rags”—the outfit he had on, apparently—“from going downhill so god-awlmighty fast.”
Bari and Xavier looked at each other. There was no doubt that Mikhail—“Call me The Mick,” he said—lived and breathed at a remove of several generations. He wasn’t just younger: he hailed from another tribe, another country, maybe another planet . He was like an exchange student from Uranus.
As soon as they reached Xavier’s apartment, The Mick found the TV set (no easy feat—it was hidden behind a pair of louvered cabinet doors) and snapped it on. Insanely, For Love Designed smoodged into fuzzy focus.
The fair (evil) sister was informing Dr. Merleau that the dark (good) sister had been trying to have him deported to Paris as an undesirable alien and that the only way he could prevent her (the dark sibling) was to feign a marriage with her (the fair sibling). Meanwhile, she would tell one of her ouvrières to telephone a bomb threat to the dark sister’s design studio.
“I love this fucking show,” The Mick said. “It’s a hoot.”
Gak, thought Xavier. But after stepping into his tastefully decorated condo again, his eyes had gone a little out of focus, blurring everything within his view. Just a few minutes of watching By Love Designed , though, seemed, unaccountably, to have restored his vision to its normal acuity.
Bari sat down beside The Mick on the sofa, dropping an arm over his shoulder like a loving big sister. A loving blond big sister, Xavier reflected. In the context of this development, their shared affinity for a hokey sudser, Bari’s blondness made a statement as clear as that of the show’s fair-haired sister.
Like V. S. Naipaul, Xavier believed that “vulgar people have vulgar interests; common minds have common excitement.” And it dismayed him to think that the woman he loved was a soap-opera addict and that his nephew was likewise a fan.
How would he survive the next eighteen months?
9
(Don’t) Paint It Black
The Mick had brought only the clothes on his back and the stuff in his duffel: toiletry gear, a few more clothes, some paperback books, a CD selection, and not much else.
Two days later, a moving van dropped off several boxes that Xavier and The Mick pushed into the elevator and toted down the hall to Uncle Xave’s twenty-second-story apartment. They found room for the boxes in the study Xavier had given the boy for a bedroom. Five long white cardboard boxes held Mikhail’s comics collection, more than a thousand titles. Four more cartons contained his CD collection, the illustrated inserts of which all seemed to show fuzzy-maned band members with protruding tongues, bugged-out eyes, and garishly painted faces.
The van had also brought a CD player, a TV set and its stand (casters included), a portable tapeplayer/radio or “boom box,” an offbrand personal computer, and some portable plastic files for cassettes and diskettes. Xavier began to realize that The Mick was with him not simply for a brief pajama party, but for a time with, well, the likely subjective duration of the afterlife.
Oddly, for a while after Mikhail’s arrival, Xavier ceased to suffer the minor physical upsets that had begun plaguing him in September. At work, his colleagues remarked on his improved mood (translation: Lately, you’ve been a real bear ), and he enjoyed the art work, dramas, films, symphonies, and dance recitals that it fell to him to cover. Maybe, here at the outset of their relationship, The Mick was actually trying not to be too much trouble. Emphasis on trying .
He had his hair cut, took the arrowhead earring off his ear, and scrubbed away the atom symbol on his cheek and the corpselike half-circles under his eyes. Every day, he left for Ephebus Academy clad in the required uniform. He hated it, but suppressed the urge to rebel and waited until after school to put on duds reflecting his bizarre tribal allegiances. He griped a lot, muttering under his breath if not cursing aloud—but
Bari and Xavier looked at each other. There was no doubt that Mikhail—“Call me The Mick,” he said—lived and breathed at a remove of several generations. He wasn’t just younger: he hailed from another tribe, another country, maybe another planet . He was like an exchange student from Uranus.
As soon as they reached Xavier’s apartment, The Mick found the TV set (no easy feat—it was hidden behind a pair of louvered cabinet doors) and snapped it on. Insanely, For Love Designed smoodged into fuzzy focus.
The fair (evil) sister was informing Dr. Merleau that the dark (good) sister had been trying to have him deported to Paris as an undesirable alien and that the only way he could prevent her (the dark sibling) was to feign a marriage with her (the fair sibling). Meanwhile, she would tell one of her ouvrières to telephone a bomb threat to the dark sister’s design studio.
“I love this fucking show,” The Mick said. “It’s a hoot.”
Gak, thought Xavier. But after stepping into his tastefully decorated condo again, his eyes had gone a little out of focus, blurring everything within his view. Just a few minutes of watching By Love Designed , though, seemed, unaccountably, to have restored his vision to its normal acuity.
Bari sat down beside The Mick on the sofa, dropping an arm over his shoulder like a loving big sister. A loving blond big sister, Xavier reflected. In the context of this development, their shared affinity for a hokey sudser, Bari’s blondness made a statement as clear as that of the show’s fair-haired sister.
Like V. S. Naipaul, Xavier believed that “vulgar people have vulgar interests; common minds have common excitement.” And it dismayed him to think that the woman he loved was a soap-opera addict and that his nephew was likewise a fan.
How would he survive the next eighteen months?
9
(Don’t) Paint It Black
The Mick had brought only the clothes on his back and the stuff in his duffel: toiletry gear, a few more clothes, some paperback books, a CD selection, and not much else.
Two days later, a moving van dropped off several boxes that Xavier and The Mick pushed into the elevator and toted down the hall to Uncle Xave’s twenty-second-story apartment. They found room for the boxes in the study Xavier had given the boy for a bedroom. Five long white cardboard boxes held Mikhail’s comics collection, more than a thousand titles. Four more cartons contained his CD collection, the illustrated inserts of which all seemed to show fuzzy-maned band members with protruding tongues, bugged-out eyes, and garishly painted faces.
The van had also brought a CD player, a TV set and its stand (casters included), a portable tapeplayer/radio or “boom box,” an offbrand personal computer, and some portable plastic files for cassettes and diskettes. Xavier began to realize that The Mick was with him not simply for a brief pajama party, but for a time with, well, the likely subjective duration of the afterlife.
Oddly, for a while after Mikhail’s arrival, Xavier ceased to suffer the minor physical upsets that had begun plaguing him in September. At work, his colleagues remarked on his improved mood (translation: Lately, you’ve been a real bear ), and he enjoyed the art work, dramas, films, symphonies, and dance recitals that it fell to him to cover. Maybe, here at the outset of their relationship, The Mick was actually trying not to be too much trouble. Emphasis on trying .
He had his hair cut, took the arrowhead earring off his ear, and scrubbed away the atom symbol on his cheek and the corpselike half-circles under his eyes. Every day, he left for Ephebus Academy clad in the required uniform. He hated it, but suppressed the urge to rebel and waited until after school to put on duds reflecting his bizarre tribal allegiances. He griped a lot, muttering under his breath if not cursing aloud—but
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