Honey regarded me with a strange expression. His voice quietened. “There is one rule, one golden rule, which an Englishman observes when he comes to a new place: never ruffle any feathers. Follow local customs. Blend in. Be respectful. Even those of us who were never taught this, well, we just know. It’s the key to our success here.”
“Yes,” I said, “your success.”
Father began to cough violently. Ever since the Incident at the Shop, he has had uncontrollable fits of rasping, wheezing coughs, which suggest that, in spite of his protests, he has not quite recovered. I wonder if he simply does not want to acknowledge what Johnny did for him on that day. Even I do not know everything that happened between them.
“I know you were upset, Frederick,” Father said when he had regained his composure. “You told me at the time. But frankly I still cannot understand what the fuss is all about. Call me an old fool, but I could not see what you saw. I thought his appearance somewhat unusual, of course, but only because I had never seen such dress in real life. In books, yes — it reminded me of the opera, of pictures of Venice and Vienna from the last century.”
Honey rolled his eyes. “This is what I feared. You think we all dress and behave like that. Let me tell you, all that cheap Oscar Wilde nonsense is not an accurate representation of European attire.”
Father raised a laugh. “The two of you will have plenty to talk about, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll be damned if I ever speak to that man.”
“It may be difficult to avoid him,” I said, resisting the urge to smile. “He is coming on our trip to the Seven Maidens too.”
Honey looked at me with unblinking eyes. “Dear God,” he whispered.
“Now, Snow, Mr. Honey and I have some business to attend to,” said Father. “Shut the door behind you, please.”
As I left I heard the lock on the door click quietly into place.
WHEN JOHNNY CAME TO BED last night, I pretended to be asleep. I have taken to doing this recently, because I think it is easier for both of us. Bedtime is when I am at my most vulnerable; my body is tired and it is difficult to maintain my façade of innocence, and so I err on the side of caution.
Johnny undressed silently, adjusting the lamp so that only the faintest flicker of light invaded the room. I watched him through narrowed eyes, my head resting deep in a pillow. I am certain he did not know I was watching. In the dim light his skin looked taut and brown. His skin was one of the things I loved most when I first saw him. It spoke of a life exposed to the sun and the rain, as if it had been rendered smooth by the elements. The faint scars on his back were like the patterns on the hide of some strange, sinuous animal. My skin could never be like that, I thought; it is almost as if we were of different races.
He came to bed and for a while I remained motionless, inhaling his scent of earth and wet leaves. It was a long time since I had smelt that perfume. I felt the weight of his body next to me, depressing the mattress and pulling me closer to him. I allowed my body to fall slowly towards his until my cheek came to rest on his shoulder. His skin was warm and clammy. I put my hand on his chest, feeling his heavy heartbeat on my palm. At last I felt his fingers run lightly through my hair like a thin, prickly comb. It was as if he was afraid to touch me. My head began to itch; I wished his fingers would scratch me, claw at my scalp — anything except tickle in this manner. I could bear it no longer. I pulled away, withdrawing to the other side of the bed. I could not sleep.
I KNOW HOW I AM GOING to do it. I have enacted it in my head, a thousand times over, every sleepless night. This is what will happen:
I choose my moment carefully, waiting until Johnny is in a particularly cheerful mood. Perhaps it will be at the end of a day when he has been with Peter and is filled with the blind, childish optimism that I see in his eyes every time they are together. I do not know what Peter has that inspires such exuberance, but I do know this: a child’s optimism is less easily crushed than an adult’s, or at least, once crushed, it is more quickly restored.
Finding Johnny in this buoyant state, I sit down with him and give him a drink. I have gone to great lengths to secure some wine. (A few days prior to this, I force myself to smile sweetly at Honey and tell him how pleasant it is to have him come to visit us; he is so taken aback he cannot resist my request for a bottle of French wine from his extensive collection.) This pleases Johnny because, thanks to Peter, he has recently become fascinated by the taste and exotic nature of wine.
