Xavier and Gabriel are fraternal twins, one year younger than me. In physical appearance, however, they look nothing alike. Xavier has very straight, jet black hair that looks almost blue, and piercing grey eyes; they are Father’s hair and Father’s eyes. Gabriel looks like me; he has my curls, my deep-set green eyes, the crooked smile. When we were children in Buenos Aires many people thought that Gabriel and I were identical twins. “No,” would explain Mother, while pursing her red painted lips. “The twins are Gabriel and Xavier. The other one is the oldest brother.”
In addition to sharing our looks, Gabriel and I shared the same wicked mischievousness, and we were often partners in crime, enjoying the petty naughtiness that children normally love. One time, when I was 9 and he was 8, in 1967, when we were still living in Calle Winenberg (La Lucila, Buenos Aires), we decided to draw a ransom note, probably based on some movie we had seen the night before. We drew a stick figure of a man with a gun pointed to his head, and underneath the drawing, we wrote in our best infantile handwriting, “If you don’t give us all your money, we will kill you.” We doubled over with laughter as we put the note inside our neighbors mailbox and knocked on his door. I deepened my voice and screamed out for the neighbor to hear “¡Correo!” (“Mail Call!”)
We ran furiously and hid behind the bushes as the neighbor came out to check his mail. He was a young man, in his early thirties, clean shaven but with a permanent five o’clock shadow. I expected he would laugh or yell at us, or perhaps simply read the note and throw it out. Instead, as he read what we had left in his mailbox, his olive skin turned ghostly white, and he started shaking, thrusting his eyes around as if he were looking for someone. He nervously ran his fingers through his thick hair, and sweat poured down his forehead. Gabriel and I had not expected this, and I felt guilty for scaring this man; however, I staid behind the bush, holding my breath, saying nothing. I tried to cover Gabriel’s mouth, to keep him quiet as well, but he easily escaped my grip and ran towards the neighbor, waiving his arms. “It’s just a joke!” he screamed. “It’s not a real ransom note.” Slowly the man’s color came back to his face, then he turned red with anger. “¡Idiota!” he screamed at Gabriel, and he slammed the door.
As a child, ignorant of the world I lived in, it was unthinkable to me that the neighbor would take the ransom note seriously. As an adult, now aware of Argentina’s history and violence in the 1960’s, I understand that there was really nothing funny in threatening ransom and death. Fortunately, the foolishness Gabriel and I engaged in was not always of such politically incorrect nature. Usually we were satisfied simply riding around on our bicycles, aimlessly wandering through the streets of La Lucila. We preferred to ride without helmets, without hands on the handlebar and without applying any brakes. If there had been the same amount of traffic in those days as there is today, we would be dead. We didn’t respect a single stop sign; rather, we threw ourselves down the hills on our two wheelers as fast as we could possibly go without looking either way, laughing as the wind forced its way through our curly hair and seemingly crushed our small bodies. “I love you,” I would like to have said to Gabriel as we flew through the wind, but it would not have been necessary. He knew it.
* * *
It was inevitable that Gabriel and I would draw apart. As they grew older, Gabriel and Xavier expressed common interests in cars, mechanical things, sports and sport legends; things that bored me. They also spent a lot of time helping Father fix things or tinker with gadgets. When he was not at the office, or in the basement writing his dictionary that would never be published, Father was somewhere about the house fixing a door that fell, a vacuum cleaner that did not work, a washer that would not spin. “It’s a waste of time for you to be doing those things,” would say Mother, showcasing a new black dress. “Call the plumber and stop fucking around with that.”
Father would nod at Mother, to acknowledge he had heard what she had said, but ignoring her complaints all the same. He had no intention of calling a plumber or anyone else for that matter. It was not a question of money or wasting time, it was a matter of proving his usefulness as the man of the house, shining in the eyes of two of his boys, Xavier and Gabriel, teaching them the way around a tool. I took no part in this heterosexual ritual. Instead, I perfected the art of playing alone, creating a world of fantasy, writing bad plays in my mind and acting them out on an imaginary stage. I would put a blanket around my shoulders and suddenly I was the King of Persia. I put a bow in my hair, and I am an old maid, poor and single, on her way to ask for help from the King and if necessary give up her virtue to him. I put on Mother’s high heel shoes, and I became the Queen of the Sheba, determined of denying the King all his pleasures. Xavier, Gabriel and Father would stare at me opened mouth when they saw me in these get ups. I was clearly the odd man out.
* * *
There were signs. I knew but would not admit that I was attracted to men; I would not allow this to happen. Throughout College, I survived by burying myself in books, isolating myself from all social contacts, putting on blinders and acting as if men did not exist.
In Law School, where we were required to actively participate in class, it was impossible for me to remain an introvert. I was forced to come out of my walls of isolation if nothing else during class time when I was called upon. By coincidence or by consequence, I also started looking at men in a more open way, in an almost admittedly seductive way. I would notice, and would allow myself to enjoy, the chest hair shown by an open shirt, the strength of a man’s face (so unlike a woman’s), the smell of a guy. I did not act on these observations, other than secretly admitting that they gave me pleasure.
Among the men I began to take keen notice of was Daniel Champing, a fellow classmate. Daniel had dirty blond hair, thick eyebrows and brown eyes, ruddy but perfect complexion, and a dark blond moustache that made him look both cheesy and sexy at the same time. Daniel was gregarious, well liked by other students, and (to my pleasure), fairly hairy. I was mesmerized by his eyes, and almost from the day I saw him in class I kept staring at him. Daniel would stare right back at me, which both frightened and confused me. “What’s he looking at?” I thought. “Does he think I’m gay?”
It was also during Law School that Father and I started communicating for the first time. We finally had something in common other than our genes; we could now talk about the Law. Father had been trained as a lawyer in Argentina, and I was eager to show him I now knew as much as he did. During my first semester, we studied the insanity defense. I was fascinated with this legal principle, and was determined to teach Father all about it. “Laypeople don’t understand the insanity defense,” I told Father, all cocky and sure. “They think its some sort of sham, a lawyer’s trick. I understand the insanity defense. I understand that an insane person is capable of committing a crime not because of evil but because of delusion; and it is not appropriate to condemn a man for his delusions.”
I had had the same conversation that day with Daniel Champing. Daniel was not satisfied by our long glances across the class room. One morning he simply came and sat next to me, introduced himself formally (as we had never really spoken), and proceeded to engage me in conversation as if we had been friends for a long time. He was charming, flawlessly handsome in my mind, and forbidden fruit. I spoke to him only of legal theory, course materials, moot court competition; I was afraid to discuss anything too personal with him lest he would know.
The beauty of talking law with Father in those law school days is that while I chattered legal theory, green behind the ears, Father would give me examples of the actual practice of law. “When I was a new lawyer in Buenos Aires,” he said to me in response to my discourse on the insanity defense, “one of my clients, Raúl Osvaldo, had a son who committed murder. It was a fairly scandalous case with lots of publicity. The boy, Juan Osvaldo, had killed a fellow friend, about sixteen years old. When Raúl asked me to represent his son, I tried to explain to him that I was a corporate attorney, not a criminal lawyer, but Raúl was persistent. He was the kind of man who trusts only those he knows, and takes his time to know someone. Since my practice was fairly new and I did not want to lose Raúl’s business, I conceded to his request and represented Juan Osvaldo, frequently consulting with one of my law school mates who had expertise in criminal law.”
I thought it was fascinating and out of character that Father had done some criminal work. I had always pictured him as a stale corporate rat working behind a desk (kind of what I have now become). The next day, I shared this tidbit with Daniel Champing, gloating that Father was a sort of Perry Mason. It may have been the first time I had ever spoken to Daniel about anything in the least bit personal. I even gave him details of Father’s quirkiness, and his physical appearances. “He’s not at all like me,” I said. “He has a full set of jet black hair, very straight, with some graying at the temples now. His eyes are grey-blue, and they get lighter as he ages.” I was surprised by Daniel’s response. “He sounds sexy!” he said. I did not laugh; made not comment.
When Father interviewed Juan Osvaldo, it was clear to him that the young man was insane. “He was a poor soul, schizophrenic no doubt. He kept telling me his brother did it, then he would change the story and say that his dog had done it. I’m sure they have drugs these days to deal with this condition,” said Father. “But back then, it was terra nova. The case was difficult, as there were fingerprints and eyewitnesses, so there was really no defense other than pleading insanity.” At about the same time, the boy’s father, Raúl Osvaldo, found out that his business partner had been embezzling for years and had fled the country with what little money was left. Raúl had to declare bankruptcy and he had no way of paying Father’s legal fees and expenses. Father still had a lot of work to prepare and present in court in order to ensure that Juan would not be incarcerated. He kept working on the case, even though he was never paid. Eventually the judge ordered that the boy be put in an insane asylum.
I retold this story to Daniel many times, sometimes embellishing the details, dragging out the events. Daniel and I shared many personal conversations after that. Nothing extraordinary, all within the realm of the normal chit chat among friends. But for me it was monumental. It was the first time that I had a friend who I knew or suspected was gay. It pleased me to be able to have such a friend; in my mind it confirmed that I was not homophobic, and therefore not gay myself.
One day, Daniel surprised me by telling me that he was feeling depressed. “I find myself riding buses, and crying for no reason,” he told me. “The doctors says I have blue balls. Do you know what that is? It means that I have not had sex in a long time and I need to get me some!”
This was the early 1980’s. Daniel starting missing class. He had a persistent cold, a fever that would last several weeks. He was always malaise. At the end of the semester, he took a sabbatical. Daniel never came back to Law School to graduate. We later learned he died of AIDS.
* * *
“And he never paid you?” I asked Father, regarding the Juan and Raúl Osvaldo case.
“He did what he could,” answered Father. “He had owned a glass making factory, which he put into liquidation. He paid me with crystal glasses, tumblers, even crystal jars, all from the same matching set. Mother never got over that I worked for free, or for a miserable set of glasses, as she calls it.”
Mother walked in at that moment. I was sitting closer to Father than I had ever sat before. Mother looked at us as if we were conspiring. She was holding a crystal glass, with ice and whiskey. “¿Qué hacen ustedes?” she asked (“What are you two doing?”). I recognized the crystal.
* * *
Father has bladder cancer. He is 86 years old, still handsome, with all his hair, now white, and still clear blue grey eyes. In his typical stubbornness, he told no one that for months he had been suffering from blood in his urine. The pain finally became intolerable even for him, and he had to be rushed to the hospital where they made the cancer diagnosis. They scrapped his bladder to remove polyps and sent him back home with a catheter.
It’s been several months now since that event and he appears to be recovering. At 86, they will not take any drastic measures. They will treat him with radiation for about eight weeks; after that, there are no assurances.
Gabriel’s wife has invited everyone for dinner for no reason, except we all know it is meant to cheer up Father. I have come by myself without the kids. Anne has taken them to New York, to visit her own father, Vincent. They have finally began to make their peace. I’m feeling lonely at this family reunion, unshielded, without my kids, without a spouse. Xavier and Gabriel are flanked by their spouses and their kids, three of them each. I’m the odd man out. Mother is in the living room, lavishing inordinate amounts of attention on her grandchildren, relegating adult conversation to the side. She is quizzing Gabriel’s daughter, Katarina, who is four yours old and apparently has been taught to do some math. Mother finds this fascinating.
I tire of family events where children appear to be the focus of attention. Father is not much of a fan of this custom either, and he quietly exits the living room to sit in the porch, away from the noise. I follow him.
“¿Como estás?” I ask him.
“I’m feeling phenomenal,” he claims. “Never felt better.” He would never admit to feeling ill or tired, but I can tell he has lost a lot of weight.
“Have you been following the government wire tap story?” I ask. “Seems a clear constitutional violation to me.” It’s always back to this beaten track between Father and me, the common fascination with the legal system. Normally, Father would eagerly jump on this conversation. He loves politics and law. He says nothing, however. He stares into space, which he often does when thinking. I have the same habit There’s a long silence. We both pretend to be listening to the conversation in the living room with the kids. “How much is 4 plus 4?” says Mother to Katarina. She knows the answer.
“Where’s Reggie?” asks Father. This surprises me. Reggie and I have not dated in nearly a year, and before that Father only met him once or twice. I didn’t think he remembered or even noticed Reggie in my life.
“We are not dating anymore,” I tell him. I’m uncomfortable using the word “dating” with Father. Obviously he knows I’m gay, but still, some things one does not discuss with his dad.
“Too bad,” he says. “I liked him.”
Mother and Katarina are still doing math. All the adults in the living room cheer in unison each time Katarina answers simple math equations.
“Are you dating anyone then?” asks Father.
This takes away my breath. Did I hear him right?
“No,” I answer. “I have sort of given up on dating, for now.”
Father looks up into to air again. He’s thinking again. We continue our long silence. “Two times two?” asks Mother in the living room.
Father looks at me again. “Just for now,” he says to me, looking me straight in the eye. “Stop dating just for now. Eventually, I want you to meet a nice guy. I want you to be happy.”
I don’t say anything.
“Father, come in here quick!” screams Mother from the living room. “Katarina knows the multiplications table!”
