Aleksandr Ch 01

By Dudley Jarvis-North

It had been a wreck of a day. My work colleagues had been in a foul mood. Phone callers were in a rage. I work as a newspaper editor; the readers specialize in complaining about almost everything. Today, the phone didn't stop ringing. When I finally got home, the cat had thrown up on my new Oriental rug. I burned dinner. When I called a friend to go for a needed cocktail, he said no. What was going on?

I climbed the stairs to the roof deck, drink in hand, to take in the night air, and there was my answer: a large, ominous, full moon hanging low in the sky, throwing nefarious vibes on Planet Earth. People turn strange when the moon is full, the legend goes; too much blood courses through one's arteries and flows to the brain and other organs. It isn't just the tide that's affected.

I should have stayed home on this chilly November evening. But what if the guys at the Boston Eagle were as charged up as I. What if I missed some fascinating drama? What if the full moon had brought out passion from every crotch? To put it inelegantly, what if I missed the best fuck of my life?

A lot to ponder as I walked through the swinging doors. Jack the manager saw me and had my VO and water ready. I headed to the back. The Eagle is a long, narrow bar, with a ramp on one side that leads to higher ground. I headed there, the better to scope the clientele. It was a Thursday night, so the club was half full. II preferred that to the rowdy, noisy Fridays and Saturday nights when a guy couldn't get through the masses for a drink.

I looked to the corner and saw him. A stranger. Taller than I, perhaps 6 feet to my 5-9. Rail thin and wearing a long black coat buttoned to his neck and topped by a black scarf. He had an elegance that intrigued me. What also caught my eye was his face -- pale gray and luminous. I chalked it up to the bar's lighting. I moved closer, 8 feet away. His skin still glowed but was not nearly as smooth as it looked from farther away. His skin was marred by what looked like little blue veins. He must have been much older than I first thought. His eyes were black and piercing, intense under thick eyebrows. His hair, also black with streaks of gray, was slicked back -- looking like a shiny black bathing cap. He had no facial hair; his lips were an odd color -- not pink; closer to a gray-blue.

While my head said "stay away," my need for something different from the usual Eagle denizens took over. I pondered how to get his attention. His gaze was focused straight ahead; he didn't have a drink in hand or a cigarette.

Gingerly, I sidled up to him and said hi. He turned in my direction and a small grin formed on his face.

"Hello," he said. Now, I was at that awkward moment of starting a conversation, finding something common between us to make for smoother communication.

"I haven't seen you before. Are you visiting Boston?" I asked.

He took his time answering. "I am from abroad."

His voice was deep, I noted an accent, possibly Eastern European.

"Welcome," I said, trying to establish friendliness.

"Thank you,"

"I am Peter."

"I am Aleksandr" he said, rolling the r.

I pushed my hand toward him; he hesitated before he finally shook it. His hand was surprisingly cold, making me look downward. His pale fingers were long and thin. His fingernails were almost black, as if he had painted them with nail polish.

"Such strange customs -- this shaking of hands," he said in a lilting voice. "I prefer a simple bow of the head."

"That is OK, too," I nodded.

"May I get you a drink? I asked. "Not now, but thank you," he said. "May I ask you a question, Peter? (He pronounced it Pay-ter, again rolling the r). I have been away from people, having taken care of my parents for many years in Slovenia. This -- being in a place like this -- is new to me. Tell me why have all these men come to this tavern tonight? Why are you here?"

"It's a place to meet men," I said directly, "to have a drink, to be together with men like me." I said, wondering if Aleksandr understood the nature of the place he was in.

"Men like you?' he arched an eyebrow.

"Yes. Men who prefer the company of other men," I said bluntly.

"Oh, I see. In my country most men prefer the company of men," he looked at me perplexed.

"I mean, Aleksandr, even to make love."

He seemed startled. "Now I understand why there are no women here," and he chuckled, the first sign that he had a sense of humor.

"These things are more hidden in my country. Pardon me if I need time to get used to your country's openness."

"Of course," I said. "I can imagine how strange this must be, especially after a long time away from people. How long were you engaged in taking care of your parents."

"Almost 40 years. We lived in a manor near Ljubljana. They both took ill from a rare blood disease and I was their only son. I did not have a normal life." And he winked, oddly.

"I am sorry for your loss," I said, when he interrupted me.

"They are not completely dead," he said, causing me to wonder why he had used that strange combination of words. One is either dead or not. He had also used the past tense in saying "I was their only son." I chalked this up to an unfamiliarity with English and didn't press him.

He asked me to stand face to face instead of next to him. "You can tell much about a man when you look into his eyes," he said. as he stared into mine, I felt a magnetism, almost as if he were hypnotizing me. My legs felt strangely heavy. The glass I held to my lips seemed heavier in my hand.

"I'm sorry if I seem old and weary, my friend. It has been a long journey and I have not been fed in a long while."

I took this to mean that he had not had dinner and in my desire to help, I asked if he would like to get a snack somewhere nearby.

"That wouldn't help," he said politely.

As the clock moved toward closing time, he asked almost shyly, "Would you like to see more of me?"

This seemed more forward than I was expecting from him. But again because of language I wondered what he meant by "more of me." Did he mean seeing him without his clothes on?

I felt my blood stir. "Yes," I said. There was no other answer that would come from my lips.

"Come with me," he said as we exited the swinging doors. We found a cab outside on Tremont Street.

....

When I was a boy, I had been intrigued by a bank of cement tombs with metal doors, cut into an embankment about 5 feet high that could be found on the east edge of Boston Common. These narrow stone cabins -- there were six of them stuck together -- were on a knoll above a cement path. They were separated from the path by a low wrought iron fence. Earth and grass were piled on top, forming roofs. These slanted upward a few feet toward the back. This part of the Common was a forgotten place. Overgrown grass and tossed rubbish betrayed any semblance of care.

Years later, I concluded that they housed the graves of soldiers or perhaps Sons of Liberty from pre-Revolutionary War times, although I couldn't find any names or dates that would mark them as graves. Perhaps they had contained munitions during that war. The weather-beaten doors had rusty metal hinges and no doorknobs. It looked as if even a crowbar wouldn't have dislodged them.

....

Aleksandr and I were in the back seat of a taxi heading downtown from the South End of Boston. The driver let us off at the corner of Tremont and Boylston streets.

My new friend pointed toward our destination as he led the way. I wondered where we were heading. It was my city, but he had taken charge. We seemed to be on the wrong side of Tremont Street. The hotels and apartment buildings were on the other side. There was nothing really in this dank corner of the Common. Yet, I was not entirely in control of my movements. My legs seemed to be moving without acquiescence from my brain. I felt oddly robotic as my body pulled me forward.

We stopped at the sixth and last door of the tomb-like structures at the embankment.

"Why are we stopping here?" I asked.

"It is a remarkable discovery I made when I got here," he said calmly. "It is a great treasure -- a peaceful resting place from a lost time. I feel comfortable here. I hope you will feel comfortable as well."

As Aleksandr's hands pointed at the door, it seemed to move magically, swinging inward.

"Would you like to see my little place?" he asked.

I felt some trepidation, but it was too late to turn back.

"Enter," he said. I did as he asked.

I stepped forward on the uneven grass. The inside was pitch black, which gave me pause. Aleksandr snapped his fingers and suddenly the room was ablaze in light. I walked through the opening and downward on a dirt slope. I saw hundreds of candles sitting in nooks in the cobwebbed cement walls along the 12-foot-wide by 20-foot space. Except for an old wooden chair and what looked to be a low, narrow wooden cabinet sitting against a wall, the room was empty.

The candlelight was dazzlingly bright and something else was noticeable -- the smell. It was something like damp earth mixed with clay, like the ocean at low tide. Moss rose in patches from the floor -- perhaps that was causing this strong odor.

Aleksandr pointed to the chair and said "sit." His voice sounded more commanding and guttural. I sat and took time to have a better look at the place. There was no obvious way anyone could live here. There was not even a sink. The long cabinet that looked to be made of dark wood could have been a long coffee table, but there was nowhere to make coffee.

"I am sorry, Payt-her, that I have no refreshments to serve you. This is merely a temporary resting place." Stand up for a moment and look into my eyes."

As I got up, his head inched closer to mine. I thought how handsome he must have been when he was younger before the years and his caretaking had taken their toll. He grabbed my shoulders and almost looked as if he was going to kiss me. He said, "Come here, Payt-her -- "here" sounded like hay-ah with his accent. His voice became louder and echoed off the cement walls. His voice rang in my ears painfully. "Do not look away," he emphasized.

I couldn't look away if I tried. I felt paralyzed. The whites of his eyes had turned a flaming red color as his hands pulled me closer. "Look at me," he repeated.