Chapters (22)

I reassured him, though I wasn’t all that reassured myself. No matter how much you trust someone, Provincetown is still one of the most active hot-spots on the North American homosexual scene. Gay men rarely go there just to admire the reflection of the sunsets in the ocean; the world-famous dunes are the real reason, even more than the bars and the nightlife, for the invasion of that pretty New England village, so quiet in the winter, impersonal even, by a scented, noisy, flashy population, ready for anything, especially for heavy-duty emotions and sex, during their hyperactive holidays.

I watched us for a moment, Mathieu and myself, reflected in the restaurant window: in spite of everything that bound us together, the growing passion, the mutual discovery, the games of seduction, so gentle and all-absorbing, the fact remained that there was a fourteen-year age difference between us, and the image we projected was far more one of father and son than of star-struck lovers. And I knew that this image, if I let myself stand back and look on from a distance, was one I’d judge severely myself, probably out of fear. Fear of being ridiculous, of course. My sense of the ridiculous has often stopped me from making a fool of myself and I was terrified at the thought of discovering that I was lapsing into what I think is the most pitiful condition in the world: an old man—which I know I’m not—rejected by an unscrupulous young one—which of course Mathieu wasn’t either.

I didn’t mention any of that to Mathieu; I just reassured him, wished him bon voyage, even made a few wisecracks about the danger of spreading his mucus membranes too thin in this age of the killer AIDS. We laughed, but halfheartedly. Mathieu perhaps because of the warning, which was relevant after all, I because I thought I was being an asshole, unable to express my real fears.

He didn’t spend that night at my place. He was taking the bus very early the next morning, he had to pack . . . I was pissed off because he’d postponed telling me for so long and I told him so. He offered a humble apology and we took our leave of one another at the restaurant door like old acquaintances who get together more out of habit than enthusiasm.

I walked back up to Outremont, depressed, furious, my morale as low as the sidewalk. I crossed Parc Jeanne-Mance without seeing much of the glorious late summer evening that spread its aromas onto Mont Royal, its moisture gliding over the skin of strollers, making them nervous, oversensitive. Nervous and oversensitive: that described me too, but not because of the splendours of the evening. School was about to resume. The thought made me sick to my stomach.