Lions, Tigers and Bears. Oh My!
Part 12
Usual disclaimers apply. The following contains male-to-male sex.
If you are under age or such reading is illegal in your country,
please go elsewhere. Otherwise, please enjoy.
Comments and Critiques are welcomed at Kindar11@Yahoo.ca
October 16th, 2010
The
memory of the young man I had loved gave way to the old man standing in
front
of me and I had to fight myself not to run away, how could he have
gotten so
old? How had the man full of life and energy turned into this wrinkled
husk?
“Simon?”
he asked again taking a step toward me, “how can this be?” I could
smell his
astonishment and fortunately he couldn’t smell how scared I was that
he’d
recognized me so easily. I couldn’t stop myself from taking a step back
at the
intensity of his scrutiny.
“Excuse
me?” I asked, having to work at controlling my voice; where had all my
self
control gone? This was why I had no business coming back to a country
I’d lived
in so quickly, I never knew who might still be alive.
“You
are not Simon Adler, are you?”
“No,
I’m not.”
“It’s
incredible how much you look like him.” His body language didn’t reveal
anything, but his scent spoke of how disappointed he was. Did he really
want me
to be the same man? Why would he want that? My mind raced to find a way
to
explain the resemblance.
“That
was my grandfather’s name,” I said. If I claimed to be in my late
thirties the
time frame worked. “I was named after him; I’m Simon Wilner.” I
reluctantly
offered him my hand. He continued to study me instead of taking it, did
he not
believe me?
“What
brings you to the museum?” he asked abruptly his tone having turned
cold.
“I’m
looking into an expedition to the Congo Oxford mounted some time back.”
“What
is your interest in it?”
“I
came across information that leads me to think they found something
related to
Sir Richard Francis Burton.”
“Simon
was rather obsessed with him,” he stated with suspicion in his eyes.
“I
know,” I forced myself to smile, “the stories of his research and
adventures
are why I became an archeologist.”
“Really?
Who do you work for?”
“No
one at the moment, this is a personal search, but I was with the
Smithsonian
before this.” The moment I said it I knew I’d screwed up, I didn’t have
any of
my Wilner IDs and if he contacted the Smithsonian to confirm who I was
he would
find out I was supposed to be dead. I needed to distract him. “How well
did you
know my grandfather?” I asked.
“Very
well,” he said looking me in the eyes, “we were lovers.”
I
stared at him, I hadn’t expected him to mention that, much less the
accusationnal tone. How was I supposed to react to that? I had expected
him to
get over me, he had been young and there had been plenty of other
prospect
available to him.
“I’m
sorry,” he said softly, “I shouldn’t have laid that on you. I guess I’m
still
angry with him.”
“I
take it it didn’t end well.”
He
shook his head. “He just left after promising me he would stay.”
“He
must have had a reason for doing that.” Part of me wanted to hug and
comfort
him; to explain why I had had to leave, but the thought of touching
this old
man also made my stomach turn.
“He
said that he was doing it to protect my career, but I didn’t care about
that,
all I wanted was to be with him. I’m sorry again, you probably don’t
want to
hear about your grandfather’s lover, although you seem to be taking
this quite
well.”
For
a moment I’d forgotten I wasn’t supposed to know about what he was
talking
about. “His love life was his own business,” I said. This was the
twenty first
century; it would be a credible attitude.
“Did
he ever mention someone named Martin Finsher?”
I
thought about it for a moment trying to figure out if it would make
sense that
my grandfather had mentioned an old lover. “No, I’m sorry,” I said
having
thought of a different way to let him know I hadn’t forgotten him, “He
died
when I was only twelve so he didn’t have many chances of talking about
his
life, but I remember him often reading a book by a Martin Fisher; The
Secret
History Of Rome.”
“I
wrote that book,” Martin said with a soft smile.
“He
really seemed to care about it.” I still did, I had the original book
in a safe
place and I liked having a copy with every identity I lived under; it
was a
link to a time in my life I remembered fondly.
“What
exactly are you looking for?” he asked so suddenly that it took me a
moment to
remember why I’d come here.
“Anything
about the expedition, unfortunately all I have is a name and a crate
number.” I
dug out the paper and handed it to him.
“You
won’t find anything about this in the museum; we don’t have anything
about the
Congo exposed at the moment. You’ll have to go to the archive for that.”
“How
do I get permission for that?” I asked knowing this was going to be a
problem.
They wouldn’t let just anyone in there and I didn’t want to resort to
breaking
in.
“I’ll
go there with you, it’s only a few blocks from here.”
“Really?
Thank you, I was afraid I’d have to fill out papers for the rest of the
day.”
It covered nicely for my surprise at learning the archive had been
moved.
“No,
no, all you’d have to do is sign in and provide your credentials, we’re
open to
any researchers. By escorting you myself I’m hoping you’ll be able to
tell me
about what Simon did after leaving Oxford.”
He
indicated I should follow him before heading to the door. This was
something of
a mixed bag; on one hand I didn’t have to worry about my ID, but on the
other
now I had to be careful not to reveal more than I should to Martin.
“I
don’t know all that much. From what my mother said he traveled for a
while
before settling in Germany and teaching.”
“You’re
not German,” Martin stated.
“No,
my Mom moved to the US to be with Dad, that’s where I was born.”
“Did . . . he
have a large family?”
“No,
just my Mom.”
“And
his wife?”
“I
didn’t know her; she died before I was born.”
“Did
he love her?”
“I
don’t know, I guess. He never talked about her.” I paused for a moment,
debating
asking the next question. I didn’t really want to know, but it would be
expected. “What about you? Do you have a large family?”
“No,
I never found anyone who could measure up to what he and I had.”
I
nodded following him. “Was he really that great?” I asked, I knew I was
a
skilled lover; I did have a few centuries of practice, but it was a
strange
thrill to find out I’d been so good he hadn’t been able to replace me.
He
stopped and looked at me. “That’s a rather personal question.”
“Sorry,
I just can’t imagine someone being *that* good in bed.”
He
continued looking at me and I started to worry that he’d ask me if I
was gay.
Instead he said: “Then you haven’t slept with the right person, but
you’re
still young, I’m sure it will happen to you.” I breathed a sigh in
relief as he
started walking again.
“What
did you do after he left?” I asked as we turned toward a larger stone
building.
Curiosity was getting the better of me, I knew the broader strokes of
his
academic career, but I knew almost nothing of his personal life.
“I
tried to follow him,” he said after a moment of silence, “I found out
he’d
crossed the channel to France and set myself to go the same way, but my
father
stopped me. He wasn’t going to let me go after the man he thought had
defiled
me. He even started making arrangements to get me married, but my
sister became
pregnant and distracted him enough that nothing came of that. I almost
abandoned my studies to spite Simon, but eventually I came to my senses
and
returned to them. After I was done I did research for some years before
becoming a teacher myself and eventually coming back here.”
“How
old is this building?” I asked when what I really wanted to know was if
he was
happy. I couldn’t imagine I’d affected him so much he never had any
kind of
relationships, and he didn’t smell of sexual frustration. Still I wish
I could
ask directly, but if I did it would probably make him too curious about
me.
“Almost
two decades now,” he replied sounding almost happy for the change of
subject.
“It
looks older,” I commented as we entered.
“They
made sure it would match the surrounding buildings, the archive is in
the
basement. We’ll probably have to search them manually; I don’t believe
that these
old expeditions have been digitized yet.”
We
went down a large set of stairs and then a narrow corridor which led to
a metal
door. Martin punched in a number in the keypad and the beeping echoed
on the
bare walls. The room it revealed was bathed in darkness until he
flicked a
switch and with the hum of old fluorescents and rows upon rows of
shelves
became visible.
“This
is pretty big,” I said. It was much bigger than in my days.
“These
were old catacombs that were rebuilt in the sixties to store precious
pieces of
art, but it was never used as such. When the archives needed to be
moved while
that building was renovated someone remembered about it and they
decided to
make this its permanent home.”
“Nice,”
was the only thing I could think to say. It was much roomier than the
old
archives had been; I remembered having to squeeze down narrow aisles
while
trying to figure out how I’d take whatever I’d wanted out with me.
“You
said this was a crate number, didn’t you?” he asked as he led me to a
side
room.
“Yes.”
“Then
we’re going to have to look through the ledgers, unfortunately they are
cataloged by expeditions, not crate numbers, this could take some
time.” The
room had more shelves in it, but in them were large volumes instead of
boxes;
there had been over a thousand of them in my day, I didn’t want to
think about
how many were there now.
“It’s
ok, I have plenty of time,” I told him.
“I’ll
help you.”
“You
don’t have to, I don’t want to take you away from whatever you need to
do.”
“Actually,
I do have to. I can’t leave you here unsupervised, after all, you
haven’t
signed in officially. With me here no one will question your presence
and with
my help you will be able to get back up to dustless air much faster.”
His
points were valid so we started our search.
We
were able to use Robert McCormick’s name to narrow our search to a
twenty year
period; from nineteen twelve to nineteen thirty-two, the years he had
worked at
Oxford. This reduced our search to about two hundred volumes; each one
almost
two feet in height, one and a half wide and six inches thick and
covered with
dust. Each time we pulled a volume out we were coughing for the next
five
minutes.
For
hours we peered over tiny hand written numbers side by side, sometime
having to
decipher the scribbles that passed for some accountant’s writing. It
wasn’t
long before I felt like I was back in my office with Martin next to me
doing
our best to focus on the books we had to read while distracting each
other by
rubbing our legs against each other.
The
memory of those days had me hard and I turned to Martin to comment on
it, but
his wrinkled face made me go soft instantly. How I could have forgotten
that he
was old now escaped me. Not long after that he was moving closer to me,
until
our bodies touched. The contact felt nice; it had been years since I’d
worked
in such close quarters that they almost forced us to touch and then I
realized
that we weren’t just touching, he was rubbing his arm against my side.
It felt
good; I could feel myself reacting to the touch and I almost leaned
into it
when I realized that he was actually hitting on me.
“Excuse
me, but what do you think you’re doing?” I made sure to sound more than
a
little annoyed to cover that I was enjoying it and hoped I hadn’t
waited too
long before saying something.
“I’m
sorry,” he said looking at where our bodies touched before moving away.
“Simon
and I used to spend many nights doing research like this and they often
led to
more pleasurable things. You remind me so much of him that I forgot you
aren’t.
I truly am sorry.”
He
did smell apologetic, but there was also an undertone of sexual
excitement
under it. I could also see that he wanted to add something; I didn’t
give him
the chance. “I understand, but please don’t do it again.”
“No,
of course not.” We went back to work and he kept his distances, but it
didn’t
stop him from glancing at me wistfully when he though I wasn’t looking
at him.
“I
have it,” he said hours after that. There was no excitement in his
tone, just
exhaustion. I had been going over the same page for the last half hour,
reading
it over and over, but unable to make the strings of letters and numbers
I read
coalesce unto something I understood. And to think there was a time I
loved
peering through hand written volumes for hours at a time.
Once
Martin was able to stand he lead me through the alleys created by
shelves
filled with boxes until we reached a shelf also filled with boxes,
except for
one empty spot. Under that spot was a card with the expedition number
Martin
had found and a string of ten numbers; none of the cards below the
boxes had
such a number.
Before
I could ask what it meant Martin had written it down and walked away so
I
followed him to a computer terminal. I couldn’t believe such a thing
had found
its way in these archives; wasn’t anywhere safe from them?
Martin
turned the infernal machine on and once the orange cursor appeared on
the black
background he entered the number that had been on the card. Text
scrolled up
the screen until it was filled, I was too tired to make sense of what
it said,
but I did catch the last word to appear, ‘Smithsonian’.
* *
* * *
“So
it ain’t there no more,” Lau asked over dinner two days later. It had
given me
enough time to work off the horniness remembering Martin by fucking
Arsalan
thoroughly, and then to sleep, but not to get over my surprise at where
the
journal had ended up.
“Can
you believe it? They sent it to the Smithsonian.”
Lau
just looked at me.
“You
know, where I worked.”
He
still wasn’t getting it.
“In
nineteen ninety Oxford lent everything from that expedition to the
Smithsonian
so they could run a bunch of test. I started working there in
ninety-two; the
damn thing was under my nose the entire time and I didn’t even know
about it.”
“Well,
now ya know where it is,” Lau said before going back to eating his
chicken
stir-fry.
“Lots
of good that does me,” I replied before digging into my tenderloin. Lau
looked
at me with a raised eyebrow while he chewed. “I can’t go there,” I said
after
swallowing.
“Why
not?”
“‘Cause
I’m supposed to be dead. You think a dye job’s going to keep anyone
from
recognizing me as Simon Wilner?”
“So,
ya wear a hat and glasses and no one’ll know.”
“And
how does that get me in the backrooms at the Smithsonian? Only people
who work
there are allowed back there. I’m dead, remember? There’s no way I’ll
be able
to get in.”
“Ya
can always break in, ya know the setup so that’ll be easy.”
“I
am *not* breaking into the Smithsonian. It isn’t some sort of illegal
museum
holding stolen history artifacts; it’s an American master piece of
historical
preservation. I’ll never get that damn journal.” I paused as a thought
occurred
to me.
“How’s
the food,” Arsalan asked sitting down, smelling of sex and some other
man.
“There’s
no fucking way I can do that,” I said out loud, “I just can’t.” I
needed to
convince myself of that.
“What’s
that about?” Arsalan asked.
“Dunno,”
Lau replied, “guess he can’t do something.”
* *
* * *
I
couldn’t be here. Being back in the US was a big enough mistake, but to
be back
here, at his house would open such a can of worms I’d probably never be
able to
close it. Looking at it from the rented car the house looked pretty
much the
same. He’d painted it since the last time I’d seen it, the front lawn
had been
redone and the steps leading to the porch had been replaced by a ramp.
“Who’s
here?” Arsalan asked from the back seat.
“Someone
who might help,” I replied.
“Cool,
so why are we still sitting in here?”
He
had a point I’d been stalling for ten minutes now, given a chance I’d
probably
be able to find excuses to not see him until the sun went nova. With a
deep
breath I opened the door and stepped out of the car. Lau and Arsalan
followed
me as I walked up the path and then the ramp. In front of the door I
wiped my
hands on my jeans; I couldn’t believe how nervous I was.