Bert played for him, and often. But it was moments like these that Warren particularly treasured, when Bert was unaware of any audience. He liked to stand in shadow and listen. It was Cole Porter tonight, one song after another. “Anything Goes.” “Let’s Do It.” “Begin the Beguine”—
Finally, as a song ended, he cleared his throat and stepped into the room where Bert could see him. The dark head raised itself from the keys; the long saturnine face was creased with a smile. Warren applauded furiously and Bert lowered his head in a brief bow.
“Magnificent,” Warren said reverently.
“Devil. How long were you hulking there?”
“I don’t hulk. Since ‘Night and Day,’ I think.”
“Enjoy the concert?”
“More than I can say. If you would sing in public and if you were black, Bobby Short would have to find other way to make a living.”
“I doubt that he’s trembling at the prospect. How did, it go tonight?”
“It went. I was brilliant. The rest of the company was reassuringly adequate.”
“How comforting for you.”
“One lives for small triumphs.”
“Why don’t you make us drinks to honor the occasion?”
“When I arrive home first,” Warren said, “I see to it that drinks are waiting upon your return. Yet on those rare occasions when your return precedes my own—”
“I greet you with a concert.”
“A good point,” he conceded. “Better a concert than a Cognac. One understands.”
“I’d make the drinks now, but I’m playing the piano.”
“A noble cause. A noble savage. Odets, where is thy sting? You persist in the notion that the martini is a civilized drink at this hour.”
“There is no clock on my palate, love.”
“I shall do the honors, such as they are. Martinis and music. If they be the food of love, play on!”
In the kitchen, he poured Bombay gin into a pitcher, added ice and a drop of scotch. The scotch, he had established, was better than vermouth at masking the sharpness of the gin. He stirred the mixture gently with a long silver spoon.
He strained the martinis into a pair of large stemmed crystal goblets, added a slender shaving of lemon peel to each glass. The house was Warren’s, and all its furnishings, with the exception of Bert’s piano and a writing desk that had belonged to Bert’s mother, had been carefully selected and purchased by Warren. The house itself was unprepossessing enough on the outside, a small frame house on the northern edge of New Hope that differed little from its neighbors on either side. Inside it was a refuge, with every object within its walls carefully chosen to reflect Warren’s taste and provide his life with a framework of order and dignity. It was, indeed, a refuge he rarely sought; he preferred to spend his time in the company of others, over drinks or cups of coffee. But when he did come home it was important to come home to something perfect.
The house had been Warren’s before Bert entered his life, and the years Bert had spent there had had precious little impact upon it. A few objects had been shuttled about to accommodate his Regency desk and his Gulbrandson spinet (a grand piano would have dislocated things badly, and Warren thanked sundry gods that Bert was content with an upright), but otherwise things stayed as they were, with Bert appreciative of pleasant surroundings but generally indifferent to them. It was Warren’s special shelter from the storm, and it would continue to shelter him when he and Bert parted company and Bert moved elsewhere. Not that Warren specifically anticipated such a parting of the ways. It was entirely possible that they would live out their lives together under this roof. But it was also possible that they would not, and Warren had learned over the years always to be prepared for such contingencies. He did not believe that heterosexual marriages were inclined to be any more permanent than homosexual alliances. But marriages had that illusion of permanence. They were bulwarked by children, reinforced by judicial recognition, predicated on the assumption that no man or woman should tear their bond asunder. They were as apt to deteriorate as any other relationship, yet when they did so it was generally a considerable shock to the participants. They hadn’t expected this, they had quite believed the till-death-do-us-part number, and they were thus unprepared. Homosexuals expected that things would ultimately go to hell, and were more inclined to be surprised when they didn’t.
When he brought the martinis into the living and placed Bert’s upon the piano, Bert was singing:
He broke off with a quick embarrassed smile and reached for his drink, smiling again in appreciation at the first sip. Warren moved up behind him, placed his hands on Bert’s shoulders, kneaded the fine muscles.
“You should sing more,” he said.
“You always say that.”
“No doubt I always shall. You have a fine voice, but it’s more than that. You bring lyrics to life.”
Bert’s fingers worked on the keys. “You’re too kind.”
“I’ve told you all this before.”
“I know. It’s funny, though. I can’t sing to a roomful of people. It’s not just that it’s a mental block because I do it from time to time but it doesn’t work, I can’t really get into it. And as a result I don’t sing well.”
“Couple of acting classes might help. Some version of psychodrama. Teach you to get out of yourself.”
“That’s possible, I suppose. The odd thing is, though, that I can’t sing when I’m completely alone, either. I embarrass myself for some odd reason. I can only sing” — his hands punched out a descending chord progression — “when I’m singing for you. Odd, no?”
Warren bent, nuzzled Bert’s ear, planted a row of kisses along his throat.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Aren’t I, though,” Warren murmured, continuing. “It’s not odd, though. You love and trust me.”
“It’s odd that I love and trust anyone, don’t you think? Damn. It’s going to be hard to play this piano with an erection.”
“Doubt it’s ever been done before. Most pianists use their hands. A good idea, though. A little outré for television, but in the right club in the Village—”
“Devil. What do you know about a girl called Melanie?”
“She misses all the notes but I still like to listen to her, though I must admit I don’t know why. One gets on her side and cheers for her, I think. One hopes that, in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, she’s going to make it all the way through to the end of the song.”