PARTISAN REVIEW
377
envelope which I have so carefully and lovingly sealed, you have
opened the back door of your life to me.
You pretend not to see the shadowy figure that has slipped in
through the door. You pretend there is no one there. Upon your
bed I will lie, submissive as an animal laid upon an altar, with my
eyes lightly closed, waiting for you to return.... I am not a match for
you, pound for pound. But I could be equal to you. Don't doubt me.
You may pretend that you have not allowed me in the back door of
your life, but never doubt me. That would be a mistake.
(next morning)
. . . I want to tell you about something that happened seven
years ago, in London. I never told anyone about this. I was traveling
alone during the summer, without much money, and I spent a week
in a small hotel near Russell Square. I brought back to that hotel with
me a young man with your build and face - that lanky Lincoln-like
type, so American and artless, and almost homely but not quite–
and he stayed the night willingly, but in the morning began asking
me for money. Started talking in a loud voice. I panicked, was nearly
sick with the shame and the suspense and I whispered, "Please don't,
please," I begged him to leave. Gave him money but he wanted
more ... and how he grinned at me, pitiless at my terror, an Amer–
ican kid in
his
twenties who'd been bumming around Europe for a
year, living off people like me, helpless with our love. . . . Ah, how
I did love him, and wept when he left!
Yes, you resemble him, though you're older than he was and
less striking. Your skin looks a little rough - acne scars? I don't
mind. I like your hair, though it's thinning. I like your clothes. I
would dress myself up as your twin if I had the money - how un–
fortunate we all can't have rich parents, a member of the board of
A.T.&T. for a father! But my own clothes are nothing to be ashamed
of, I want to reassure you. They are decent and tasteful enough. I
emerge from my ugly little room like a butterfly from a cocoon . . .
bright with hope, my eyes shining with the prospect of another day,
so many empty hours that might be filled, like magic, with bursts of
joy.... Yet the days pass, Keith, the years pass, and nothing hap–
pens. I await redemption. The touch of some god's fingers against
mine - ah, I would accept a minor deity, like Keith Lurie! - yet
