The view from the hotel window was of a parking lot just below-the row of trash cans that lined the alley behind it-the flat, asphalt top of the grimy, brown brick building behind that-and a hazy collection of steeples and grey office buildings farther on. If Edward Nelson shifted to his left he looked out on more of the same. Shifting to his right he saw the side street to his hotel, and across that street the row of storefronts behind clouded display windows. A single doorway punctuated the line of failing businesses, leading, he supposed, to the apartments behind the windows on the second and third floors of those buildings, all crammed together and leaning in on one another.
A bell chimed the hour in a distant church; checking his watch, Nelson clucked-the bell was at least a minute slow. So, six o'clock. Not too soon to go to dinner. Not too soon at all. Much better that he told the people at the school not to mind him, much better indeed. He could choose his own place to eat, didn't have to socialize. Avoid the awkwardness.
Checking his pockets carefully to make sure he had his keys, his wallet containing just enough cash for dinner, his under- the-shirt money belt with the rest of his funds, he stepped into the hallway, yellow-lit from a bulb overhead, and closed the dark wooden door to his room behind him. He carefully threw the deadbolt with his key, tested it, then went to the stairs. No sense wasting electricity to take the elevator when he was just on the second floor. Waiting. nobody, no sounds, in the stairwell. Walking down quickly, holding the banister, then through the door into the small lobby and out onto the street.
Well, not THAT way.. the wino on the sidewalk decided that for him. There was a cafe over to the right, in the row of miserable little businesses, he'd go there. Not too expensive, clean, respectable. Just the thing. He pushed in the glass door and entered, a quick survey noting that the room was about two-thirds full-a good sign-mainly of an older crowd. Mainly singles. He smiled weakly at the waitress and followed her to a small booth by the big window in the back.
The soup and tuna sandwich combination, that should do. His wife would have encouraged a salad, but she wasn't here, now was she? He'd live dangerously. Giving back the menu, Nelson looked out the window, just making out the edge of his hotel. He was at the end of the block of stores and upper-floor apartments across the side street that could be seen from his window. If he stretched, he could make a good guess as to which of those windows was his room.
Pulling his focus back to the glass, he could just make himself out. Thirty-ish, not bad looking, rather a jaunty bow tie if he said so himself, a flop of dirty blonde hair, small round glasses. He shook his head and smiled inwardly-he really did look like an accountant, as his wife told him so often, no use denying it.
The couple in a booth near to him got up, hobbling out on canes the both of them. Nelson smiled again; would he and Doris be like that in another forty years? For a moment that space stretched ahead of him like a desert, and then he shook the treasonous thought from his mind. There was so much to be said for stability, comfort, the sure thing. That's what he had.
These musings were interrupted by the approach of another figure toward that booth. Black pants, white dress shirt opened at the collar, white apron: the busboy. Nelson saw him in profile as he cleared the dishes from the table into his tub. Black. no, actually a dark tobacco brown, a short skullcap of dense, jet black hair.. Very thin, about six feet tall, but with a high, curved, bottom that seemed to thrust out and upward, straining his black pants. Maybe twenty? Certainly no older than that. An oval face above a long, thin neck. Thick, full lips, reddish brown, almost as high as they were wide, contoured like a fat almond. A large, pear-shaped nose, deeply dark eyes and high cheekbones. He looked. he looked African, original, as if from the motherland.
Nelson realized he was staring just in time to shift his eyes away. just before the busboy cocked his head slightly and glanced over at Nelson. Then he looked back at his work, gave the table a good wipe with a clean cloth, and carried the tub back to the kitchen.
The meal came and Nelson ate it dutifully. Night began to fall outside, even though it was turning spring. There may have been something about downtowns in these grimy Northern industrial towns that trapped shadows. Other diners finished and drifted away singly or in pairs, never in groups larger than two Nelson's eyes followed the busboy furtively as he bused each opening table. Nelson finished his meal. He courteously refused an offer for coffee or more water. He asked for the check. He paid it. He sat there, wondering why he didn't get up. So he did get up, and the busboy appeared in the aisle between the tables as he began walking out. Their eyes met for the briefest contact as they passed by in the aisle, the busboy moving to one side between the tables, the tiniest of nods between them, and then Nelson was out on the sidewalk.
There were if anything more bums on the sidewalk now, sprawling, begging, than there had been before. It was dark and a strange city. Nelson walked quickly across the street and into his hotel lobby. Checked out the stairwell, walked up quickly to the second floor, down the hall, threw the deadbolt and went into his room, deadbolting it behind him. He called his wife on the cell phone to report the highlights of the day. An auditor for the state board of education, he had made a good start on the books of one of the local high schools. although he was intrigued by a discrepancy or two in connection with the French department, but he'd sort that out over the next few days. Nelson asked his wife to give their daughters a hug, gave her a long- distance peck on the cheek, and hung up.
Another two hours passed watching public television; what a good thing that was, always reliable and educational programming in nearly every town. Then a little reading. Was he ready for bed yet? Not quite. Bored. Bored. He walked to the window and looked back out on the scene. The neon sign for his own hotel, evidently near to but a little above his own window, flashed on and off, now illuminating the scene and now darkening it. The alley below had more bums in it than it had during daylight hours, but he knew that already. Lights in the storefronts across the street were off. Above the stores on the second floor.. Above the stores most of the apartment windows had some kind of light coming from them. Most were covered with closed blinds, or drapes. But not one of them. It appeared to have no covering of any sort. The window revealed what seemed to be a very plain room, furnished with a dresser, maybe a table and single chair, and a bed. From the left of this frame walked a figure toward a door next to the dresser, evidently a closet, opened it, and went in.
Nelson's attention was suddenly hooked. Was that...was it the busboy? Was that possible? He stared intently at the closet door. The figure came out and closed the door behind him. Yes, it was! He had evidently hung up his work clothes carefully and was wearing only briefs.. skimpy briefs, sort of a speedo style. He disappeared out of the left of the frame for a moment, then came back with a sack which he put on the table. Opening it he removed something...evidently food, spread it on the table, then sat down to eat.
What a coincidence! But then Nelson reconsidered and decided it was not so strange. The busboy might well look for housing near his place of employment. Nelson had gone to the nearest cafe, so whomever he found working there might well be living nearby.
Nelson couldn't look away. The young man at the table was in profile, and not far from the window. As he ate, he looked out of the window from time to time. Suddenly, Nelson realized that he might be seen. Moving back quickly, he looked around. First, he took from his suitcase a pair of binoculars-so handy in case a good birdwatching opportunity presented itself on one of his assignments. Then he turned off all the lights in the room and stealthily returned to the window. Focusing the binoculars, the young man at the table came into view. So did the faded floral pattern on the wallpaper, the utter simplicity of the room, the thin spread on the bed by the wall.
Moving back to the man, Nelson saw that he was finishing his meal. He rose; his body was indeed thin, but not gaunt, just skinny, and a deep tobacco brown all over. His hard bottom pushed the speedos out and up in the back. The busboy's figure moved out of the frame to the left again, was gone for a moment.Nelson began to feel disappointment.and then returned. The busboy spread what seemed to be books and paper on the table and sat down again, working on them for what seemed like half an hour. Nelson stood there the whole time, looking through the binoculars, his imagination filling in the parts of the scene he could not see.
Now the busboy closed the books and shuffled the papers into a stack and rose. Moving away from the table, he stood right in the window looking out on the street. Did he not fear being seen, standing there in his skimpy briefs? But then it occurred to Nelson that his hotel did not appear to have a high rate of occupancy, there were no other open businesses in the block, the winos wouldn't care, and he. he himself could not be seen, standing in the dark of his room. The busboy stood at the window and looked out. Nelson's heart beat in time to the flashing of the hotel's neon sign outside. Then the busboy turned away again, disappeared for a moment. The room went dark; evidently he had flicked a switch. Nelson could just make out the movement of a dark body in the dark, in the general direction of where the bed stood.and then all was still.
Nelson realized that he was tense, sweat trickling from his armpits-but why? A man who was paid to find out answers to mysteries of bookkeeping, he now analyzed himself. Was he.could he be attracted to the fellow? There had been a couple of experiences in his boyhood, that one drunken debauch in college, but no really serious same-sex contacts, nothing more than was normal, as he knew well from reading, and yet-he couldn't deny the slight wetness against his underwear that he now felt. Horror warred with desire. He had always.well no, tell the truth, he had mainly been faithful to his wife. An accountant on the road is subjected to so many temptations, and he had succumbed once or twice to an alluring female principal.
Well, it was over now. Shedding his clothing, going to the bathroom once more, Nelson slipped into bed. It had been a long day, and soon he slept.
The next day's work was steady and satisfying. The discrepancy in the French department he had traced to the French Club, but he thought it was likely a case of simple mismanagement and not anything criminal. So important to maintain proper procedure, he'd be sure to offer some advice on the matter when he left. His local contact dropped him off at the hotel-Nelson had passed on an offer to join some of the high school staff for drinks. Back in his room, the door securely locked, Nelson found himself looking forward to dinner. It was ten till six when he clicked the lock in the door behind him and padded down the threadbare hall carpet toward the stairwell. Down the stairs, down the street, and back into the cafe at the end of the block.
He asked the waitress for a table at the back, so he could have a good view of the whole restaurant. This time he ordered soup, sandwich, AND salad. it might take him a good fifteen minutes longer to eat such a meal. The early diners, evidently all of them retirees, began finishing and leaving even before his own food arrived. As each finished, the busboy came out with his tub.
Nelson planned his surveillance very carefully, turning his head at an angle so that if discovered he could quickly shift his eyes straight ahead and not appear to have been looking at the youth. The busboy's thin figure moved with a kind of grace among the dirty dishes, the darkness of his skin visible underneath the whiteness of his dress shirt. It was clear he wore no undershirt. Nelson, having seen most of what was beneath the clothing, could now better imagine the youth's muscular, slim body moving beneath the fabric.
His meal arrived and the tables achieved a sort of stability; nobody was finishing just yet. Most of the tables were full, of older people again. A hunk of Nelson's sandwich disintegrated onto his plate, diverting his attention to scooping it back up. When his eyes rose, there was the busboy, coming toward him with a pitcher of water.
The youth smiled faintly and asked, "More water, sir?" The busboy had an accent, sort of a British Empire lilt. Nelson smiled back and nodded, saying "Yes, thank you." A tobacco brown hand moved the pitcher down to the glass in front of him, allowing Nelson to observe it closely, seeing the darker seams where the skin was creased or folded in the knuckles, the lighter tan of the palms. "Thank... thank you," Nelson stammered and the busboy smiled again as he moved off to fill other water glasses.
Nelson absently ate the rest of his meal and realized that his heart was beating a little faster than usual. He sipped some water. Then sipped some more, than drained the glass. His eyes tracked the busboy's movements, now clearing off a table. When the waitress came, Nelson would have to ask for the check. But the busboy came first, back with water. "More water, sir?" The accent was Oxford by way of.. where, the Islands? Kenya? "Yes, please," said Nelson, passing the glass to him. Their fingers brushed as the busboy took it from him, smiling, and Nelson's heart thumped. Summoning his courage, he spoke: "A busy night tonight!" The busboy smiled again, "Yes, sir," put the water glass back down and was off. The waitress with the check appeared instantly, and Nelson's departure could not reasonably be delayed.
Back in his hotel room, Nelson watched television in the dark, going to the window every ten minutes to see if the light in the apartment window across the side street had come back on. "This is pathetic," he told himself fiercely, more than once, but he could not help it. Looking into that bare apartment had become like a drug to him. Up and down, checking, every ten minutes. The trip to the window that showed him the new rectangle of light across the street made his heart thump. Nelson rushed to turn off the television and seize his binoculars.
In the frame of the window, the busboy moved from the left again but this time with a towel wrapped around his waist; had he been showering? The youth carried another sack of food which he spread out on the table and ate. Like a wolf of the air, Nelson stalked every move with his binoculars, as the lightning flash of the neon sign lit up the forest of the city in steady rhythm. The youth finished his meal and once again moved out of the frame to discard the food and bring back books and paper. More work on those items for perhaps half an hour, and then the youth came to the window and looked out.
He stood there for long minutes, looking out, seeming to find something in the dark to occupy his attention. Nelson scanned the youth's torso above the towel, seeing (or imagining when he could not see) thin but taut muscles on his chest and abdomen. Then the youth looked down and seemed to pick at his towel, tugging at it. With a single, quick movement the youth undid it and refastened it, really too quickly for Nelson to focus on anything but a flash of dark tobacco skin behind the white of the towel. The youth then moved out of the frame of the window and the light went out. This time Nelson could track his movement to the bed, as the white towel was faintly visible. Then the towel moved and fell, and a dark shape folded into the general area of the bed.
It was over. Nelson's heart was beating, and sweat again trickled from his armpits but also in his groin and down his thigh, mixing with a thin discharge of clear liquid from his penis. Unable to understand his own behavior, Nelson shook his head to clear it, put the binoculars away, and retired to his own bed as quickly as he could.
There was great progress the next day in the audit. The staff at the high school was cordial to Nelson, but had ceased offering to entertain him in the evenings; it was clear he wanted to be alone. At the end of the day, Nelson shuffled his papers back together into his valise and was driven back to the hotel. Up the stairs quickly to his room, a quick washup, and down the stairs to the cafe by five thirty.
The waitresses now recognized him by sight. So did the busboy, who nodded and smiled as he made his rounds; this early he was not clearing away many tables but was refilling water glasses instead. Nelson drank like a camel at an oasis. He ordered what he had eaten the night before, completely uninterested in what was put before him. He was there to track the busboy like a hawk.
The youth came by for a first water refill. Knowing it would mean a brushing of hands, Nelson handed him the glass and as it was being refilled he pushed himself to ask, "Where are you from?" The busboy smiled politely and replied. "Congo. the Democratic Republic of the Congo, to be exact, as it is now called." He put the filled glass back on the table and looked at Nelson to see whether there would be any recognition in his face of that name. "Used to be Zaire," said Nelson. The busboy broke into a huge smile and nodded. "Yes, not everyone knows that. Yes, used to be Zaire." Nelson nodded and then asked, "Are you escaping the war?" The youth's smile faded a bit as his eyes shifted into a focus on the middle distance. "Yes," he said, then flashed another smile and moved off on his duties. Nelson's hand shook a bit as he reached for the water.
He stretched his meal out as long as he could, punctuated by the regular passes of the busboy with water or to clear nearby tables. When the time came to go, the youth was out of sight in the kitchen, regrettably. Nelson slipped out and down the block to his hotel.
The evening dragged by as the sky darkened. Nelson did not look out the window as often; it was clear nobody would be there until later. About the time that the busboy might be arriving, he began looking every five minutes, and again his heart flipped when the window was illuminated across the way. Once again, Nelson scurried around to put out all his own lights and to seize his binoculars.
The youth was wearing his towel again, and repeated the pattern of the previous two evenings. He finished with his books and stacked them tidily with the papers.. but no, he kept a piece or two of the paper. The youth walked to the window to look out, standing quietly surveying the scene. Nelson monitored him through binoculars. Then the young man moved the two pieces of paper to the window and splayed them out against the glass, holding them there with the palms of his hands. Nelson focused on the paper. His heart froze. The papers had two words on them: COME OVER.
Nelson wheeled back out of sight, slamming himself against the wall beside his window. Was the message for him? How could the youth know? What did it mean? Slowly, slowly he craned his head back around. The busboy was still standing there, holding up the sign. Then he lowered the papers and walked away from the window to sit at the table again.. to sit there waiting.
His heart was beating rapidly, his forehead spotted in beads of sweat, his breathing tight.what should he do? Respectability, restraint, playing it safe on the one hand..all that warred with strong desire, with an aching sense of an opportunity that might come only once in a lifetime. Would it be safe? Would he be assaulted? The busboy seemed so nice. it didn't seem as if anybody else were in the apartment. Nelson paced back and forth frantically, stopping to stare out the window each time he passed; the youth remained there, waiting. But for how long?
Shaking his head-sure it was a mistake-Nelson grabbed his keys, leaving his wallet behind cautiously, in case he were being set up. Out the door, a trembling hand turning the deadbolt lock, then flying down the stairs (no checking to make sure it was empty) and out onto the night street. Looking up he saw the window, still a shining rectangle against the dark front of the building. Where was the door? Here, it must be this one. He tried the handle and it opened onto a tiny square of cracked tile floor with mailboxes in the wall, and an inner glass door. He tried that handle and it opened as well-no security system here!-onto a flight of old, worn, wooden steps that went straight up to hallway barely illuminated by a single, low wattage bulb in the ceiling. The stairwell smelled of cooked cabbage. His courage faltered for a moment-he could end this all now, never go back to that restaurant-but he willed his legs to move, and up the steps he went.
At the top.it must be to the right. It must be this very door. What if it were the wrong one? He'd say he had been looking for someone, invent some false name. His hand came up, then back down, then formed a fist and back up to knock, then back down again. And then the door opened a crack. An eye peered through the slit. It closed, the sound of a chain rattling, and the door opened again. "Come in," said the youth, who was standing mostly out of sight behind the door.
Trembling, Nelson entered and fought down a moment of panic when the door closed behind him. There stood the busboy, a towel still wrapped around him, hands on hips, head cocked to one side, smiling at him. His body was very slim, thin pads of muscle on his dark brown chest, just a hint of a six- pack on his abdomen. A few pearls of water from his shower still shone in his close-cropped kinky hair. Words and action failed Nelson altogether.
"I saw you. I saw you looking. All three nights, man!" the youth said in his soft, British lilt. Nelson hung his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, really I...how did you see me?" he asked, in wonder.
"Come," said the youth, and stepped to the window. Nelson followed and stood there with him, looking across the street at the second floor of the hotel where, every time the neon light flashed, the interior of a darkened room was illuminated. Nelson blushed scarlet, knowing that he had been fully visible during those flashes. "I--I am really very sorry, it was rude. I...should I leave now," he said.
"Why, you just got here!" said the youth, laughing softly. Nelson hung his head again, utterly at a loss as to what to do. "My name is Mukube," said the youth, extending his hand. Nelson looked at it, at Mukube, and then took the hand, shaking it. "Edward," he said. They held the connection between their two hands.
"So, Mr. Edward, what are you doing in the hotel over there, in this city?"
"I am an auditor.I am auditing the books of the high school," he said. Mukube nodded. "Wh--What are you doing here?" Nelson asked-it sounded stupid, like party chatter, but he had no idea what else to say.
"I am going to school at the university, just finishing my freshman year. I am, as you said in the cafe, escaping the war. I got a special visa. If I go back, I get killed," he said starkly. This hard truth penetrated through Nelson's confusion and worry; concern for the youth's wellbeing took its place. But then Mukube asked the key question: "So, Mr. Edward...why were you looking at me?"
Nelson blushed scarlet and let Mukube's hand go. A dozen excuses flashed through his mind, each more preposterous than the one before. In despair, he told the truth: "I--I liked looking at you. I found you attractive." There was a pause. "I think I've made a mistake, I'd better go." He turned toward the door, but Mukube was there before him and put a hand on the scarred wooden panels.
"Don't go," he said. "Thank you.for saying that. It has been hard to meet people here, for me. To meet men...safely." Now Mukube seemed to hesitate. In a very small voice he asked, "Do you.do you want to stay here a while?" He raised his other hand to Nelson's shoulder, then slid it up his neck to place it gently on the side of his face. Nelson simply melted inside, leaned slightly into Mukube's cupped palm, closed his eyes and nodded his head, swallowing hard. Mukube moved his hand from the door to the light switch and turned it off. "Come," he said, taking Nelson's hand in his and leading him toward the bed.
His eyes adjusted to the dark in the few steps it took to reach the side of the bed, and Nelson could see that a fair bit of light came into the curtainless room from the street lamps and the moon. Mukube stopped and reached for Nelson's other hand, holding both of them for a moment, looking into the eyes of the white man. Then he leaned forward and kissed him lightly. He might just as well have hit Nelson with a baseball bat, for that was all it took. In two heartbeats Nelson sighed heavily, then slid his hands up from Mukube's grasp to wrap them gently around the black man's smooth, hard back, feeling the soft, silky warm skin and the thin but firm muscles beneath. The two men pulled each other in, lips meeting. Nelson was lost in the passion of the moment, sucking first one and then another of Mukube's full, luscious lips, his own lips being pulled in turn into the black man's mouth, tongues sliding against each other.
Mukube pushed Nelson back half a step and began rapidly unbuttoning his shirt; the white man could see that the dark fingers were trembling and so he assisted the process, but his own hands were hardly less steady. Nelson tugged down his own trousers, kicking them to the side, his loafers following, as the shirt came off through Mukube's efforts. The two now embraced each other again, Mukube running his palms over Nelson's back, sliding them up to his shoulders and down his biceps, while Nelson slid his fingers under the towel to dig his nails into the tight, high bottom. That made the towel fall off and Nelson could feel a thick, heavy organ slap against his thigh. Pulling down his own underwear he mashed his groin forward. Standing, pushing into each other with the force of their legs, the two men fought a war of passion. Then Nelson stepped back, his rigid penis springing up from beneath a bush of dirty blonde hair.
Mukube's own pendulous organ was heavier and longer than Nelson's, but not comic-book huge. The white man grasped the organ, purple black in the dim light of the room, and slid his hand up and down it. Mukube threw his head back and moaned loudly, a sound of release as much as ecstasy. He slid his dark brown hand down around the white man's ballsack, then around it and onto the rigid, red shaft. The two stood there for a moment like that, manipulating each other's rigid cocks, the dickheads becoming coated with a slick film of precum. Then Mukube slid down to the bed, stretching himself out, and pulling Nelson down onto him.
Stretching out on top of the dark body, Nelson cupped the man's thick skullcap of dense, kinky hair with both hands. He could have done that all night, so delicious was the feel of the crisp hair. They kissed again, kissed noses and eyes, mouths nibbled ears and gently bit necks. All the while Nelson humped the man beneath him, sliding his penis up and down on the slick brown belly while Mukube pushed upward with his hips, sliding his rigid cock up between the upper thighs of Nelson and following a rhythm of passion up and down, up and down, the reddish brown head of his dick poking up and down above the back of the white man's thighs. Mukube clasped his dark arms and hands around Nelson's back, while the white man fondled the rounded muscles of Mukube's shoulders and biceps.
Two passions merged together, born of loneliness and denial and restraint. Humping, sliding, kissing, a convulsion was born deep in the gut of each man, and quickly moved toward an explosion. Pulling his lips away from Mukube's mouth, Nelson roared, clenching and bucking frantically, his rigid penis shooting ropes of semen between their bellies as he slid back and forth on the black man beneath him. At nearly the same time Mukube's torso curled and tightened and his hips pushed upward. His dickhead poked up between the white man's thighs and shot a fountain of semen up and onto his bottom and back. Crying, gasping, clutching, the two men struggled together in that way until the storm passed. Nelson collapsed on top of Mukube, who enveloped him in his arms, clutching him tightly.
Long minutes later, Nelson rolled off to one side on the narrow bed and Mukube turned on his side with his back to the white man's belly to lie like spoons. Nelson held him tightly, out of passion but also to keep him from rolling off the bed, his arm clasping the semen-slick chest and belly, his own penis--wilting but still full--pressed between the ass checks of the prominent black butt. The two breathed more normally, and in a shared rhythm.
"Was it good?" whispered Mukube.
"It was very good. It was...it was the best. And you?" Mukube laughed deep in his throat and covered the white man's hands with his own. "It was that good also," he said.
A few more minutes of cuddling passed. Mukube spoke. "How much longer will you be in town?"
Nelson chuckled. "A while longer. I think....I think there will be some discrepancies that I will need to look into." Mukube laughed softly.
Then Nelson spoke. "You are at the university? What are you studying?"
"Mathematics."
"Really? Mathematics! what branch?" The white man's heart beat a little faster.
"Calculus."
"Calculus," repeated Nelson, stretching the word out luxuriously. "Calculus!" Not for the first time that night, and not for the last, a look of lust came into Nelson's eyes. "Mukube," he said, "I think you and I are going to be great good friends."