As Max Saw It by Louis Begley Page B

Engineers and salesmen. They waited for the restaurant to open, the bar to close, for the arrival of the ministry employee who was to meet them there or who might convey them to an appointment outside, for a telephone call from Hong Kong, or the hour when it would be right (according to what rules?) to go upstairs to sleep. In the four months I spent going in and out of that place, I do not think I ever saw one of these recumbent figures open a book. Girlie magazines were forbidden in China. I suppose they did their reading in bed.
    Charlie showed up alone.
    Il fanciullo
is indisposed, he said. Headache; might be the grippe; anyway, he has decided to stay in the room. We must be here another ten days, so let us pray to St. Anthony of Padua that it is only a headache. The embassy fellow who met us at the airport claims that the hospital for foreigners is like a morgue. Friendship Hospital! How I wish something here was openly unfriendly!
    I offered to mix a martini for him with my own supply of gin and vermouth. Having already consumed one myself, I felt more “openly unfriendly” than usual. In any case, I was tired of Charlie’s setting the direction each time we talked. Therefore, as soon as the concoction I had prepared was cradled in his hand—we were drinking out of water glasses—Ilet him have it: Don’t you think it more likely that he is upset by our meeting here, and the lecture on smegma and eunuchs’ testicles? He may prefer not to see me a second time today.
    Evidently, this attempt to avoid my customary circumlocutions did not impress Charlie. He stirred the martini with his median finger, drank it, and made another one. Remembering his taste for the stuff, I began to wonder whether I had brought enough gin from my room.
    You mean that Toby is embarrassed because you have found us out and, in consequence, is hiding? he asked, an immense smile spreading over his face. What a pity you’ve been playing hard to get—I don’t mean it that way, you ass, oops, these aren’t words a queer should use—it’s just that if you had come to visit me from time to time I would have shown you something of the world that lies outside Cambridge. On second thought, everything you need to know can also be learned in Cambridge, I mean that which was not imparted to you at the Law School and wherever in Rhode Island it was that your mommy brought you up. All you need is a mentor like me. Toby doesn’t give a hoot; in New York, Toby is a hot date! It’s you, baby, who are embarrassed. And you know why? It’s because you don’t know how to act with a queer. Possibly you are even a teensy-weensy bit afraid. After all, at your age you are unmarried, you are an intellectual and a part-time aesthete. The profile of a homo! Suppose someone you know who knows about me or who can spot a queer sees us together—or you with the boy!—what will they think? Naughty, naughty! Or suppose, now that I know that you know, I make a pass. Or even better, the delectableToby tries one—have you thought of that? And suppose you like it: What happens then? A big pile of emotional
merde
for the respectable, slightly fey law professor! Explosion! Propelled out of the closet he didn’t even know he was in! I am a little bit embarrassed too, but for you, because although I suffer fools I don’t suffer them gladly. Let’s face it, baby, I like you. No, don’t worry, not that way!
    Here he laughed, wiped his eyes, moved his armchair closer to mine, gave my knee a prolonged exploratory squeeze, and refilled our glasses.
    You leave me speechless and ashamed, not just embarrassed.
    Nonsense! Get some peanuts and ask your girlfriend in the restaurant to keep a table for us. We might as well dine together—just you and me.
    I did as he said. Charlie’s cheeks were sagging; he looked gloomy. The effect of nearly straight gin? I doubt it; his tolerance for alcohol was prodigious. I poured another drink. My gesture must have interrupted a train of