The Marble Quilt by David Leavitt

budge. In future ravings, Bosie would insist that this gentleman—who robbed him of complete victory—was a plant, a vassal of the nefarious Sir George Lewis.
    Not long after, Robbie died. He did not live to be old. Bosie lived to be old.
A Link in a Chain
    â€œYou’ve got more books than the bookstore,” Christopher says, slinging his backpack off his shoulder and sitting down on John’s (the counselor’s) sofa.
    From across the room, where he’s opening a bottle of wine, John looks at him cautiously. Is there reproach in Christopher’s voice? he wonders, the reproach of youth, of a generation that disdains history? Or is
he
too much of a skeptic? Perhaps, he thinks, Christopher is expressing simple wonder. This is closer to the truth. The fact of the matter is that John’s apartment—in which there are only books, buckling shelves full of books, books piled on either side of the sofa—somewhat intimidates Christopher. From near where he’s sitting he picks one up, turns to the title page.
Real Presences
, he reads,
Is There Anything in What We Say?
He puts the book down as if it’s bitten him, picks up another.
Roger Hinton: A Life
, by Jack McMaster. “Oh, the old guy who was lecturing,”he says, glancing neutrally at the photograph on the back of the jacket. (It is the same photograph that was on the lectern.)
    â€œDo you read much?” John asks, sitting down next to him, handing him a glass of red wine.
    â€œI like to read.”
    â€œWho do you like?”
    Who
, not
what
. What embarrasses Christopher now is that he can’t remember the names of any authors. It’s as if the question itself has expunged them from his brain.
    â€œDennis Cooper,” he says after a moment, grateful at least to have successfully grasped at something. “I heard him at A Different Light, too.”
    â€œAnyone else?”
    â€œThose vampire books.”
    â€œOh, Anne Rice? Yes, I like the early ones.”
    Slyly John throws an arm around the back of the sofa, behind Christopher’s neck. It may be the very immorality of what he’s doing—the fact that by inviting a client home he’s breached both the written and unwritten ethics of his profession—that excites him tonight, even more than the simple miracle of having convinced Christopher to come to his apartment. For he’s not used—has never been used—to attracting. Unlike Jack McMaster, for instance (and Roger, for that matter; and
Bosie
, for that matter), John was not good-looking as a boy.
They
had that ironic loveliness of the ephebe, that delicate beauty to which the imminence of manhood lends an erotic flush. For such a beauty there has always been, will always be, a market. John, on the other hand, was at twenty both geeky and spotty; all limbs; none of the parts seemed to fit.
    The irony (he sees it clearly tonight) is that while Roger aged wretchedly—Jack too—he has, as it were, grown into his body. At thirty-seven, he is a handsome man.
    Now, on the sofa, he puts down his wineglass; scoots closer to Christopher, who’s gazing rather vacantly at the disarranged books, the groaning shelves. “As you may have surmised,” he says, “I haven’t always been a social worker.”
    â€œNo?”
    John shakes his head. “I used to be an English professor. Well, an
assistant
English professor. Jack—the fellow who gave the lecture—was my mentor. My teacher.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI wrote my dissertation on Oscar Wilde.”
    â€œOh, I know about him,” says Christopher. “He was, like, the first faggot, right?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    â€œAnd that guy Jack—that teacher of yours—when you were his student, did he fuck you?”
    The question rather takes John aback; it also arouses him.
    â€œWell, yes, actually,” he admits after a moment.
    â€œSo that means that if he fucked