I.
It is truly strange how seemingly unrelated circumstances at one point in history can influence future happenings. Parallel incidents in time or content that may only be related in their implications; circumstances in different parts of the earth--different cultures--different times--different affected people that inexorably join at a later point with unexpected results.
--1985--
In the space of four months there were three happenings, related only in content--nothing else. But these happenings inextricably drew the three protagonists together in an unspeakable bond.
Cairo--Hamid al Omar walked slowly down the crowded street towards Muhamet Sharif's shop. His father had said that his old friend had needed some help on that Saturday. Sharif and Hamid's father had been life long friends and they both had small shops from which they made a respectable living. Muhamet Sharif had not been blessed with sons--only three daughters.
Hamid was fifteen, tall, somewhat gangly, dark eyes hooded with luxurious lashes, expressively arched eye brows, a strong, arched nose and full lips. He was not what one would call handsome, but, on the other hand, he was not unattractive either. His adolescent frame hinted at what would become a masculine physique. His love of sports and most physical activity would lead to a muscular frame in later years. Today, he forsook the traditional garb and wore a loose t-shirt, baggy pants tied with a drawstring at the waist and his second-best tennis shoes. He ambled into the shop and greeted his father's friend.
Sharif sold tea. In the middle of the floor of the small shop was a consignment of tea in various size cardboard boxes. He was busily unpacking the contents, ticking each parcel off against the order form.
"Good morning, Hamid. I'm glad you could come over. I need some help with this shipment."
"I'm glad I can help, uncle," Hamid answered respectfully.
"I would like you to place these on the shelves there," he said, pointing to one of the top shelves. Sharif was in his early forties--a stocky man. Sharif was medium height and it was obvious that he once had been rather athletic. He walked with the assurance of an athlete, but middle age and a certain indolence had began to add to his girth. Still he was not yet fat. The sleeves of his burnoose were rolled up revealing muscular arms which were covered with thick black hair, mirroring his clipped beard and mustache. The voluminous, loose burnoose hid his broad chest and muscular legs. Sharif's nose was prominent and slightly hooked and his mouth was hidden by the extravagant mustache. His hooded, black eyes regarded Hamid. "The ladder is in the back."
Hamid went into the small, cramped back room, found the "ladder," a ladder which had seen it's better days, and returned with it to the front of the shop.
"Arrange these on that shelf," Sharif commanded, pointing to a pile of tea packets sitting on a dusty counter and nodding again towards the shelf.
Hamid obeyed, positioned the ladder, grasped several small boxes, carefully climbed the ladder and began to arrange them on the narrow dusty shelf. He was climbing the ladder for the third time when a rung finally gave way and he tumbled to the floor. The fall knocked the wind out of him and he lay there inert. Sharif dropped what he was doing, rushed over to Hamid. "Are you all right?" he asked breathlessly.
Hamid could not answer, his breath having not yet returned. Quickly Sharif effortlessly scooped up Hamid in his strong arms and carried him into the back room, pushing the curtain which obscured the back room aside as he entered. There he gently laid him on an old, dusty sofa which he used for his afternoon nap.
"Are you all right?" he repeated.
Hamid, regaining his breath could only nod his head.
"I'll get some water," Sharif said, moving quickly to the front of the shop. He grabbed a carafe of water. Then, as an afterthought he closed and bolted the front door and returned to the back room. Gently he elevated Hamid's head and brought the carafe to his lips. Hamid gulped down two swallows of water and choked on the third. He coughed, sat up as the water sputtered from his mouth.
"I'm OK," he managed to say rubbing his side where he had hit one of the cartons.
"You're hurt," Sharif exclaimed as he raised Hamid's t-shirt and saw a reddening weal.
"No, I'm OK," Hamid repeated, a bit embarrassed at the attention.
"I have some lineament for that," Sharif announced, rummaging in a drawer of a decrepit desk set against the wall. He drew out a bottle. "Here, let me help you," he said as he grasped the t-shirt and drew it over Hamid's head.
"No, uncle, I'm really all right," Hamid uttered, becoming more embarrassed at the solicitude of his father's friend than the fact of his as yet lean torso.
"Nonsense!" Sharif pronounced as he poured some of the oily liquid into his hand and began to tenderly massage the reddened area.
Hamid had to admit to himself that the cooling lineament felt good as those muscular hands tenderly attended to his side. Sharif's thick fingers were surprisingly tender as he coaxed the soreness out of the bruised side. The ministering hands began to circle in an ever increasing arc. Soon, not only his side was being massaged, but also his back and chest as well. Hamid became aware of the fingers lingering over his dark, pinkish brown aureoles. The nipples became erect. This fact was not consciously apparent to Hamid, but Sharif was acutely aware of this circumstance. As a matter of fact the feel of that smooth body under his rough hands ignited certain passions in the older man.
"Are you hurt any other place?" Sharif rasped, his voice somewhat constricted.
"No, uncle, I'm really all right."
"We had better check," the elder man said, as he untied the waist cord of the light cotton pants, drawing them down to Hamid's ankles.
Hamid was speechless and deeply embarrassed as he now lay there with only his light cotton under garment covering his body.
"Let me see," his father's friend said breathlessly as his hands moved over Hamid's thighs while his eyes lasciviously took in the the smooth, nearly naked body.
Sharif's hands meandered up the sensitive inner thighs and briefly made contacted with the cotton covered balls sack. An electric shock ran through Hamid's body. His young cock began to lengthen uncontrollably. Hamid could not react, could not speak. He was shocked into complete silence, unmoving.
Roughly, Sharif turned Hamid over onto his stomach and just as roughly yanked the cotton under garment off. He licked his lips in anticipation as the pale twin mounds of Hamid's ass was suddenly revealed. Roughly he massaged that beautiful young ass as his own cock began to tent his burnoose. A thick, oiled finger insinuated itself down into the crack.
Hamid involuntarily clenched his buttocks in a vain attempt to inhibit the offending digit. His mind was racing, uncontrolled. "What is happening?" he screamed to himself!
"Stand up!" Sharif roughly and imperiously commanded.
As an automaton, Hamid obeyed. It was unthinkable that he not obey! His embarrassment knew no bounds as his hands covered his bared cock and balls. His face was flushed red as his gaze locked on the floor at his feet in unabashed confusion. In the periphery of his vision he saw his father's friend lift his burnoose, revealing a florid, thick and erect cock. He then sat on the edge of the sofa.
Hamid consternation soared. His self-conscious distress bordered on shock. Sharif reached out, grabbed Hamid's thighs, spread them apart and drew the young boy onto his lap. He maneuvered Hamid's legs onto the sofa, behind him so that they encircled his thick waist. Grasping the smooth orbs of that young ass, he maneuvered his cock so that it came into contact with that tight, sphinctered hole.
Hamid's eyes bulged and then snapped shut as he suddenly became aware of what was going to happen--of what Muhamet Sharif was about to do. Yet he could not, dared not object! That would have been beyond what he had learned--undying respect for one's elders. Besides, Sharif was his father's best friend--almost part of the family. He tried, half-heartedly to squirm off the hairy thighs, but Sharif's grasp was firm and insistent. He bit his lips and uttered a prayer to himself.
"Allah-mah!"
He could feel the coarse thigh hair of the older man against his smooth thighs. He smelled tobacco which permeated Sharif's burnoose and the odor of garlic on his breath. Hamid thought he was going to become sick.
Suddenly, there was a gut wrenching pain as the thick cock breached his virgin ass and forced its way inside. There was no preamble! There was no attempt to finger this tight opening prior to entry. Only a forceful upward flexing of buttocks and thighs--ramming the engorged cock past the pursed gates.
Hamid gasped! Almost immediately tears of pain, disbelief and humiliation coursed down his cheeks. The offending member began to move in and out, in and out in rhythmic movements. The initial pain began to subside, but not the strange feeling of being stuffed. Shortly, the older man began to groan as he shoved his cock deeper into that young ass. Then a deep guttural gasp . . . and, . . . it was over!
Quickly Sharif twisted Hamid off his lap as if not wanting any contact with that unclean thing. Hamid fell onto the sofa. Standing up the "uncle" walked to a pitcher and washed his cock, dropped his burnoose and returned to the front of the shop.
"Clean up!" he roughly commanded as he left that squalid back room not even glancing at the boy.
Hamid obeyed, stumbled over to where the pitcher was and gently cleansed his violated ass. Tears continued to course down his cheeks. Now, not so much from the pain, but because of the profanation. He quickly dressed, wiped the tears from his face and went through the curtained door. Muhamet Sharif was discussing a transaction with a customer, seemingly unaware of the young boy's re-entry.
Hamid left Sharif's shop without uttering a single word. That in itself was a mark of extreme disrespect, but neither seemed to care. The customer arched his eyebrows at the affront.
Hamid trudged home with the thought that he had been defiled. He was forever tainted.
Vilnius--Jaak Romke was walking home in the cool dusk of early evening along a narrow lane just beyond the outskirts of Vilnius. He was euphoric.
Spring time in Lithuania could be particularly wonderful and it was so this night. He and Katya had been walking earlier in the woods that bordered her father's small farm. They had kissed, as they had before, except this night their emotions had taken over and both wanted more. Jaak had tried to persuade Katya to make love with him, but she quietly refused. Instead, she tentatively massaged his erection through his pants. Quietly, without embarrassment he undid his fly, freed his cock and placed her hand on it's hot throbbing shaft. Tentatively, with interest and wonder she grasped it and then began to fondle it. Her initial embarrassment retreated as she lasciviously manipulated this hard member. Soon he uncontrollably ejaculated to the delight and wonder of Katya and to his intense relief. That was earlier. Now he walked home with a light heart.
The unpaved road ran over the low lying hills and the remnants of the great forests that once had completely covered this region. It was well trod from generations of horse carts and later motorized vehicles. It would meander through a wooded area, only to explode into a verdant meadow where cattle grazed or crops grew. Jaak loved this walk--he loved Katya. One day this wzould be the land that he would work. Even though he grew up in Vilnius, he had an innate affinity for the countryside. This night he was suffused with warmth, not just from the release that Katya had engendered, but from the knowledge that soon he would ask her to be his wife, and he knew she would accept. Too, he loved the smell of the forest and the meadows outside the city, especially as the shadows grew longer--the curtain of night was approaching.
As he rounded a bend in the lane he was suddenly brought up short by a barked command.
"Halt!"
Jaak was startled out of his reverie as he peered through the gathering dusk and saw the form of a soldier in front of him.
"Give me your papers," the soldier commanded. Jaak handed him his ID.
"What are you doing here?" the soldier asked authoritatively.
"Just walking home, sir," Jaak replied meekly. The appearance of a soldier was not something new. They were all over. Symbol's of Moscow's dominance. Besides, it was getting dark and normally people didn't walk the country lanes at night.
"From where?" came a sharp inquiry.
"I was visiting my girl friend's house," he answered.
"Had a good fuck, I suppose," came the sneering reply.
"No, sir. We just talked."
The soldier snorted, "I don't believe you! You Liths are always fucking!"
Jaak reddened, but managed to control his temper. "No, sir. Just talked."
Still holding Jaak's identify card, the soldier commanded, "Follow me," as he walked off the lane into the woods. Jaak obeyed and followed. To do anything else was unthinkable.
After a few meters the soldier stopped turned around, stuffed the identify card into his jacket's pocket, leered at Jaak and ordered brusquely, "Strip down!"
Strip searches were nothing new. The soldiers often demanded a strip search as a way of humiliating the proud Lithuanians. Jaak obeyed. His blue eyes obscured by the darkening sky mirrored his unabashed hatred towards the uniformed man. His normally full lips were drawn into a thin line of anger and the nostrils of his straight, strong nose flared. For a fifteen year old, Jaak was more developed than most. His shoulders were broad as was his chest. Both were muscled, although not heavily. His thin waist and hips were supported by muscled thighs. The dusk could not hide the thick bush of light colored pubic hair and the prominent cock.
The soldier watched with a leering smile as Jaak stood before him. He was nude, but not cowed as he stared with unabashed hatred into the face of the soldier.
The Russian was dark and stocky. His eyebrows were thick and they arched high over equally dark eyes. It was the eyebrows that Jaak focused upon--avoiding direct eye contact.
"Turn around," the soldier barked, and Jaak complied. He was facing a small tree. The soldier grabbed Jaak' right hand, clamped a handcuff on it and then reached around the tree and cuffed his left hand. He then walked back behind Jaak.
Jaak could hear the soldier moving. He glanced over his shoulder and saw him leaning his rifle against a stump. Then he began to become alarmed as he watched the soldier unbuckle his belt and lower his pants. Jaak' head snapped back.
He had heard rumors of what some of the soldiers preferred. These rumors were repeated with vehement scorn amongst the occupied populous.
The soldier approached the nude youth.
"Bend over you Lith pig. I'll show you what a good fuck is!"
Jaak tensed, his heart raced, but he did not move.
"I said bend over," the soldier snarled and savagely punched Jaak in the back--a kidney punch.
Jaak gasped and involuntarily flexed forward. The soldier grabbed Jaak' hips and without any ceremony, unerringly shoved his hard cock deep into the boy's ass with wrenching force. Jaak gasped again, bit his lips as tears of pain, shame and hatred flowed down his cheeks. Violently the soldier rammed his cock again and again deep into that virgin ass. The pain was searing and the pistoning action was so intense that Jaak' head was repeatedly slammed into the trunk of the tree.
After what seemed an eternity, the soldier made one last violent thrust and withdrew as violently as he had entered. Jaak sank to his knees, panting from the excruciating pain and total humiliation. The soldier grabbed Jaak' underwear, wiped off his cock, drew up his pants and buckled his belt. He reached for his rifle, walked around Jaak, bent down, unlocked the cuffs and confidently strode off into the darkness buttoning his gaping fly.
"My identify card!" Jaak gasped.
The soldier reached into his pocket and flung the hallowed, but necessary card onto the ground.
Jaak lay there for some minutes. After the pain subsided he stood up, reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and tenderly tried to clean his violated hole and dropped it on the ground. He dressed quietly, leaving his underwear where the soldier had thrown them, reached down and pocketed his identity card. He picked his way back to the lane and stumbled home. Pain infused his whole being.
The anger, the hatred that welled up inside him was primordial. So elemental was this feeling that he was unaware of the blood matting his hair where his head had been bruised open from the repeated contacts with the tree trunk. Yet, there was also the sensation of being contaminated polluted, even though it was not of his own doing.
Spokane--Rick Carson was met at the bus station by his Aunt Alice Stearns. She was his favorite aunt--his mother's sister. They had not seen each other frequently due to the distance between her and his family's home. Neither of the families were well off and the money for the trip Rick had saved from his part time job. He was glad to see her. Glad, also, because after the thirty-six hour bus ride, he needed to stretch his cramped legs.
Aunt Alice was one of those rare people who had the ability to make everyone with whom she came in contact feel special. Indeed, Rick was special to her. He had always been a calm child, not reserved or withdrawn, but calm. He possessed a bright sense of humor which mirrored his innate intelligence and was what many would refer to as an "easy child."
Indeed he was special, or maybe different, unlike her own son, Rod, who was the opposite in every way. He had been a problem child. She loved Rod deeply as any caring mother would. Alice was pleased at seeing her son mellow somewhat . . . as of late.
"Two years of university can create wonders," she said to herself.
Of course Rick remembered Rod from the few times that they had been together during family visits. His memories were of a boy who seemed to gravitate towards trouble. But Rod had two saving graces--his sense of humor and sense of adventure. It was the latter that Rick had so admired.
Rod was five years older than Rick and it was probably the age difference that caused Rick to admire him so. Besides, Rod was strikingly good looking . . . and . . . knew it!
Dinner, that evening, had been memorable as Aunt Alice had fixed fried chicken. "She makes the best fried chicken in the world," Rick thought. Rod excused himself saying that he was going to meet some friends for a movie and a beer.
Aunt Alice suggested that he take Rick with him.
"Can't," Rod said, "He's too young. They won't let him into the bar."
Rick looked younger than his fifteen years. He was maturing late. It was something that bothered him a little.
"Don't worry son. The Anderson family always matures late," his mother had reassured him, and added, "Good things, like good wine, mature late."
That didn't seem to allay his pangs too much, but he accepted his lot. He was shorter than most of his class mates, thinner, his voice had just begun to change and, happily, he also began to notice a light dusting of hair in his pubic region.
"At last!" he had said to himself.
He climbed into bed late. He was tired and didn't even mind that he had to share the bed with Rod.
"We don't have an extra bed, but you can sleep on the sofa if you want?" Aunt Alice had said earlier.
"No, that's OK," he assured her. Besides with his two girl cousins, Mary and Catherine, he would have been too embarrassed to sleep on the sofa as he generally awoke in the morning with a roaring erection. So he climbed into the double bed that was in Rod's room and promptly fell asleep.
Some time later he awoke to the feeling of his hand being placed on warm, hard object. As he rose to full consciousness he was aware of the smell of beer, Rod's presence next to him and his hand being placed on Rod's hard cock. Quickly Rick withdrew his hand. Rod grunted, grasped Ricks head and forced it down onto his cock. Rick gagged as the hot flaring head was forced into his mouth. He gagged again and forcibly pulled away.
"Don't be a baby!" Rod whispered harshly. "If you don't do as I say, I'll tell Mom that you were playing with and sucking my cock! Then what will she think of her favorite nephew?"
Rick panicked. He became silent and just laid there. Rod, sensing, his consternation, rolled Rick over onto his stomach and pulled down his pajama bottoms. Rick froze in fright. Shortly, he felt Rod's fingers covered with some slippery stuff slide into his crack. Slowly one of the fingers moved back and forth over his sphinctered hole. At first the action brought untold fear to his being. Then, he became aware of the simultaneous pleasant feeling. Carefully the finger was pushed against the muscled opening until the gate gave way and the finger slipped in. Rick gasped. In and out, in and out the lubricated finger moved. The discomfort gave away to a sensation that was not necessarily unpleasant.
The finger was removed and Rick felt Rod's bulk covering him. His hard cock found it's mark and began to push it's way into Rick's ass.
Rick suddenly became aware of what was happening and tried to squirm away.
"Don't move and don't make a sound. . . . or I will tell Mom."
Rick fell silent and did not move as Rod's cock entered his ass hole. Rick groaned.
"Quiet," hissed Rod as he began to fuck his cousin's virgin ass.
There was pain and the sensation of being stuffed. As the cock was withdrawn a little there was the sensation that comes with a bowel movement. Rod's movements were rhythmical as he fucked that tight ass.
Rick's mind reeled in confusion and shame.
Rod's breathing grew faster and faster--his thrusts, likewise increase their rhythmic penetration. Suddenly there was a tensing and Rod slammed his cock deep into Rick's ass one more time. All his breath escaped in one long hissing sound and he rolled off Rick's back.
Rod reached for the tissue box, took a couple of squares and cleaned his cock. He gave a couple to Rick and whispered, "Here, wipe yourself."
Within a couple of minutes Rick could hear the deep breathing of satiated slumber. He could not sleep. He lay beside Rod all night.
His mind raced, "Why?"
The next morning at breakfast he glanced at Rod with loathing--an emotion that had been foreign to him until last night. Rod ate his breakfast with his usual demeanor, even smiling once or twice at Rick.
The violation contaminated his whole being. It tainted his otherwise calm demeanor.
--1990--
Seattle--Rick was now twenty, in his third year of university. He had been a fine student in high school and received a full scholarship at the university. He had originally thought of majoring in Philosophy or Literature, but changed his mind and decided upon Political Science with the possibility of furthering his studies in Law.
It was at the beginning of his junior year when he had seen an advert for "government service" and decided to answer the ad. "It's not too early to look at the options," he thought to himself.
The interview was conducted in the Student Services building and in a nondescript room. He was confronted by two men, well dressed in their thirties. The interview was long and somewhat arduous. There was little mention of the particular position or positions that the two interviewers were probing him about.
When he asked for the specifics of the position, he was told, "This is just a preliminary interview. We're representing a number of governmental agencies. If you are deemed an acceptable candidate, you will be contacted by the appropriate department." They then passed him a multipage questionnaire which he was asked to respond to on a separate answer page. The questionnaire was indeed probing.
When he had finished he turned in the questionnaire and was met by: "Thank you, we will be in contact." That was all.
"Strange," Rick thought to himself and put the interview out of his mind.
A week later, late one night, there was a knock on his apartment door. When he answered he was met with the flushed face of Rod. He had seen Rod once or twice since that horrific occurrence so many years ago--usually at family gatherings. Rick had assiduously avoided any conversation with his nemesis at those reunions. Rod had not pushed the issue.
"Hi, Rick," Rod greeted him, "can I come in?"
Rick barred the way and firmly held onto the door. Anger suffused his being afresh. "I don't think so," he replied curtly, "We've nothing to discuss. Nothing in common!"
Indeed they had nothing in common except their familial relationship. But, that had been forcibly severed those five years back. Also, Rick had heard from his mother that, "Rod had been in trouble." Apparently, he had become involved in drugs and had been arrested. Rick's mother had related that his Aunt Alice had been devastated with the turn of events and had become understandably depressed.
"That son-of-a-bitch, he deserves it," Rick had uttered when his mother told him. His remark was so uncharacteristic of him that his mother said no more--partly in shock and partly because she opined that there had occurred some rupture between her son and Rod.
"Please, Rick, please let me in. . . " Rod pleaded. His demeanor was uncharacteristically low keyed, almost supplicating.
Rick surmised that there was a problem--a real problem. Yet, his anger, his hatred reveled in the possible problem that his cousin was now facing.
"No, Rod! We have nothing in common and even though you are my cousin, I could care less what happens to you. Please, leave." He began to close the door.
"Oh, God, Rick, please." begged Rod taking a step forward.
Rick forcebly shut the door and turned the dead bolt lock. He stood there, quietly for a few seconds, trying to regain his composure.
Within a short time, he heard muffled voices on the other side his door. There was knock--an insistent knock. Again he opened the door and was met by a uniformed man. Behind him he saw Rod, handcuffed and held by two more police officers.
"Excuse me, sir," the officer said, "but this man said that you are his cousin and that he has been with you for the last twenty-four hours. Can you corroborate his statement?"
Rick glared at Rod. "Yes, officer, he is my cousin. But, just a moment ago was the first time I had seen him in over two years. We have nothing, nothing in common!" Rod's face fell into a mask of resignation and defeat.
"I see. Thank you, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience."
"That's quite all right officer," Rick answered, glancing at his cousin with a venom both recognized and understood.
He carefully closed the door, stripped, walked slowly to the bathroom and took an inordinately long hot shower--soaping and re-soaping himself again and again.
"That door is now closed," he said to himself.
Vilnius--Jaak was walking home after work. That week it was the late shift at the steel mill. He was tired. His job was not difficult, but it was menial and the repetition of the tasks was tiring. Yet, the physical quality of the job had honed his muscles into steel hardness. His naturally muscular body had taken on the aspect of an Olympic wrestler and was strangely devoid of hair--except a lush growth of light pubic hair. His broad shoulders and muscled chest gave way to laddered abdominals and narrow hips. His thighs were heavily muscled as were his calves. Jaak' biceps swelled above his powerful forearms, but his hands seemed out of place. Long tapering finger, more like those of a musician than a laborer. The shape of his hands belied their steely strength and calluses seemed out of place. His build coupled with his growing good looks caused numerous glances of appreciation and desire from most of the young women and a few of the men.
His mind was blank this night. He had learned to turn it off from time to time. There were too many memories, dark memories that when they insinuated themselves caused pain.
He had wanted to go to the university, but there was no money. Although Jaak was exceedingly bright, there were few scholarships and none unless your family was a member of the party. Jaak's were not.
He had few friends, and tended to gravitate to those whose hatred of the system matched his. Once a week he would spend a few hours at the local bar drinking beer and conversing quietly about the plight of his country. One couldn't be too vocal--it was dangerous.
Once, Ivor, a quiet, shy friend from his childhood had mentioned The Knights. They were considered to be the modern equivalent of the Teutonic Knights of yore, but they were never seen nor were their existence publicly acknowledged. This surprised Jaak--coming from Ivor. The Knights were reputed to be a secret organization dedicated to the liberation of Lithuania--an impossible task considering the odds and the might of Moscow. They were whispered to be responsible for a number of "disappearances" of high ranking Moscow soldiers and politicos. Nothing was ever printed about these "disappearances" in the paper or heard on the radio. But, from time to time there were searches and temporary detentions of known and/or out spoken Lithuanians.
He briefly thought of The Knights as he trudged along the deserted sidewalk. It was a route he so often followed home after work. For some reason, tonight he possessed an uncontrollable rage, hating everything.
A fleeting image of Katya flitted across his mind's eye. He fought to repress it. It had been years since he had been with Katya. Since that horrendous night five years ago he had not been able to be with her--could not be with her. He was defiled. He remembered her pleading look a week after that incident when he had passed her on the street. She had stopped him and asked why he had not called her. They parted after an inept excuse. He never saw her again, alone. He could not tell her. He could not tell anyone.
As he turned the next-to-the-last corner before his shabby rooming house, he saw two figures half way down the block. He was mildly surprised--the street was normally deserted at this time. One of the figures was a soldier and the other was a young boy--barely an adolescent.
"Stupid kid," he said to himself, "He should know better than to be on the street after curfew." Jaak felt no danger as he possessed an authorized pass--one of the few advantages of working in the mill.
He observed that the soldier was looking at the boy's identity papers. Every one possessed identity papers, it was obligatory. As he approached the two, the soldier glanced at Jaak and barked out, "What are you doing out after curfew? Give me your papers!"
Upon approaching the two, Jaak had reached into his pocket for his pass in anticipation. He had it in hand when the command was issued. Nonetheless, he suddenly froze as if poleaxed.
The voice! There was no mistaking that voice!
"Give me your papers, you stupid Lith," the soldier spat out. Threateningly he moved his hand to the holster at his waist.
Woodenly, Jaak held out the papers and the soldier snatched them from his grip. Jaak glanced at the soldier's face and saw the dark, high arching eyebrows--the eye brows that he had seen before.
The Soldier glanced at the night pass and snorted, "Get on home, and be quick about it."
Jaak stuffed the papers in his pocket, glanced into the soldiers eyes again and shuffled past. Those cold blue eyes burned deep into his being as he not only remembered them but recognized his former tormentor. Quickly he glanced at the boy. Terror was etched on his young face. His eyes were wild with panic and spittle flecked his lips.
After proceeding on for twenty or so paces, Jaak glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the soldier pushing the boy into a dark alley. Jaak stopped. Images of that night, five years ago, flashed violently cross his mind's eye. Clear, precise images--clear precise emotions enhanced the savage relict. Deep, focused rage welled up and consumed his whole being.
He whirled around and walked quickly and quietly back to the alley entrance. He had reached into his pants pocket, drew out a small penknife and quickly opened it. It's blade was barely three inches long, but honed to razor sharpness.
As he silently turned into the alley he saw the soldier a few yards ahead. He was standing behind the half nude boy and was fumbling with his fly. In that brief instant he observed the trembling boy, trousers around his ankles, his smooth, white ass defenselessly exposed and his own image, those years ago, flashed across his mind.
Quickly, soundlessly, catlike he came up behind the soldier, clamped his hand across that cruel mouth, pulled the head back and deftly drew the blade across the exposed throat. The swift, sure action had severed the carotid and jugular. A gurgling sound came from the violently exposed larynx. That was all. The boy turned, wide eyed and gawked at the obscene tableau. The soldier shuddered in his death throes and slowly collapsed. Jaak let him drop to the ground and grabbed the boy.
"Where are your papers?" he whispered hoarsely, panting from the unaccustomed exertion.
The boy, in shock merely gapped at Jaak.
"Where are your papers? Be quick, before someone sees us." Jaak snapped and shook the muted boy.
Haltingly, he pointed with a shaking finger at the shirt pocket of the fallen form.
"Pull up your pants!" he ordered brusquely. The boy leadenly obeyed. Jaak reached in to the pocket, drew out the papers and half dragged the boy to the other end of the alley.
Quickly he handed the boy his papers and asked, "Do you live far from here?"
The boy shook his head no. Still he could not speak.
"Then go home quickly, and remember . . . nothing happened! You saw nothing! OK?"
The boy nodded. Suddenly locomotion returned to him and the boy wheeled around and raced like a frightened deer down the block. Jaak took a handful of dry leaves from the ground, wiped the blade and the blood from his hands.
"Nice job!" came from behind him.
Jaak wheeled around and was met with Ivor's smiling face.
"You'd better get home and clean up. There's sure to be trouble over this," Ivor stated.
Without another word, they parted, each going in separate directions. Jaak was in a mild state of shock at Ivor's presence. The violence of the past few minutes combined with the relicts of the distant past left Jaak strangely a bit disoriented. He began to tremble uncontrollably. As he hurried to his rooming house, he felt a lightness that he had not experienced in years. Yet the quaking persisted, almost assuming fit-like spasms.
He stripped and stood shivering in the drafty room. Quietly, he bathed himself with the cool water he carefully dipped from a plastic bucket. Just as carefully he washed the clothes that he had been wearing.
Suddenly he tasted acid in his mouth. He began to gag and soon was overwhelmed by a gut wrenching need to vomit. He grabbed a bucket and wretched what little was in his stomach. Rinsing his mouth of the foul vomitus he said, "That door is now closed."
Cairo--Hamid had been spending a short holiday with his parents. From time to time he was able to break the pressures of his studies and visit his beloved mother and father.
They were exceedingly proud of Hamid. He had excelled in secondary school and was excelling at the university. It had not been easy for his parents. The university was not cheap, and they did without many things in able to afford to educate their son. Their small sundry shop had been enough to support the family during the growing years, but it's ability to sustain them with this added expense was trying, indeed. The family was stretched to the extreme.
Nonetheless, Fatima, his mother, had prepared those savories which she knew Hamid relished so much. He was even surprised when Omar, his father, offered him one of the stems of his hookah. Omar, as most fathers, Hamid knew, was extremely reticent--a man of few words.
" Surely, this means that he sees me as a man," Hamid mused to himself. And, indeed, the action did.
Later, his childhood friend Ahmad dropped by. They chatted freely together. Ahmad was Hamid's closest friend. In the past they were inseparable, but since secondary school their paths diverged. Ahmad had joined the army, not because he had wanted to, but there was no question of him attending the university. He was the eldest of five children and there simply was no where the extra expense could be gleaned. Still, they kept in contact.
"Let's go to the bazaar for some tea," Ahmad suggested.
"I should stay here," Hamid admitted, wanting to go.
"Go Hami," his mother urged with love, knowing his desire to meet with his other acquaintances. She added solicitously, "Don't be late."
Hamid kissed his mother's hands out of respect and deep love, then planted a kiss on her cheek. The latter act was not usual, but it was an action that always pleased his mother exceedingly.
"Thank you, Mama," he uttered and left with his friend.
The two ambled down the still busy, dusk shrouded street. As they passed Muhamet Sharif's Tea Shop, Hamid spat in the gutter. His action did not go unnoticed by Ahmad. Such an action was known to be a mark of extreme disrespect.
"Ah, so you know about old Sharif," he stated.
"What do you mean?" Hamid asked, taken back a bit.
"Well, I've heard that he likes little boys. I was told that he tried to do something to Sammad's cousin a few years ago," he related conspiratorially.
"Oh? Yes, I guess I heard the same thing," he lied. There had been no circumstance, as close as the two were, that would have allowed Hamid to tell his friend of what had happened.
They walked on, had their tea, talked for an hour and both returned to their parent's homes. Sharif was not mentioned again.
He slept late the next morning, a luxury in which he seldom engaged. He showered, put on a pair of light cotton pants and shirt and went down stairs. The inner stair's led to the back room of the shop and there his parents frequently rook tea and entertained their friends from time to time. As Hamid entered the back room he saw Sharif and his father sipping tea. Muhamet Sharif was dressed in a light burnoose and a brief case rested on the stool next to him. He always carried a briefcase.
"Trying to appear something he's not," Hamid had said to himself.
Hamid flushed. He had had little to do with Sharif since that afternoon those years back. Several times over that period his father had volunteered Hamid to help his friend. But, every time he asked Hamid, he had managed to find an excuse for not going. Often times his father was much chagrinned at these tacit refusals. Of course, there were numerous times, like this morning when his father's friend would drop in for tea or just idle conversation. For most of these times, Hamid would politely excuse himself and help his mother in the shop. However, there were those times when his absences could not be avoided. Then he would sit in his presence in near mute silence.
"Good morning, Hamid. It's good to see you," Sharif greeted him. "You're looking well."
"Thank you, sir," Hamid answered curtly.
"Sit down son and have some tea with Uncle Muhamet and me. Your mother made you some sesame cakes," his father said.
"Maybe I should help mother," Hamid suggested, wanting to absent himself from the presence of the man he hated so much.
"She's not busy," Omar stated, and then added, "Sit here," motioning to a stool next to him.
Hamid could do nothing but obey his father who poured a glass of steaming tea laced with honey and set it in front of him. He raised the glass to his lips and carefully sipped the hot aromatic contents. The two men continued their conversation as Hamid ate several of the small sweet cakes.
He forced his mind from the present and focused on one of the problems that he was researching at school. His concentration was nearly total--so much so that he was not aware that he was being addressed.
"How is your schooling, Hamid," Sharif inquired.
He was not conscious of the question, but stared absently into the glass of amber tea he held in his hand.
"Hamid!" Omar said sharply, "Uncle has asked you a question!"
"I'm sorry, father. I was thinking about a problem at school."
Hamid often retreated into this other world. His parents were accustomed to it. Yet, they were not aware that these retreats more often than not occurred in the presence of Sharif.
"Uncle Sharif asked you a question," he stated with some embarrassment, and added, "Where are your manners?"
"I'm sorry father," he apologized and then turn to his nemesis and quickly asked, "What was it you said . . . sir?"
"Sometimes I don't know what possesses this boy," Omar blurted out to his friend in exasperation.
"That's quite all right, my friend," he said to Omar and added, "Schooling often places tensions on a young scholar." Saying this he reached over and lightly tapped Hamid's knee in what would normally have been considered a friendly manner.
Hamid glared at Sharif, his nostrils flared, his dark eyes narrowed as he drew in a sharp breath. The vehemence of his feelings was not lost on Sharif. Luckily his father was busy pouring more tea when this electric communication occurred.
Sharif smiled wanly at Hamid and thanked his friend for the newly poured tea. The two older men continued to chat.
Hamid sank back into his world. Suddenly he was brought back to reality by the toppling of the small table on which the tea and cakes had been sitting. He glanced up to see Sharif stiffen and grasp his chest.
Omar jumped up is surprised shock. "What's wrong, my friend?" he stammered.
Between agonized gasps Sharif uttered, "My heart . . . ."
Quickly Omar raced from the little room, shouting to his wife in the shop, "Get a doctor!"
"No . . . no . . . "Sharif panted, "My bag . . . "
But, Omar had not heard him in his haste to help his friend.
"My bag . . . ." Muhamet Sharif gasped again, motioning to the briefcase which had been knocked on the floor, "medicine . . . .!" he whispered to Hamid . . . pleadingly.
Hamid stood transfixed and observed this man.
"For the love of Allah . . . . my bag!" he rasped as he turned increasingly scarlet.
Hamid made no move. Hatred of such extreme vehemence masked his face and could be easily read. Muhamet Sharif saw this and recognized it with elemental resignation. His eyes bugged out as he stiffened on the floor, and the scarlet began to turn to purple.
"Allah . . . . Aaaalllaaahhhhh," he whispered and was quiet.
Muhamet Sharif stiffened body twitched several times then slowly relaxed. The purple remained as vomitus flowed from his mouth onto the floor. Then Hamid scoffed silently as he observed that this most hated man had soiled his burnoose!
Shortly Omar returned, breathless with the doctor.
"He's dead," the physician pronounced after a cursory examination.
Omar recited a short, fervent prayer.
Hamid took a deep breath, a breath that seemed to cleanse his being, turned and quickly went upstairs. There he removed his clothes and bathed or the second time that morning.
"That door is now closed," he said to himself.
A door to a room may be closed, but it always has the possibility of being reopened. A closed door is meant to be opened, invited to be opened, to be entered into. A closed door, a locked door may hid the unknown, the unwanted, the unconfronted, but the contents always remain.
Hamid al Omar, Jaak Romke and Rick Carson felt that a dark page in their history was truly passed. They felt that they had been thoroughly cleansed of the taint that engulfed their being. So they thought! But, like the unwanted bulge of a middle aged stomach--it may be hidden, covered in layers of clothing, it may be corseted, it may be sucked in with superhuman effort, but it, nonetheless, is still a fact.
These relicts, these memories retreated, falsely believed that they would never again appear. Those doors were now closed, but the contents remained inside.
--1992--
Seattle--Rick Carson had received his Baccalaureate the year before. He had thought of Law, but somehow it did not seem to be the direction that he had truly wanted. So, he opted to pursue his Masters and then make the decision.
In January he received a cryptic letter on "official" government stationary asking him to appear for an interview at the main Post Office on the next Wednesday at 11:00 a.m. It further requested that he bring a photostat of his birth certificate and his passport (if he possessed one). Curious, he decided to see what this interview was about. Entering the large building, he scanned the Directory, but found no office assigned to Room 506.
"Peculiar!" he thought. He entered the elevator, punched the fifth floor button and exited as the doors silently opened on that floor.
Room 506 was at the end of a corridor lined with nondescript doors all with a single, square frosted glass panel at the top portion. Numbers were painted in black in the center of each panel. As he reached Room 506, he hesitated, wondering whether to knock or just enter. It was precisely 11:00. He opted for the former.
"Come in," came a masculine voice from behind the closed door.
Rick opened the door and was confronted by as small reception area with a table and four wooden chairs and another door opposite. The only other article of furnishings was a telephone on the table.
A man, possibly in his mid thirties dressed in a conservative business suit, was sitting at the table with a sheaf of papers in front of him.
"I'm Rick Carson, I have an appointment here . . . at 11:00," he stated clearly.
"May I see some identification?" the man asked.
Rick reached into his wallet and withdrew his student ID and his driver's license, both of which contained a picture and handed them to the man.
"Do you have the photostat of your birth certificate and a passport?" the man asked further.
"I don't have a passport, but here's my birth certificate," Rick announced, handing the man the photostat which he had placed in the inner pocket of his sport coat.
Quickly the man perused the three items. "You can go in now," he said, curtly, nodding towards the far door, and then added, "These will be returned to you when the interview is over."
"This is bizarre!" Rick commented to himself as he opened the door to the inner room.
The office contained little more than the outer room. Instead of one person, there were two men sitting at the table, their backs were to a curtainless window. Both were dressed in a manner similar to the man in the outer office--nondescript business suits. One of the men had a laptop computer in front of him and an opened attaché case to the side. The other he thought he recognized, but could not place his face. He racked his memory for a connection.
The man with the laptop asked, "Rick Carson?"
"Yes, I am he," Rick replied, formally.
"Please sit down," he said indicating the chairs opposite.
Rick sat in one of the chairs and focused on the face of the man he thought that he recognized.
That man asked, "Rick, do you know why you're here?"
The combination of the recognized face and then the voice flashed an identification across his mind, and he answered, "I suspect that it has something to do with government service . . . " Then he added, "Since you," nodding to the interviewer, "had interviewed me two years ago."
"That's correct."
The interview lasted three hours during which time sandwiches and soft drinks were brought in by the man in the outer office. Both men took turns asking questions which ranged from his early childhood, high school extracurricular activities, clubs and organizations he had belonged to, associations (including questions about Rod which were particularly probing), his political activities, volunteer services--the whole gamut. He was scrutinized carefully by both men during the questions and subsequent answers.
"Actually, it's more an interrogation than an interview," Rick said to himself.
At the end he was asked, "Do you have any questions?"
Rick paused, and then stated confidently and with a slight smirk, "Well, I suspect from the range and focus of the questions, the position is not as a minor clerk in the Department of Agriculture!" A slight smile flitted across the face of both interviewers, otherwise there was no other reaction. "I further suspect that the position carries with it some level of security classification." The two sat mute and indicated no reaction or assent. "And, finally," he stated, "I suspect that the fact that my cousin is imprisoned does not auger well for the position for which you are interviewing me."
Rick's comments indicated to the two men that, indeed, his mind was probing, focused and logical. They glanced at each other. The man with the laptop gave an imperceptible nod to the other--a nonverbal communication flashed from one to the other.
The recognized man turned to Rick, "Just a couple more question, Rick . . . Was the the reason you did not protect your cousin two years ago when he came to your apartment prior to his arrest, altogether altruistic?"
Rick felt his heart speed up and he fought to repress a flush. "Not altogether," he answered with a imperceptible edge to his voice.
"What was the reason?" probed the interviewer.
"The reason is personal," Rick stated quietly yet emphatically and added, "It has no bearing on my life . . . now." Inside he was seething.
Several seconds passed and the interviewer, gazing directly at Rick asked, quietly, "Is it because he sodomized you when you were fifteen?"
A shock raced through Rick's being, stabbing at his core. He thought that he would lose it! He fought for control. "How did they know?"
Regaining a modicum of command, Rick glared malevolently at the interviewer and spat out, "Sodomized me? . . . . He raped me!" Then he added with a hiss, "Yes!"
The interviewers glanced at each other again as if to communicate.
"Thank you, Rick. That will be all. We will be in contact with you."
Rick quietly exited the room, gathered his ID's and photostat and left the suite. As he walked down the hall he was aware of a trembling. "How had they known?" is screamed to himself!
Cairo--Hamid al Omar had, as Rick, completed his university education having majored in Business. There was no thought of further studies. He needed to begin to earn a living. But, finding a job in Cairo was difficult. Among the hundreds of thousands of the jobless, many were educated. Education did not necessarily help them to procure a position.
Omar's position allowed him to provide for his family. But he, like those of his acquaintance made just enough, with little to spare. Further, is social position was such that he had no contact with those who might have been able to help secure Hamid a position. Furthermore, if he did, he would not have the wherewithal to supply the "gratuity," or bakshish. Bakshish was part and parcel of life in that part of the world!
"If we only had a wealthy cousin or uncle . . . " Omar had moaned to Fatima.
"He will find a position, Insyallah," she said.
After Muhamet Sharif's death, his wife tried to run the tea shop. But a woman in that kind of business was anathema in Cairo. She had not yet any sons-in-law to run the business. Being aware of Hamid's position, she approached Omar with the proposition that Hamid run the business for nominal rent until one of her daughters marry and the son-in-law could take over. She also stated that she and her daughters would go and live at her sister's in a small village near Alexandria--renting out the living quarters above the shop. It seemed like an answer to Hamid's plight.
However, Hamid was not enthusiastic over the proposition. As a matter of fact, he was rather negative, understandably so. This angered his father. "You have been offered a position on a platter . . . and you refuse it?" is argued and continued, "You have so many positions to choose from, my son?"
Hamid was in turmoil. It was a job. But, in THAT shop? Even his mother strongly urged his acceptance of the offer.
Finally, he acquiesced. He was not happy about it.
Luckily, he was given free rein in the shop. He took a week to clean, seal off the inner stairway to the living quarters above, rearrange and paint the interior of the shop, and, that back room. The sight of the old dusty sofa nearly caused Hamid to retch. Quietly, he found the used furniture peddler and gave him the sofa. The peddler was ecstatic at his good luck. He washed everything--floors, walls, ceilings, shelves and counters as if cleansing some unseen contaminant.
"All this fuss is wasted money," Omar commented on the refurbishing. But, to Hamid, it was absolutely necessary.
The shop opened, and as usual, the first week brought a flurry of business. Everybody was curious about the "new shop." But, then things settled down to a normal pace and Hamid, as all the rest of the business men on the street, struggled to make a living.
Ahmad was a frequent visitor to the shop since he was garrisoned at one of the many cantonments in Cairo. In the evenings they would sit in the back room, Hamid positioned himself so that he might see any customer coming into the shop, talk and drank tea. Their friendship grew. They had been friends since childhood, but close confidences and not been part of their relationship. Yet, bit by bit they began to peel away their outer, protective shells and share their feelings, their likes and dislikes. Their confidences grew deeper and deeper.
One evening Ahmad had mentioned el Amarna, a secret organization of which a small number of the populous were aware, but not knowledgeable of it's true purpose. The name was almost always whispered, almost conspiratorially.
"What do you know of el Amarna?" Hamid asked.
"Not much," Ahmad stated quietly, "Just that they're special . . . dedicated to the teaching of The Prophet, bless His name."
Hamid looked at his friend carefully. "I think he knows more," he said to himself, and then asked quietly, "Who are they?"
"No one really knows, there are not many in the brotherhood, but they are always loyal!"
"Brotherhood?" Hamid said to himself, then queried his friend, "Ahmad, are you one?"
Ahmad hesitated briefly, just long enough for Hamid to opine that he was associated. "The el Amarna never reveals itself," Ahmad stated, knowingly.
Hamid decided to probe no further. If he was to know he would be told.
On numerous occasions in the past their conversations also ran to the personal areas rarely plumbed in Islamic society. Ahmad usually initiated those conversations. Weeks earlier, Ahmad had once asked, "Have you ever had a nocturnal emission?"
The question was so unexpected that Hamid burst out laughing. "Why, have you?" he asked lightly turned the question. They then revealed their first experience accompanied by those deliciously erotic dreams. Both laughed and felt light headed with the mutual revelation.
Another time Ahmad inquired, "Have you ever been with a woman?"
"No," Hamid answered without embarrassment. It would not have been unusual for a man of his age not to have slept with a woman. Certainly not a young girl. That would have been "forbidden," haram! But, to lay with a prostitute--that was another matter altogether. Yet Hamid was "virgin" with regards to sexual congress with a woman. He turned the question back to his friend, "Have you ever been with a woman?"
"Yes," Ahmad answered, matter of factly.
"What was it like?" Hamid queried, forthrightly.
Ahmad related his experience in as much detail as he dared. Hamid frequently interrupted asking for clarification. The conversation ended with both young men doubled over in embarrassed laughter.
Still another time, Ahmad inquired, "Hamid, have you ever masturbated?"
"It is forbidden, haram," Hamid declared in mock shock.
"Come on! Have you ever masturbated?" again Ahmad inquired in earnest.
Hamid acknowledged that he had as did Ahmad. Both treated these interrogations with lightness, even laughter, although for them they were actions rarely acknowledged in their society. Certainly only amongst only the closest of friends, if ever. Never parents, never same sex siblings!
On evening, a week or so after the el Amarna conversation, Ahmad and Hamid were sipping tea and chatting. Their conversation veered again into rather personal areas. This was not new.
Ahmad asked quietly and with a seriousness that heretofore he had not employed, "Hamid, I know you didn't like Muhamet Sharif at all." He paused.
The statement put Hamid on his guard. His whole being tensed as a wild animal who feared being cornered.
"Did he ever try anything with you?" Ahmad inquired quietly.
Hamid's immediate reaction was to deny any involvement. It was too distasteful to admit!
"Why do you asked?" he parried in response. His voice was low, laden with unrecognized and unaccepted emotion.
Ahmad looked deeply into his friends eyes and continued, "Well, I remember the time we walked past this shop years ago and you spat into the gutter. I had asked you if you had heard about his . . . his preferences? You said that you had heard something. Then I noticed . . . or thought I saw . . . saw you tremble. It made me wonder whether he had tried anything with you."
"That's nonsense," Hamid hissed, trying to protect himself. He glanced quickly at his friend and saw a fleeting look that somehow connected silently, elementally with him. "Could it be that he was fucked by that animal as well?" he asked himself.
"Ahmad?" he began quietly.
Ahmad looked up at Hamid. He, moreover, thought he perceived the same elemental look in Hamid's face.
"Ahmad," Hamid continued quietly, "Did he do something . . . with . . . you?"
Ahmad looked long at his friend. Internally he carried on an intense, fundamental debate. Questioning whether or not he should answer that damning question. Finally, he decided. Without taking his eyes from Hamid's, he slowly and almost imperceptibly nodded his head. In doing so, tears uncontrollably flooded his eyes.
Momentarily Hamid looked deep into his friend's soul. Then he reached across the small table, gently placed his hand on the nape of his friend's neck and drew Ahmad towards him. Their pates touched.
In the process Ahmad saw tears fill Hamid's eyes and course down his cheeks. "Me too," Hamid whispered.
They both quietly wept.
After a short time, Ahmad spat out, "I could have killed him."
"I could have too," Hamid stated with equal vehemence. He was not ready to admit to the fact that he purposefully let Muhamet Sharif die, unaided.
"I have never admitted this to another soul."
"Neither have I."
Both knew that their secrets would remain inviolable--'til the grave. The two sat back, wiped their eyes unashamedly and quietly sipped their tea. For some strange reason, both felt relieved. A foreign peace, a peace that they had not known for recognized seemed to infuse them.
Ahmad was the first to speak. "I must go, friend." The manner in which he uttered the term "friend" was most revealing and not lost on Hamid.
"Yes . . . friend. See you soon," Hamid answered.
They shook hands, customarily, holding their clasp a bit longer than usual, communicating to each other their deep felt metamorphosis.
A week later, after a couple subsequent visits, and following some lively conversation, Ahmad carefully stated, "Hamid, you know about el Amarna?" It was half way between a statement and a question.
Hamid nodded his head, knowingly and in anticipation.
"Well, what I am going to say you must swear never to repeat," he said with an uncharacteristic emphatic tone.
Hamid had been expecting some sort of revelation regarding el Amarna. With equal emphasis he said, "I swear on the life of my mother and the Qur'an."
Ahmad gazed intently at his friend, momentarily, as if weighing the pros and cons, then stated, "I belong to the brotherhood."
"I thought as much."
Vilnius--Jaak Romke continued to work in the steel mill. For several days after that incident in the alley there had been hell to play in Vilnius, especially in the district where Jaak lived. Soldiers had patrolled the streets in twos and threes, stopping everyone and carefully examining each and every document. Numerous citizens were detained and interrogated. Jaak was not exempt from questioning. He had spent two hours answering and re-answering numerous question posed by the able interrogators. He had carefully rehearsed the answers to any possible questions that he might be asked long before he was briefly detained.
He had learned, long ago, not to appear too intelligent. A "country bumpkin" was the persona he sought to convey. His natural intelligence and cunning combined to assume this mask. After two grueling hours of interrogation, he was released. Hat in hand he shuffled out of the police station and walked back to his room--a nondescript figure, lost in the crowd of others, the equally nondescript that flowed through this occupied city.
Several nights after his questioning he stopped at the local beer hall. He loved the taste of beer. More frequently now he would enter the hall to drink a mug or two. He would seldom became drunk. As he sat at a table drinking the golden brew Ivor came up to him and sat down uninvited. They had long been friends and such a courtesy was unnecessary.
"How's things at the mill?" he inquired vapidly.
"Just the usual," Jaak answered looking at his friend for any possible clues.
Glancing around, Ivor asked in a low voice which could not be heard beyond the table, "Any problems with the police?"
"No, none."
"Good," Ivor answered quietly. Then, he finished his beer, noisily pushed his chair back saying loudly, "Don't drink too much my friend." He waved his cap and left the hall.
Jaak an Ivor regularly ran into each other. Their meetings were innocuous with no more content than the idle chatting of friends. Sometimes their meetings were brief, on the street, sometimes more lengthy--usually in the beer hall. Several times, in the noisy beer hall the subject of The Knights would be tantalizingly dropped by Ivor. Nothing more. Jaak was suspicious. Was Ivor a Knight or was he working for the police?
A year after the alley incident, Jaak was elevated to "group leader." A meaningless title with a miniscule advance in salary. He was in charge of eight other workers within his area. The position required him to see that the daily quotas were reached with the minimum of trouble. He reported to the area foreman. Just another lackey in the machine. But his elevation was duly noted by Ivor.
"You must be in tight with the machine," he commented one evening.
"Sure!" Jaak snorted. "I'm being groomed for a governor," he added sarcastically. Ivor's comment rankled Jaak. He glared at Ivor and asked, "Are you tight with the police?"
Ivor went crimson, "You know better than that!" he spat out.
Jaak arched his eyebrows and added, "You've been asking me an awful lot of questions lately."
"Sorry, don't mean to . . . " he stammered, apologetically. Then, as an afterthought, "Say did you know that Katya got married?"
Jaak answered, "No, I didn't . . . who did she marry? I haven't seen her in years."
"Married some local guy . . . some Dimitrius, I think. Know him?"
"No," Jaak admitted.
"Well, I gotta go," Ivor said and left.
A week later Jaak had stopped by the beer hall. It was warm that evening and a cold beer was much appreciated. He had drank his customary two glasses and was about to leave when a member of his "group" at the mill walked over to the table.
Mikal was a couple of years younger than Jaak--a friendly guy who was well liked. His height was equal to that of Jaak as was his weight and hard muscles. The mill had a way of hardening up a man--or, in rare cases destroying one.
"Can I buy you a beer?" he asked.
"Sure." Beers were one of the things that one could afford to share in Vilnius during those times. So, accepting a beer created no hardship on the giver and generally, it was customary to reciprocate. Further, Jaak felt that the invitation was in no way associated with his position. In truth, as "group leader" one possessed virtually no power whatsoever. It was a friendly gesture.
The two sat chatting and drinking their beers. Jaak, as custom dictated, bought a round. A third round was bought by Mikal and a subsequent fourth by Jaak. Mikal was about to order a fifth round when Jaak raised his hands and said, "No more! I've had enough. The truth is, I've had too much."
Jaak stood up and nearly fell over. He laughed. He was pleasantly drunk. Both men staggered, uneasily to the door. No one noticed. It was not un unusual occurrence. It was dark outside as they tried to steady themselves.
Looking up at a clock on the building opposite, Ivor said, "Shit, I've missed the last bus!"
"No problem . . . You can stay at the Jaak Hilton," he slurred, and added, "But you'll have to share my suite!"
They both laughed as they caromed off each other and walked, or rather staggered down the street. There was no ceremony in Jaak' small, shabby room. Both men lived similarly and besides, ceremony was an extravagance that was way above their level. Each stripped down to their tattered and non-too-clean boxer shorts, and flopped down onto the old, grimy mattress which lay on the floor. Almost immediately Jaak feel into a slumber aided by the alcohol.
Sometime during that night Jaak began to experience an erotic dream. It was not unlike the two or three wet dreams that he had heretofore experienced. But it had been a long time since the last. Nonetheless, his dream, as those of the past was peopled by faceless forms that came and went, imparting various degrees of those delicious, lascivious sensations that are common to these fantasies.
The phantasm centered on his very being--his cock now rigid and surging. The sensations were warm, no, hot as he was spiraled higher into that velvety nether region of sensuous delight. Somewhere in his being he was aware of a soft, moist, hot form moving rhythmically up and down the length of his upstanding cock. His primordial being, that which never sleeps, sensed a growing, elemental storm centered somewhere deep in his scrotum. Still the movement, the sensation kept its cadence as he marched, or was inexorably pushed towards the edge of the erotic abyss--an abyss from which there was no turning back--an abyss that brought only release, a surcease from the delicious stimulation. Slowly, ever so slowly he seemed to be clawing his way out of the alcohol induced slumber towards wakefulness. Yet he fought it--for he knew that consciousness brought a cessation to those luscious sensations. As he neared that inevitable explosion he began to surface into
the conscious world which he had fought so hard to avoid. Still the sensations continued! They even increased their power in that last headlong surge towards a heavenly liberation--so devoutly desired. He barely opened his eyes, fogged with alcohol and erotic intoxication, as he arrived at the inescapable edge in which the only desire, the absolute urge was ultimate release--cock centered release. He perceived a dark form hovering over his groin--an incubus, cock connected. Was this a divine succubus or incubus? He cared not which! His body began to tense as galvanic flashes mounted in intensity presaging that volcanic eruption. An explosion that he desired, demanded more than anything at this moment. It was inescapable!
"Arghhh," exploded gutturally from somewhere deep inside him as his being seemed to detonate. Involuntarily, his hips flexed off the pad and he thrust his cock violently upwards into what ever orifice that dark form was employing. Lustral fluid spurted from his imbedded cock in a copious flood. Final, ultimate release had been achieved!
His hips dropped back onto the grimy mattress. Avoiding any more conscious thought, he turned on his side wanting nothing more than sleep!
Sometime, during the early morning hours Jaak awoke briefly. He felt a light breeze play across his now nude body. He curled up on his side, foetal-like to conserve his warmth, not wanting to wake just yet. His grimy under shorts which were wrapped around his ankles were kicked away and he floated lightly down into slumber again.
Still later, he entered the dream world again. However, unlike the delightfully sensual character of his earlier 'dream,' this illusion was decidedly dark. He was thrust back into his fifteenth year, to those dark woods, to those rough hands, to that hideous, painful invasion!
Instantly, he was wide awake! Still he felt those rough hands moving over his buttocks. Fingers beginning to insinuate themselves into that dark crease.
"This is no dream!" he screamed to himself.
Like a shot he moved away from the offending hand and spun around towards his tormentor. He quickly focused his eyes. Mikal was kneeling on the mattress, his erect cock jutting out obscenely from a mat of dark hair at the base of his stomach. He was fondling his balls with his left hand while his right was suspended mid-air where a split second before Jaak' firm ass had been. A leer played across his face. The scene was all too clear! The dreams were all too clear!
"You fuckin faggot!" Jaak snarled. Instantly he launched his bulk at Mikal. His right fist caught the surprised, would be lover on the side of his head. The force of the blow sent him sprawling. In a flash Jaak was on him, pummeling his head and face with his fists.
"You fuckin faggot!" he repeated again and again as he hammered his fists indiscriminately.
Mikal, momentarily stunned by the ferocity and quickness of the attack, regained his composure. He grasped Jaak' right wrist, twisted it at the same instant that he violently torqued his body, throwing Jaak off. Both sprang, breathless to their feet and faced each other.
"You fuckin faggot! Get out of my room! And, don't you ever try touching me again!" Jaak hissed with unmistakable venom. Suddenly he was aware of his nakedness in the presence of this man. He quickly covered his crotch with his left hand as he grabbed his wrinkled under shorts and quickly donned them.
Mikal, likewise, retrieved his crumpled clothes and quickly dress. All the time his eyes never left Jaak sensing a continuation of the violence that had exploded moments ago. Jaak also malevolently eyed Mikal with undisguised loathing.
As Mikal was about to leave, he hesitated briefly, looked Jaak in the eyes and smiled.
"You poor man . . . You can't accept what you are! As long as you're drunk . . . you . . . think that it excuses the fact that you liked having your cock sucked by another guy!"
Jaak was stunned by the statement. "Fuck you!" he snarled. He could say nothing else.
Mikal smiled, chuckled knowingly, arched his eyebrows and continued, "Too bad man . . . . You'll be miserable until you accept that . . . like me . . . you're a 'fuckin faggot!'" The last two damning words he spat out and left, not bothering to close the door.
Jaak stood there, frozen for long moments, facing the open door and empty hall. Slowly he washed his face and shaved before going to the mill.
That day Jaak noted the bruised face of Mikal. The two could not avoid each other, but there was no conversation. Only, dark glances passed between them.
Later, after work, as Jaak entered the beer hall, he saw Ivor sitting alone and nodded a greeting to him. He wanted to be alone, but, nonetheless, walked over to the empty chair opposite Ivor and sat down.
"Rough day?" Ivor asked, noncommittally.
"Yeah," was all that Jaak said.
"Say, Mikal was a mess today! Did you do that?" Ivor inquired.
"Why would you think I had something to do with that?" Jaak asked, a bit surprised.
"Well I saw you and him go into your house last night," Ivor admitted.
Jaak felt trapped.
"Did he try something with you?" Ivor asked, off handed.
Jaak was dumfounded, backed into a corner. "Why do you say that?" he demanded.
"Well, he's been know to swing both ways," Ivor declared lightly.
"Oh!" Then Jaak thought he saw a way out and added, "Has he tried with you?"
Ivor smiled. "So he did come on to you . . . . I thought as much."
There was no way out! He had been cunningly jockeyed into a corner. "Yeah, he tried, but he won't again!" he stated definitively, hoping that this would end this interrogation.
Ivor smiled again. He looked long and hard into Jaak' tormented face. Internally, he was carrying on a important debate. He had been instrumental in baiting Mikal. Suggesting that Jaak probably was a hot stud in bed and further noted that he never frequented Anna's place--Anna's was the local whorehouse. Jaak did not frequent any prostitutes. He had no desire for sex with any person. That had been rammed out of him years ago.
Ivor had been aware of Mikal's likes. He was not sure of Jaak and he needed to be. Maneuvering Mikal had been easy. Further, it had been a means of performing a final test on Jaak' character. He needed to be sure. This requirement was absolute!
The internal debate inside Ivor neared its conclusion. He, as if having reached a conclusion, imperceptibly nodded his head.
Jaak was staring into his beer. "How had he suspected?" he wondered of Ivor. He felt liked a trapped animal, frightened, isolated, alone.
"Well," Ivor began quietly, his voice low enough so that it would not be heard beyond the circumference of the table, "I hope you won't treat him like you did that fuckin soldier a couple of years back."
Knocked out of his dark reverie, Jaak shot an anguished glance at Ivor. "What do you mean?" he hissed.
Looking straight into Jaak' eyes, he probed with the accuracy of a skilled surgeon, calmly stating, "I thought I recognized his face."
"Whose face?" came the anguished question.
"The soldier in the woods . . . "
"What woods?" gasped Jaak.
Ivor would bait his friend no longer. He leaned closer to Jaak and calmly stated, "Look, my friend . . . and believe me . . . you are my friend, about seven years ago, I was walking home one evening, through the woods, near Katya's house. I heard someone walking though the woods and I hid along side the lane. A soldier came out onto the lane. It wasn't so dark that I couldn't see his face. He was buttoning his fly and whistling lightly. I kept still for a long time. I had heard of what those soldiers did and I didn't want to be his toy. Then I heard some more sounds coming from the same place. It was you. You looked like hell! Your head was bloody as you stumbled down the lane. I was about to call out, but thought I had better not. I don't know why I did it, but I retraced your path into the woods. I saw your underwear and bloody handkerchief. It didn't take a genius to know what had happened. That son-of-a-bitch raped you!"
Jaak began to tremble uncontrollably.
Ivor continued, "Then, two years ago, I was sneaking home--I didn't have a pass then. I was coming from a side street when I saw you being stopped by the soldier. I waited, I hid, watching. I saw the soldier push the kid into the alley and you following them in. I ran to the entrance of the alley just in time to see you slit that bastard's throat and rush to the other end. I followed, glancing at that fucker, I recognized the face . . . the same face I had seen in the woods. Then I knew you had recognized him too and followed you. The rest you know . "
Sweat ran down Jaak' face as he listened to Ivor. The trembling had stopped, but his eyes were glazed.
"I would have done the same thing," Ivor admitted. "You were not responsible for what he did to you . . . that bastard!"
Jaak' eyes cleared, somewhat, and he raised them to meet Ivor's. But, he could not speak. His shock was almost absolute.
"Jaak, I am your friend . . . you must believe that!"
Jaak' gaze bore into Ivor.
"The reason I tell you this is that . . . I am . . .," he halted what he was about to say and began again, "I must ask you to swear that what I am about to say goes no further than here! Swear!"
Jaak was now intrigued. Somehow, the knowledge that Ivor had know his 'secret' and had apparently kept it quiet all these years stood for something. Slowly he nodded his head, quietly uttering, "I swear."
Ivor observed his friend and believed his veracity. He took a quiet breath and continued, "I am a Knight." His gaze bore into Jaak' face to read its reaction. There was no perceivable response. "We need good men. Men like you . . . men who are strong . . . without . . . a character flaw . . . a flaw that might compromise them!"
Jaak was mildly surprised. "Now I understand," he admitted quietly as the puzzle began to take shape and a dark weight began to be lifted.