flesh. He looked up at those moments to find, Frankie gazing down at him with an expression of mild curiosity, and wonderment, at Malone's passion.
Frankie wondered about Malone's past: Frankie had left, after all, his wife and child for him. But it made Malone curiously impatient when he detected in Frankie an eagerness to hear about the schools he had attended and the places he had lived, for that aspect of himself he had decided was worthless. Frankie read the papers, asking Malone to pronounce for him the words he had never come across before, and tell him what they meant. Malone no longer read the papers. They meant nothing to him. He was in love. Newspapers only summoned up to him the forlorn Sundays of his past; in the same way Frankie hated tuna fish because he had eaten it so much when he was poor. Frankie was no longer poor, but he still wanted to make more money; he read the want ads, and wrote down the addresses of schools he heard advertised on the radio. He came home with ideas and schemes. "Maybe I should be an electrician," he said, "we could move to Jersey and have a house. Just you and me and all those honkies." He wanted to have a skill, he believed in the unions, he planned for a while to go into the television repair business. He was good with his hands. He was never sick a day at work, even while he discussed his future with Malone, but he wanted to be his own boss. "You need a skill," he said. He blew out a stream of smoke and added: "Even the chicks in the massage parlors have been trained." He said, "Even the hookers." And Malone thought what a fascinating life that would be: the life of a prostitute. For something had happened in him—having renounced the world of work, duty, caution, and practicality, he now wished to live the life of a bohemian. Whores fascinated him, people who lived solely for love, artists, neurotics, and with these the city was filled...
"But you've been to school, man," he would say to Malone, holding his head in both his hands, cupping it beneath the ears so that Malone felt as if his skull could be crushed between Frankie's huge hands like a grapefruit; and Malone thought how miraculous the hands and arms of a lover are. "The world is too much with us," he said, and shut Frankie up with a kiss. But Frankie would not be silent; it obsessed him that Malone was better educated than he. Frankie was proud of his Italian past and did not like being taken for a Puerto Rican. He wanted his son to be a doctor, perhaps, he told Malone shyly. For himself? He wanted to improve his lot; he wanted to learn a skill, fix TVs, and move to New Jersey with Malone to a house in the pine barrens. He was a true American. Malone let these words pass, like a summer rain he knew would end.
The two of them were as alone with one another in that building as two apes in a tree. Nothing intruded in this neighborhood, which hadn't even a name, and seemed to be filled with more parked trucks than human beings, this region of grassy lots, huge, faceless warehouses, and the hulks of switching stations of New York Telephone. They lived in an institutional graveyard. They would have gone on living this placid, rural existence had Malone not gone over to Grand Street to buy watermelon one blistering afternoon—and found there a young man as beautiful, as strangely moving, as Frankie. They hardly said a word to one another before making love in his apartment above a hardware store. It was as if he had fallen from a tree, in fact, for going home to that game preserve in which he lived with Frankie high above the ghostly cables of the telephone company, he encountered more dark-eyed stray young men wandering south from the purlieus of homosexuals. He made love with them in the ensuing afternoons. He did not know what would happen, but he knew he would have to lie. What he was not prepared for was the subtle current of knowledge that passed from his own limbs into Frankie's one evening while making love—no
Frankie wondered about Malone's past: Frankie had left, after all, his wife and child for him. But it made Malone curiously impatient when he detected in Frankie an eagerness to hear about the schools he had attended and the places he had lived, for that aspect of himself he had decided was worthless. Frankie read the papers, asking Malone to pronounce for him the words he had never come across before, and tell him what they meant. Malone no longer read the papers. They meant nothing to him. He was in love. Newspapers only summoned up to him the forlorn Sundays of his past; in the same way Frankie hated tuna fish because he had eaten it so much when he was poor. Frankie was no longer poor, but he still wanted to make more money; he read the want ads, and wrote down the addresses of schools he heard advertised on the radio. He came home with ideas and schemes. "Maybe I should be an electrician," he said, "we could move to Jersey and have a house. Just you and me and all those honkies." He wanted to have a skill, he believed in the unions, he planned for a while to go into the television repair business. He was good with his hands. He was never sick a day at work, even while he discussed his future with Malone, but he wanted to be his own boss. "You need a skill," he said. He blew out a stream of smoke and added: "Even the chicks in the massage parlors have been trained." He said, "Even the hookers." And Malone thought what a fascinating life that would be: the life of a prostitute. For something had happened in him—having renounced the world of work, duty, caution, and practicality, he now wished to live the life of a bohemian. Whores fascinated him, people who lived solely for love, artists, neurotics, and with these the city was filled...
"But you've been to school, man," he would say to Malone, holding his head in both his hands, cupping it beneath the ears so that Malone felt as if his skull could be crushed between Frankie's huge hands like a grapefruit; and Malone thought how miraculous the hands and arms of a lover are. "The world is too much with us," he said, and shut Frankie up with a kiss. But Frankie would not be silent; it obsessed him that Malone was better educated than he. Frankie was proud of his Italian past and did not like being taken for a Puerto Rican. He wanted his son to be a doctor, perhaps, he told Malone shyly. For himself? He wanted to improve his lot; he wanted to learn a skill, fix TVs, and move to New Jersey with Malone to a house in the pine barrens. He was a true American. Malone let these words pass, like a summer rain he knew would end.
The two of them were as alone with one another in that building as two apes in a tree. Nothing intruded in this neighborhood, which hadn't even a name, and seemed to be filled with more parked trucks than human beings, this region of grassy lots, huge, faceless warehouses, and the hulks of switching stations of New York Telephone. They lived in an institutional graveyard. They would have gone on living this placid, rural existence had Malone not gone over to Grand Street to buy watermelon one blistering afternoon—and found there a young man as beautiful, as strangely moving, as Frankie. They hardly said a word to one another before making love in his apartment above a hardware store. It was as if he had fallen from a tree, in fact, for going home to that game preserve in which he lived with Frankie high above the ghostly cables of the telephone company, he encountered more dark-eyed stray young men wandering south from the purlieus of homosexuals. He made love with them in the ensuing afternoons. He did not know what would happen, but he knew he would have to lie. What he was not prepared for was the subtle current of knowledge that passed from his own limbs into Frankie's one evening while making love—no
Similar Books
