Although this story can stand alone, it is also a continuation of the first one I posted, "Divine Neglect," (/nifty/gay/adult-youth/divine-neglect) recently revised and posted in gay/beginnings under the title, "As Flies to Wanton Boys." It may help, but it is not necessary to read one or the other version. I welcome comments.
[DISCLAIMER: The following completely fictional story, the sole copyright for which belongs to the author and translator, contains explicit depictions of sexual intercourse between men and should not, therefore, be read by anyone under the legal age of consent in whatever jurisdiction or by anyone offended by homoerotic and/or pornographic material. It is forbidden to post the text electronically or disseminate it in any manner without permission of the copyright holder.]
((Note: There will be a break after this chapter. Postings will start up again in mid-November.))
Doctor of the Heart Chapter Four
We did sleep. It felt so right to have his warm, slim body next to mine. When I woke the next morning, I nearly took his elegant, cinnamon-colored penis into my mouth the way I had often done when we were still lovers and I wanted to lift him slowly from sleep into sex. But I remembered that we were only best friends, that we had decided more than three years ago, as Tommy put it, "to move to a higher plane." I had liked the lower reaches myself, but Tommy said we were too young to be monogamous. "What if you wake up some morning and look at me," he asked, "and think of the men you haven't slept with so that you could sleep with familiar, boring, old Tommy? And then it will be too late. And you'll feel bitter."
Looking at him in my bed after a lot of other men had shared it, I didn't think of him as boring or even familiar any more. The hollow of his clavicle was still enticing, but I must have forgotten how beautiful his calves and ankles were. And I didn't remember ever having seen his hand tucked down inside the waistband of his shorts to cover his groin. I looked at the angle of his arm and elbow a long time so that I would be able to sketch it from memory for the Tommy portfolio that he didn't even know existed.
Finally, a little bit reluctantly, I slipped out of bed and into my morning routine. Mitya's door was closed, and I assumed, as I went into the bathroom, that he was sleeping off both the alcohol and the emotion of the previous evening. Instead, he was standing at the sink, a towel around his waist, a razor in his hand, shaving foam all over his face and that thick coat of black hair covering his massive upper body.
"Oh!" I said, not being at my most articulate before breakfast. "I'm sorry. I thought..."
He turned and looked at me and seemed about to crumple up. He put both hands on the sink to steady himself, shook his head as if to clear it and then straightened up. "Hello, Yves," he said. "Good morning. I have had a cold shower. Very cold. It has made me to be much better." Suddenly, he sobbed and, still gripping the sink, sank to his knees in front of it.
I don't usually have such an effect on people. I had no idea why I had him in tears, but I went and knelt next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. His skin was icy. "Mitya, what is it? Are you all right?" I sounded as worried as I was. "Did I scare you? I should have knocked."
"No, no," he whispered. "Please to excuse me. I am just being crazed. It is only that your underclothimgs ... oh, this is terrible ... you are wearing what Rifat wore, what I bought for him, and when you walked in ... Yves you do not look like Rifat in any way, but just for a second ... I do not have correct words... I thought... I thought Rifat had come back."
I rubbed my hand along his arm and left it on top of his hand on the rim of the sink. I had on a pair of cherry-red briefs that, out of deference to Tommy's sensibilities, I had slept in. "Mitya, I didn't know. I will go right now and put clothes on. You finish shaving. I shouldn't have intruded."
"No, Yves. Don't go. Don't change. It is not necessary. You look very nice. Even in the morning you are beautiful." He got back to his feet, and I rose with him. "And last night you were very kind. You and Tommy. To listen to me, I mean. To cry with me. It helped me to cry, you know that, and to talk about him." He turned on the hot water tap and held the razor under it.
"Tommy said it would help to talk. Don't you think Tommy is super-intelligent?"
"And very nice looking, too. Yves, excuse me for having curiosity, but why do you not live together, you and Tommy?"
"We did. For about two years, but then Tommy thought we were too young to... well, too young to make love only to each other. He said we would have regrets when we got older. So we have been apart for three years."
Mitya smiled sadly through the specks of lather his razor had missed. "'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds...' Maybe Tommy is not always super-intelligent. I don't think Rifat and I would have had regrets."
"That's almost my very favorite sonnet, Mitya," I exclaimed. "'The star to every wandering bark... Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.' I'm sure that's true. When you find someone, the way you found Rifat, it has to be forever. And some day, maybe, Tommy will change his mind. He pretends that he's not romantic, but last night he stayed here. I didn't want to be alone, and he didn't either. We were both so sad for you and for ... for what happened."
"I think that I will always to be sad." Mitya inspected himself in the mirror. "But, Yves, you and Tommy, you are special for me, you have made me to be happy. Well," he hesitated, "to be more happy than I was. I am so thankful to you." He leaned into the mirror for a final touch up. "And do you know? I am to learn a new sport this morning. Luc and Jean-Pierre, they think I must know to roller-blade. I told them I would meet them at ten."
He rinsed off his razor and turned to me. I must have looked sour. "Is that not all right, Yves? Did you have plans?"
"No," I said, "that's fine." Liar. Jealous liar. "If you like though, come back by noon and we will go to the parade."
"What parade?"
"It's called Divers-Cit‚. It's for... well, it's for gays and lesbians. They, we, march to show that we are a strong group in the city, but also to have fun. It's a celebration, and it's political and it's just a huge party. I thought you might like to see it."
"Will you march?"
"Not if you come. I have been in the parade a lot of times, so I can give this one a miss. But you might not be comfortable there. You don't have to come."
"I think I am always comfortable with you, Yves. I would like to see such a parade."
We left it at that. He got dressed, and when I came downstairs, showered and respectably clothed, Mitya had already got the coffee going and put slices of yesterday's melon on the table. Over breakfast, he told me a little about Montenegro and its prickly dependence on Serbia. I told him a little about Quebec and its prickly position in Canada, but the doorbell rang before we got too deep into comparative politics. The Dubois twins had come, as I saw it, to collect their prize, but they had the decency not to gloat. To my astonishment, they even asked me if I'd like to come along. To their astonishment, I said yes. I left Tommy a note and at LaFontaine park I happily outraced the pair of them and, to take a victory lap, walked on my hands, bathed in sweat and self-satisfaction.
Mitya turned out to be less athletic than he looked, and although he did finally manage to stay upright and move forward at the same time, he was clearly ready to head home when I suggested retreat. Declining my invitation to join us at the parade - "What if somebody saw us there?" - the boys went their own way. But they both shook hands with me, and one of them even gave me a little smile, as though conceding that I might be a barely acceptable member of the human race after all.
At the house, I found a note from Tommy. He would be marching. He'd see me there or call later. "I haven't slept so well in a long time. Thank you for letting me stay. Kisses, T." For Tommy, those sentences were just this side of a passionate outburst. I regretted not having taken his drowsing cock into my mouth a few hours earlier, but I began to think that he might let me make love to him again. Awake. And soon. It was a hope to cherish.
In clean, dry sports shirts, Mitya and I took the Metro to Sherbrooke and stationed ourselves in a cheerful throng on the Berri overpass just as the first unit of the parade passed by. The sun was fierce and the heat was sticky, but the crowd was good-natured. Gay bashers have tried to disrupt the parade before, and there had been rumors that thugs, posing as evangelical Christians, would try again this year. But as the different groups - Sero-Zero, Gay-Lesbian Progressives, Jeunesse Lambda, Biker Boys, Gay and Glad - strutted past, all we heard was cheerful laughter and applause. Mitya didn't do much clapping, I noticed, but he did whistle along with others at the buff, gyrating go-go dancers in tight thongs and nothing else. The big-bellied leather daddies and their "boys," some leashed and collared and nearly naked, clearly disturbed him, but the outrageous drag queens in high heels, gold and silver lame and waving feather headdresses had him laughing. "They are men, Yves, are they not?" he sought reassurance which I gave. "They are astonishing," he added. "So very beautiful, some of them."
But not his taste, I was relieved to learn when we went looking for Tommy and something to drink in bar after overcrowded bar along the parade route. In one of them, but I forget which, Mitya suddenly yelped and lurched into me. He had been groped or goosed, and he was clearly not amused. Language I did not understand but could easily interpret as angry obscenities spewed out of his mouth as he turned on his mini-skirted assailant, a cute young thing in a curly platinum-blond wig, fishnet stockings and platform shoes.
"You wouldn't hit a woman, would you?" the princess - not yet a queen --shrieked, cowering slightly.
"But you are not a woman," Dmitri shouted back. "And a woman would not seize a man as you did to me. I do not like to be clutched so."
"I am sorry. I really am," the boy in drag extended his hand. "No hard feelings? You're a real dish, and I'm a bad girl." His purplish lips pouted.
Dmitri did not shake hands. With a look of disgust, he turned to me. "Please, Yves, to excuse me. I think I will go home. Maybe it was too much of sun, and I did not get great sleep last night. I seem too tired to be in good company."
I let him go without much protest because I really wanted to find Tommy and I was really having fun. For an afternoon and evening Montreal belonged to us. To be with your own on your own terms is a pleasure that ordinary people probably do not recognize; for them, it is the norm. But when we social untouchables suddenly, if briefly, become not just tolerated but dominant, the high is all the more intense for being so brief. At midnight or three in the morning, we were all going to turn back into mice and frogs, and we knew it. But while the illusion lasted, we could have fun. And we did.
At some point, I found Tommy, but he had found Leonard Reifel, and Leonard was unencumbered by the boy poet. He and Tommy were giving each other soulful looks while they discussed Susan Sarandon's career path from the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" to "Thelma and Louise." I was clearly not wanted or even particularly welcome, so I went to Sky, my favorite disco, where I was both. Quite a lot later, I clearly remember dancing in nothing but the cherry-red briefs that had given Mitya such a shock that morning, but I don't remember where or how I got the rest of my clothes back or from whom or how I got home. I do remember coming home and being touched to find Mitya waiting up for me and apparently relieved at my return. But I don't remember getting undressed or going to bed or anything at all until Mitya shook me awake Monday morning to answer a telephone call.
I found that I could not move. Or that if I did move, I might break into small pieces. The top part of my head, in fact, already seemed to have detached itself. Very vigorous Irish step dancers had gotten in through the opening and were doing savage things with sharp heels to my brain.
"Mitya," I whispered, keeping a hand over my eyes in case the Charge of the Light Brigade was coming my way, "please say I can't talk now. Or maybe ever." He disappeared.
"It was your mother," he came back. "She says please to telephone her when you are well."
"You told her I was sick?"
"Yes, but that you would recover. I would be happy to help, Yves, if you would like."
"No sudden motions? No loud noises?"
"No. Aspirin, cold tea and a Montenegrin remedy."
"What's the remedy?"
"If I told you, you would not to take it." He left. He came back. I took everything he gave me and let him hold my nose while he poured something ghastly down my throat. I also let him lead me to the bathroom and help me into the shower which he controlled so that it got colder and colder until I had to jump out and dry myself off. Feeling roughly two-thirds alive, I wrapped the towel around my waist and saw that Mitya was smiling.
"You are laughing at me, aren't you?" I challenged him. "Isn't that cruel to laugh when someone is in agony?"
"Are you still in agony?"
"Well, no. But I was."
"And I was not laughing. I am only glad that you are better. You must have had a very good time after I left."
"I did. God, Mitya, I had a great time. I danced so much that all my muscles ache, but it was worth it."
"If you should like, I can give you a massage, but first I will do for you something to eat."
"Something mushy and quiet, please. Something that doesn't put any heavy demands on my nervous system."
He grinned and headed for the hallway. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. "Mitya," I mumbled, "last night, I don't remember much except that you were awake when I came home. How did I get to bed?"
"I put you there," he said.
"Oh. And my clothes?"
"I took them off you. They were not so clean."
"And...?" This took a little delicacy. "Mitya, did I ... did we? You know."
"We did not, Yves. You kissed me good night. On the cheek. It was nice. Like a child. Besides, you were very asleep."
"And naked."
"But in bed. Under the sheet. Yves," he was grinning again, "you are beautiful even when you are very, I will say, tired, but I would not be improper with you in such a condition. It would not be right."
"Of course not. I didn't really think anything had happened, but I didn't remember. Thank you for taking care of me, Mitya."
"You have taken much care of me. And I am very grateful. Now I will take care of your breakfast." He left. I finished up in the bathroom, got dressed and called my mother.
"Darling," she gushed, "who is answering your telephone these days? He sounds very exotic."
"He is from Montenegro, maman. He's a medical student camping out in Elaine's room for the time being."
"Are you in love?" My mother knows me too well. She was surprised when I told her I was gay and disappointed that I probably would not produce grandchildren, but she goes through life with all flags flying and treats me more like an ally than a wayward child. I love her and she loves me, but I don't feel that I have to tell her everything.
"No more than usual, maman," I lied. "How are you? How is the master of the universe?" I love my father, too, but we live almost on different planets. He does useful things with large amounts of other people's money and is very patient with me. I disappoint him not only by being a fag but an artist. He disappoints me by being a hearty philistine.
"We're fine. It's beautiful here, Yves darling. So restful. That's why I called. Wouldn't you like to come up and take a break from the hot, dirty city? You could do your watercolors. I'd love to see you, darling. It's been ages."
It had only been six weeks or so since she disappeared into the wilds, to our summer place on a lake two hours from Montreal. The big, old, main house stood apart from a pair of more modern cabins, and the surrounding hills were lovely, and the night sky was a wonder. When I was little, I thought the place was an endless heaven. But it had shrunk as I had grown, and now it often seemed confining.
"Who else is with you, maman?" I asked. She imported her entertainment. The locals were standoffish, and most of the other summer people were Montreal families whom she either saw too much of during the year or wouldn't consider seeing at all.
"Just now Ceci and Larry and the twins." My younger sister Cecile, her journalist husband and their infants. "And your Uncle Ben is coming with your father at the end of the week. Only family. It would be nice if we could all be together. Do come, sweetie. Your tadpoles don't sing unless you're here."
That was a low blow of nostalgic blackmail. One youthful summer I had reasoned that if frogs croak, tadpoles would chant. I'd collected enough of them to staff the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but they either expired or evolved and hopped away without producing a note. I was teased for years, and the memory still rankled. The prospect of seeing my godfather Benoit, my mother's brother, was a much more positive lure. Far from philistine, he was a suave, much-traveled diplomat, a widower for over three years, but still full of cheerful wickedness. He knew as much about art and music as he did about international politics, and he always treated me as though I might amount to something.
"Could I bring Tommy, that is, if he'd like to be brought?"
"Of course, darling. He's family. And bring the student from Montenegro, too. He and Benoit can talk about the Grimaldis and Provence."
"Maman!" I exclaimed. "That's Monte Carlo. Montenegro is part of Yugoslavia. Don't you read newspapers?"
"Not unless it's a story about your father, darling. So you will come? That would please me so much."
"Well, I have to talk to Tommy. And to Dmitri. I will let you know. Maman, I love you. Thank you for thinking of me."
"I love you, too, my sweet boy. I think of you always. Call soon."
I hung up and started thinking. Then I stopped. My brain was still not fully functional, and I generally do better acting on impulse anyway. So as I ate my noise-free breakfast, I told Mitya about my mother's invitation and presented it as an offer he could not refuse. "It is very hard to be sad at the lake," I said. "There are pine trees and foxes and Indian arrowheads, and most of the conversation is bad jokes. It will be good therapy."
"Are you now a doctor, Yves?"
"Only of the heart. I think a vacation would be good for yours."
"And I would not be an intrusion?"
"You would be a diversion. A welcome one. Everybody in my family likes to talk but not necessarily with one another. You would be a fresh victim."
Put in that light, Mitya cheerfully agreed. I thought that I was beginning to understand him. Whether because he was genuinely self-sacrificing or just shattered by his tragedy, Mitya cared almost nothing for himself and almost everything for the well-being of others. He needed, I thought, to stand up for himself, to be less deferential, but I could not say that to him outright, and I wasn't sure that there was anything to be gained by saying it to him at all.
Instead, I took him on another shopping expedition, mostly for groceries and household necessities. Coming home, we found the Dubois twins waiting on my steps. To my surprise, they had not come to steal Mitya away for another athletic outing. They wanted to see me. And they were very polite about it. They helped us unload our purchases and put them away and then one of them, with a good deal of hangdog diffidence, told me they had come to ask a favor.
"But first, we want to apologize," said the other, also keeping his eyes on the floor.
"For what?" I asked. I saw no need to go easy on them.
"Well, for... for..." he looked to his brother for help. They both looked to Mitya. A quick smile from him but no prompting.
"The thing is," the second twin picked up, "Mr. Sinclair, we have been very rude to you lots of times and just because you're a ... you're a queer is no reason for us to be shits when we see you. So we're sorry. Aren't we, Luc?"
"Yes." He put out his hand to me. "We've been stupid. Mitya told us how nice you have been to him, a stranger and all, and la mere likes you a lot. And we understand you can't help it."
I was astonished. I know my jaw dropped and for a few awkward seconds, I didn't know how to react. I had fantasized about sex with the Dubois twins but never about friendship. But that's what they seemed to be offering. It couldn't be because I was better on rollerblades than either one of them. It had to be Mitya's doing. I took Luc's hand and shook it and did the same with Jean-Pierre.
"Thank you, guys, but it won't be an apology unless you call me Yves. Your mother does, and I know she thinks I'm going to Hell for my sins."
"She thinks we are, too," said Jean-Pierre.
"Well," I said, "then I'll have nice company." That got a laugh. "Look, I really do appreciate what you said," I added. "I know it wasn't easy. I won't tell your friends on the block, but you'd better tell me what the favor is while I'm in a good mood."
"It's a favor, Yves, but we'd like to pay for it. We have some money saved." This time it was Luc. "We need a present for la mere's birthday, and Mitya showed us some of your pictures, and they're great."
"So," Jean-Pierre chimed in, "what we were wondering is could you draw us so that we can give her the picture? If you have the time? And like Luc said, we want to pay you." He paused. I didn't say anything. I was taken completely off guard by the idea of having him and his brother as my models."
"I have to think about it," I temporized. "I really just do sketches, like studies for sculpture. I've never done a formal portrait. Besides, I can't tell you apart. You're identical."
"Actually," said Luc, "we're not. I'm circumcised. It was our father's idea."
"But as a birthday present for your mother I am not going to make a picture of your pricks. You do want me to draw your faces, don't you?"
They both laughed. "Yes, please," they chorused.
"Was this your idea," I asked, "or Mitya's?"
"A little of both." Jean-Pierre. "We came by this morning when you were still asleep, and he showed us some of your drawings. I really like the one where he and your friend are playing chess. Maybe you could do us like that."
"Do you play chess?"
"No." He thought briefly. "You know, what we do that's a little like that is we arm wrestle."
"Why don't you show me?"
They sat down at the kitchen table, planted their elbows and, staring hard into each other's eyes, began to grapple. The result was two profiles of the same kid. It didn't work.
"One of you has to relax or laugh or something," I said after studying them a while, "so that I can have some contrast. How does your mother tell you apart? When you're not naked, that is?"
"I usually wear something blue, and Luc wears yellow. Like today." Jean-Pierre pointed at his shirt and his brother's. But we have little scars, too, if you know where to look."
It was a polite challenge, and I took it. "Just stay where you are. Let me try to find them." I circled them, sat down between them, got them to laugh and to frown and finally I saw some distinguishing features: Luc's left eye drooped a little at the outside corner; one of his brother's front teeth was chipped. Both wore their hair in brush cuts, but Jean-Pierre's was fuller on the sides.
"You're good," they said in unison when I reported my findings. "Almost nobody sees this," Luc put a finger to his eye, "except Jean-Pierre because he did it."
"Not on purpose," his brother swatted at him. "Not like my tooth."
"Do you two fight a lot?"
"Some," said Jean-Pierre.
"Every day," corrected Luc.
"Who wins?"
"I do," claimed Jean-Pierre, "most of the time."
"Do not," Luc was indignant.
"Do so!"
"Not!"
"Hold it!" I grabbed their forearms before sibling rivalry got out of hand. "I think I see something I can try. But not on an empty stomach. Have you dudes had lunch?"
They hadn't. We made sandwiches and iced tea and easy conversation about nothing in particular. While Mitya and the boys cleaned up, I telephoned Tommy and left a message on his machine about my mother's invitation. Then I got my sketch pad and some pencils and crayons and charcoal and put the twins back at the table with orders to arm wrestle until they were too tired to go on.
I got tired before they did. Aside from being stunning physical specimens, Luc and Jean-Pierre were two of the most intensely competitive teenagers I had ever seen. Each match was a triumph for one and a disaster for the other, and neither was ever going to concede the upper hand, literally, to his brother. But I had found a composition - the moment that one actually forced the other's hand to the table top - that would let me show both boys almost full face, and I also figured out a way to make each the laughing victor and the sullen loser. I would give both combatants the same chipped tooth and drooping left eye and one a red shirt and the other a black one. I didn't tell them what I had in mind, only that I needed a break and would want them to pose again the next day.
"Can we see what you've done, Yves?" Luc asked.
"Sorry, against the rules," I said. "But if you don't like the drawing, you don't have to take it."
They dismissed the possibility of rejecting the finished work and insisted on paying for it -- $200, not much but still my first commission, my first sale, a small secret I kept to myself. As my contribution to the birthday present, I demanded to be allowed to have the portrait mounted and framed. "Deal," the twins high-fived me the way they had slapped palms with Mitya on the street two days before. I glowed. Suddenly, I really wanted to be accepted by these brats. I wanted them to like me, and it looked like they might.
Once they were out the door, I went straight to Mitya, who had been sitting in a corner and reading quietly while artist and models worked. I put my arms around his neck and kissed his forehead. "I love you, Mitya," I said. "That was all your doing, and it has made me very happy."
"Good," he smiled a little. "They are nice boys, just young and clumsy and they do not think very deeply. I am pleased that I could help them to come to know you." He looked at me with concern. "Yves, I think you should rest now. You look tired. I would gladly give you massage if your muscles still ache."
I considered the offer and regretfully turned it down. There was nothing I wanted more than the feel of Mitya's hands on my body, but I didn't think the experience would be restful. On the contrary, I was sure to embarrass myself by moaning with pleasure, getting hard, even having a spontaneous orgasm. I could contain my urges under most conditions, but lying naked or nearly so while he rubbed and pummeled me would strain my self-control past the breaking point.
Instead, I took a long nap, Mitya took a short walk - the heat was ferocious - and when I came downstairs, he and Tommy were bent over their infernal chessboard again. I didn't dare interrupt, but Mitya waved me over and with a grin and a stage whisper informed me that his opponent was in deep trouble. "I do not think our Tommy has his mind in full on the game."
With a pained grimace, Tommy admitted defeat and leaned back. "My power of concentration is shot to hell," he said.
"Leonard?" I asked. "Did you get lucky? Tell all."
"You are so vulgar, Yves. I would never have suspected."
"I am not. I saw you two together, remember, after the parade. You looked as if you had succumbed to his fatal charm, and he looked ready to ravish you. Plus, as usual, pretentious."
"Well, it turned out he didn't have all that much to be pretentious about," Tommy sulked. Then he laughed. "It wasn't even 'Wham, bam, thank you, Sam.' Just bam, and no thank you. Of course, he wanted to talk about his problem, but I'm not into sex therapy. Just sex. So, no, I didn't get lucky. Not like you, you dirty old man."
"What do you mean? I'm so desperate I was even thinking of asking you to come up to the lake at the end of the week."
"I accept." He grinned. "I got your message, and I've already telephoned your mother to thank her for the invitation. But it may get a little crowded if you bring your new conquests, too. I might be de trop, not being blond and lissome."
"What new...?" For a moment I was disoriented. "Oh, those new conquests. I don't know what Mitya has been telling you but my relations with the Dubois youngsters are purely professional. Besides, they're jail bait."
"That didn't stop you when it was my knee pants you pulled down."
"We were both jail bait then. And I was consumed with a mad passion," I laughed and gave him a kiss. "Tommy, I'm so glad you'll come to the cabin. It'll be like old times."
"Skinny-dipping in the moonlight? Grab-assing behind the boathouse?"
"You'll forget all about Leonard."
"I already have. As I said, there isn't much to forget."
"Well, since you're not in mourning, we should celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"The loss of my amateur status. I received my first commission today. The Dubois boys are going to pay me for their portrait. And Mitya gets a finder's fee."
"What is that?" Mitya looked suspicious.
"A commission for bringing in the business. Ten percent is customary. Which should be enough for movie tickets if there's something Tommy will let us see. And then I will buy a lavish pizza dinner."
"But they have not paid you yet," Mitya protested. "And I was not undertaking to get you clients, just to relax the tensions they have with you."
"And you succeeded on all counts. Maybe the fee should be higher. Then you could buy the pizza."
End of Chapter Four (Postings will start again after November 15.)