds of guests. Patrick's father moved into a wing of their villa, leaving to his son and daughter-in-law the rooms that had been his and his late wife's. It was the custom, in those times and in the richest families, that husband and wife slept in separate rooms, and that fitted well with Patrick. The bedrooms and annexes (wardrobe, toilette, drawing room and antechamber) were refurbished with no thought for expense.
On the first night of their marriage Patrick carried out his duty toward his spouse. It was for both the first sexual rapport -- Patrick felt terribly awkward and clumsy, but did himself honor, and his wife, passively but quietly, accepted the intercourse. For both it was something done without passion, without enthusiasm, through sheer duty. When Patrick finally withdrew to his room, he did so with a sigh of relief. Lying down in his bed, he took in his hand the print of the goldfinch.
He gave it a light kiss and murmured: "How beautiful it would have been if you were the first to whom I made love... the first to whom I gave my virginity... Your body was really beautiful, your smile so sweet... How much I miss you, my beloved Goldfinch, how much I do miss you!"
Then he thought that the boy, notwithstanding the affection he always showed to him, might not have accepted physical intercourse -- in fact, when he was at his village, he was married...
"It is perhaps just my desire... I never had an hint that the boy felt physical desire towards me... But I would have loved it if instead of Henrietta, there had been Goldfinch here to receive my love -- oh yes..."
But then he asked himself how he could make love with a male - he hadn't the faintest idea. In fact Patrick, despite his twenty- four years of age, was still completely naive and inexperienced on the sexual level; and above all about intercourse between two males.
Kutkhay had now been missing for three years.
Meanwhile, a son was born to Patrick and he was called John Michael Anthony -- but in the family everybody called him Mike. Patrick was deeply affectionate toward the child, who was growing by leaps and bounds -- he was a really handsome boy, with a good character, and more and more resembling his father. Henrietta used her time well, sharing it among her son, charitable groups, and cultural initiatives, and she seemed serene and happy for her status. Her relationship with her husband was good, formal but friendly, and she was grateful in her heart to Patrick because the man didn't insist too much on having intercourse with her. In fact the woman didn't like physical intercourse but she accepted it as an unavoidable duty. Patrick became aware of that, and he didn't regret that at all, rather... In consequence their unions gradually became less and less frequent, with reciprocal satisfaction.
Shortly after the birth of his grandson, Henrietta's father died in an accident, a common fall from his horse. Thus, Patrick had to take his father-in-law's place in the management of the banks that his wife inherited, and she willingly left the management to her husband. Patrick also continued with his father, who, for a while, seemed not to enjoy good health. The young man had refined his instinctive sense for business and, although never being incorrect, never pitiless, he constantly managed to better their economic situation and the fortunes he was managing. Patrick liked being absorbed by his activities because he was more and more conscious that without his Kutkhay at his side, his life was empty. His cares for little Mike filled his life somewhat, it is true, but not enough.
One day Patrick knocked at the door of his father's study to submit to him a new project for expansion. Not hearing any answer, he knocked again, then stronger, thinking that his father had fallen asleep, as happened more and more often. At last he entered. The elderly man was sitting at his big desk, some papers in his right hand, leaning on the top of the desk, his head bent to his chest. Patrick approached him with a smile and lightly shook him -- his father's body slowly slid forward, falling face down on the desk. Patrick lifted him up, looked at him more carefully, then went out calling the servants.
"Go call a doctor, hurry up! The master is unconscious!" he called in alarm.
His father was carried to his room and put to bed. Soon the driver was back with the doctor, who at once visited the elderly man.
"His heart. He has had a heart attack, an apoplectic stroke. Now, just a lot of rest, and then we will see if we can do something for him."
They were feverish, odd, days. In the house everybody talked in a low voice waiting for the outcome of the illness. The old master seemed to recover but then, when everybody was already hoping for a complete healing, he rapidly worsened. Finally, after a few days of agony, his heart stopped irreparably. He passed away one evening, without recovering consciousness. Patrick was amazed at his own reaction -- he felt absolutely no pain for his father's death. He was not happy about it, but neither was he grieved; just sorry. He tried to analyze his sentiments -- with his father he had just a formal relationship. The man saw to it that he never lacked for anything, it is true; he always carefully cared for his education, but Patrick never recalled having had a smile from his father, any expression of tenderness. He had been an attentive parent, conscientious, ever present, but always somewhat cold, detached. Who in all his life ever gave him a little warmth? His mother died when he was a little child, and he had but a confused and far away memory of her. The servants always treated him with respectful deference, as a slave has to treat his master. With his father... and finally even with his wife, there was not real human warmth, affection, even if he and Henrietta had established a relationship of friendly cohabitation.
The only one who ever showed a true, deep affection for him, during the year that he lived in his house, had been his Goldfinch. He was able to show warmth and affection just with his glances, or with his everyday small gestures. He showed it with his care, his thousand attentions, his total and cheerful availability. That year, although short, had been for Patrick the only oasis of bright serenity in all his life. A small oasis, it is true, but so full of sun, of fresh water, of relaxing green... a real shelter. And above all for him the boy had been somebody he could care about, he was responsible for, someone to protect... to whom to give the best of himself. The one to whom he could give himself, why not? What could be more beautiful than a person to whom to give oneself? But giving himself totally? That didn't happen, not even with Henrietta. But did he give himself to the boy? Not enough, evidently, if the boy was no longer with him...
"If I find you again, my little Goldfinch, I swear that I will give you the best of myself, even if you could not or don't want to physically answer to my love. I swear it, my sweet Goldfinch!"
Now that his father was dead, Patrick assumed the full rights of the "master". He noticed a slight change in the behavior of the slaves. One of the most evident symbols of his new position was that Benjamin, the new black butler, when the mail arrived took it to Patrick on a silver tray, in his studio, every morning. Patrick examined it, sent her letters to his wife and opened the others.
Thus it happened that one morning, Benjamin discreetly knocked at his study door, and then entered with the tray: "Today's mail, master."
The young man took it, the slave bowed slightly, and silently went out. Patrick, as always, looked at the sealed envelopes before opening them, sorting them in four groups -- his wife's mail, that still addressed to his late father, that personal, and that pertaining to work. The first envelope he picked up came from the Federal bank, there was another from the Governor's office, the third one was for his wife, then a letter from his elder sister, then one... from far away, without any return address, it was written with an elegant calligraphy that seemed somewhat familiar to him but which he was not able to connect with anybody, and it was addressed to him. He turned it over and over again in his hands. His name was written in a peculiar way: "To the Sir, Sir Patrick De Bruine." That repetition in the form of address was curious. Who could have sent it to him, from so far away? The writing was elegant and careful, the paper simple, not expensive, The sheet was folded and tied with a thin thread, neither sealed nor glued. He opened it in curiosity without continuing to check the other mail, and his eyes ran at once the signature, while a thought was blooming in his mind. His heart stopped for a moment, jolted, he held back his breath then felt a burst of heat, a shudder of emotion -- in a clear writing it was signed... Goldfinch!
His hands trembled and he had to make an effort to control himself so as to be able to read the text. It was a sorrowful letter, so beautiful, filled with poetry. He communicated his present address, he told him he wrote several times, without getting any answer, he beseeched him to come and take him back, if he still wanted him near him. Patrick read it over and over again infinite times, while his eyes dimmed with tears of joy, of emotion, of gratitude toward the boy who didn't forget him. And above all it was clear from that letter that his Goldfinch didn't fly away, but was enclosed in a cage. His head was dazed. He stood up, prey to a deep emotion, and went to the library to look at the geographic maps. The boy was almost at the other end of the United States. He calculated that with his coach it would take from five to seven days to reach him. The letter asked him to hurry, but there was no need for that request. He immediately called his coach driver and ordered him to prepare the coach for a long journey, then went upstairs to see his wife and warned her that some urgent business forced him on a long trip, therefore he would be absent for several days, possibly a couple of weeks. Then he called his servant and ordered him to prepare his luggage.
Soon all the villa was busied in activity. Then Patrick stopped as a thought appeared sharply in his mind -- he didn't receive all the other letters that the boy said he sent, because his father intercepted them! It was possibly his father who had sent away the boy; therefore, the slaves always knew what had happened to him! And they certainly wouldn't disobey because of a specific and absolute order of his father... So he called the slaves in, one after the other, questioned them, and finally came to know the truth. His father had the boy sold as a slave during their absence, that very morning. The slaves were afraid, but Patrick calmed them down -- he understood that they could not have behaved otherwise. But he now would find the boy!
"Ha, mister my father!" he shouted inside himself when he was again alone, "you have to thank God you are already dead! Now you know of the evil you did to your son and to that poor innocent boy. Now you can know all the pain you inflicted on two people for three long years. May God forgive you. I... I forgive you only because I can now have back the only person I love!"
After lunch all was ready and Patrick could at last leave. He took with him only Ulysses, the driver, and Long Jack, a young mulatto slave he had bought cheap, to be his servant, but who was also able to drive a coach. They sat on the driver's seat to take turns in the driving. Patrick, alone inside the coach, pulled Kutkhay's letter from his pocket and read it for the umpteenth time.
"... if you didn't forget me
I beg you, Patrick, Sir, come take me back
I beg you, Patrick, Sir, I am your slave only
and not of these people who bought me
I beg you, Patrick, Sir, at night I am no longer with you
in your bed near you
I beg you, Patrick, Sir, I miss your caresses
and I miss the joy of looking at your body
make it so that I can again wash it with my hands
make it so that I can again serve you
I beg you, Patrick, Sir, let me lean again
my cheek on your strong chest
I beg you, Patrick, Sir, let meet again
your luminous eyes with mine.
I beg you, my only Master, pass your fingers
through my hair, with your gentleness
I beg you, my only Master, take me by my shoulders
and stare into my eyes, and smile at me again
and make me melt again with happiness
I beg you, my only Master, let me know again
the wonderful smell of your skin
I beg you, my only Master, beat me if you want
but don't leave me any longer far from you.
You rescued me from the sailors' hands
when they wanted to kill me
you gave me shelter in your home, and food
when I was in a foreign country
you took me to your side, in your bed
when you found me sleeping on the floor
and you warmed me and took the loneliness from my heart...
don't desert me now, I beg you.
I beg you, Patrick, Sir, let me shout again
your name so beautiful
and tell me again
that I am always
your
Goldfinch."
Patrick, his heart overflowing with emotion, read again these words, and he wished he were already near his Goldfinch, holding him tightly against himself, making him feel that he never forgot him, that he missed him terribly, that he loved him...
"I love you, my sweet Goldfinch! Will I dare to confess it to you? Possibly not, but you shall not lack my love from now on. Nobody will part us now. Wait for me, my beloved, I'm coming..." Patrick murmured leaning against the back of his seat and half closing his eyes.
The coach ran fast on the white roads, and the jolts were barely attenuated by the long leaf springs, so that his body was as if cuddled by that arrhythmic movement. He recalled the words of the letter -- I miss the joy of looking at your body... make it so that I can again wash it with my hands... was that not a declaration of desire?
"I must not hope too much," he then told himself, "It is already incredible that he wants to stay with me. But I know I am in love with him, with his tender and strong body, with his smile..."
The sky was beginning to darken when the coach reached a post house and stopped. Ulysses went in to see if there were a vacant room for his master, shelter for the horses and a pallet for them. When he received a positive answer, he advised his master. They had their supper there, then Patrick withdrew to sleep, after asking the aged woman who had prepared their food to wake him up at the first light of morning -- he didn't want to lose any more time than was necessary; he was in a hurry to arrive there. He lay down half dressed on the small bed, but was unable to fall asleep -- his mind was occupied with a thousand thoughts, his heart was crowded with a thousand emotions... and his body was filled with expectation and hope.
He fantasized, made plans, trying to imagine his encounter with the boy -- what was he going to tell the boy? How could his Goldfinch react, finally seeing him come? And then, after three years, how had the boy grown up? He saw him for the last time when he was still seventeen years old, now he was twenty... His body was certainly more ripe, and also his soul, his experience... How will he react to the Goldfinch of the present?
He fell asleep late in the night, and slept but a few hours, tossing and turning, full of confused dreams. When at dawn they knocked at his door, he jumped from the bed and looked around for a moment asking himself where he was. Then he remembered -- he was going to his Goldfinch, so he rushed downstairs. After just rinsing his face and eating a quick breakfast, he again got in his coach and they hurriedly resumed the journey.
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