The Knife that twists within

@1999

Editor Michael Gouda/Alex

Faceless words

whispering softly in my ears.

A foreign skin

embracing me with its silence

the tender breath

of a voice I've never heard.

And the kisses of your absence

buried in my flesh

mind

soul

- Ignacio Rodriguez -

   "Damn! Think! Think!"

The pale light of day illuminated the world outside his window and Nicholas knew that the dawning of another day would pose yet further problems, further indecisions.

His penetrating blue eyes tried to pierce the haze outside his window, that characteristic haze that always seemed to lie over winterly Berlin and even here - a little further from the centre - created a suffocating blanket without noise and apparently without life.

Nicholas saw his mirrored image in the window and ran his fingers fiercely through his thick, dark blond hair. Then he held them in front of his face and stared at his paint-soiled fingers.

Marcus and Sebastian loved those hands. Both had told him so. They seemed to be so sensitive, long and slender, the hands of an artist.

Nicholas lowered his gaze and observed them closely. Traces of ultramarine paint stuck under his nails and on his right middle finger where years of use with a paintbrush had left a little dent - the last remains of his try to express the very Italian blue sky over Sebastian's house, the light ocre walls and the bright red roof.

Slowly he turned.

His gaze took in Sebastian’s spacious, dishevelled double bed, one side unused, the little table with the telephone, a pile of books and a camera. It wandered over the photocopies strewn on the light carpet and got caught by the painting standing on an easel which Nicholas had dragged here to sleep close to.

But last night he had not been able to sleep, had wandered restlessly from one room to another and had talked incessantly to himself.

He observed the drawing as if it was hanging in an exhibition room and he was one of many potential buyers. But this drawing would never hang in an exhibition.

Two naked male bodies stood in a close, intense embrace, their erect cocks pressed together, rubbing and exchanging fluids; their tongues entwined.

It was painted on slightly toned paper with Conte crayon in sepia colour with red and white highlights. White, where the light fell upon a naked shoulder or a bare buttock. The effect was as if the skin gleamed like polished bronze and it reminded Nicholas of the nights he had spent with Marcus while the light flooded through the open window and died as a moonbeam on Marcus' velvet skin.

A half smile touched Nicholas' lips.

Marcus had not only been his teacher at loving, he had taught him to use his eyes to see, to paint, to use his fingers in the right way - and finally to relax.

His eyes were still focused on the drawing. He could almost see tiny drops of sweat and the glossy surface of Marcus' black hair in the image. But who was the other man? Was it he himself? This blond man who tried to absorb the scent of the other, to drink him, to melt into him? Was it this that he wanted? Really wanted? To again go through all this pain and loneliness?

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He could almost see the painted bodies moving, breathing, heaving, pushing, tasting and finally exploding.

Subconsciously his hand glided to the zip of his jeans, dived into his pants and stroked his already hard erection.

Marcus... One of the men in the portrait was Marcus, his beloved, dark-haired Marcus, his one and only lover...

Nicholas pulled out his hand as if was suddenly burned. His penis protested. What are you doing, it screamed within him. You don't have to jerk off in front of the picture of Marcus. Go and call him! In less than an hour he would be here and everything in the painting would be true again - perhaps. He gazed at the bed ... Sebastian's bed and blinked. He remembered another bed somewhere in a little Italian village ... short flashbacks of shared passion and guilt. Just for one night.

Nicholas' cock still screamed for attention. Slowly his hand returned into his trousers and rubbed the hot, moist hard flesh while he gazed at both the male bodies, who were absorbed with each other.

Not thinking! Feeling! Feeling! Whom are your thoughts with as you jerk off? Which man?

Rain drops spattered onto the window as, with a suppressed cry, he came into his hand, then opening his eyes widely again, he pulled out his hand and licked the white liquid.

Rain. . . On that special day, it had rained like this. Suddenly and unexpectedly he had come, come like the man who stood behind him out of the blue and watched how the rain had melted the colours of his chalk painting into nothing. . .

A trace of someone before

The world, watched from the view of a street painter, was very strange to Nicholas. His knees hurt and the palms of his hands were grazed and burnt. But every evening, after his job as a sales clerk in a large shopping centre was finished, he was drawn out onto the street, armed with his box of chalks and with the little copies of the paintings he so loved to draw.

It was the next-to-last Saturday before Christmas and the streets were an anthill of jostling people, with heavy bags, irritated faces, tugging kids and the wall-to-wall Musak which tried to lift them into a pleasant and anticipatory mood.

Nobody took any notice of the young man who, calmly and undisturbed, drew with his chalks on the cold pavements of the shopping arcade. The skies had been grey for the entire day and a cutting wind blew, but Nicholas' cheeks glowed. As always, he only had eyes for his chalk drawing. He closely inspected the ring with the emerald stone that the young man was wearing in the reproduction, lying on the ground in front of him. Deliberately he selected the sea-green chalk and sketched a perfect copy.

He sensed without looking up, that from time to time, a few people stood and watched, making comments. He never listened though, not minding anyway. He knew his painting were good. He would much rather have drawn the lad the way he looked beneath that expensive shirt, and coat hanging elegantly over his shoulder - naked and in a provocative pose. He undressed every handsome man in his mind in order to carry out with him the most exciting things, although . . .

Nicholas sat back on his heels. His knees hurt too much. He looked at he coloured drawing in front of him. Some coins jingled into the open box beside him. Startled, he looked up into the friendly eyes of an old woman. But he wasn't begging. Feeling slightly hurt, he bent down and smudged a too sharp contour with his fingertip.

A rain drop splashed onto the face of the painted lad. More followed. Nicholas stared at the heavens and cursed. Quickly he gathered up all his chalks, wiped his fingers and got up. The people rushed for shelter into the entrances of the shops or struggled with their umbrellas. Finally Nicholas was alone except for the rain drops falling.

   "He’s beautiful."

Nicholas jumped and turned. Behind him was a man. He stood so close that he could feel his body heat. The man smiled and pointed to the drawing. "Raphael." Again the man smiled and Nicholas could not but respond. Then he looked at the ground and watched as the image of the young Bindo Altoviti melted in the pouring rain, the colours swirling and mixing to a mid of chalk. His heart bled.

He knew of course that what he painted on the streets was destined to disappear, but he never had to see it going. He painted, went away and never returned. He had created and it was his for ever in his heart. But to see the destruction was hurtful. Nicholas closed his box of chalks with a click.

   "Can I invite you to a drink? Coffee, tea? It's cold and you are soaked."

Confused, Nicholas turned around. Oh yes, the man. He had almost forgotten him. He was again smiling his disarming smile and Nicholas nodded mechanically. The man touched him slightly on the arm and guided him into the next coffee bar.

Lost in his thoughts, Nicholas stirred his coffee cup and watched how the milk swirled and disappeared - like his painting.

   "You can talk, can you?"

   "Huh?"

Nicholas looked into the dark brown eyes of the man opposite. Damn! He was already smiling again. How old did he seem to be? Late twenties? About seven, eight years older than he. His hair was wet from the rain and it had made it dark. He looked pretty good and Nicholas himself thinking how he could pull off his clothes to study what was under them. Blood flowed into his groin. The man wore an expensive leather jacket, tight jeans and Italian shoes. His light grey woollen pullover perfectly suited his rather dark skin.

   "Sorry. I was thinking." He tried to avoid looking into those dark brown eyes.

   "You do this painting for your private enjoyment? Or is this your job?"

   "Private."

The eyes observed him more insistently.

  "My name is Marcus."

   "Nicholas."

   "Why are you doing this in the street? Why not on paper? Canvas? You're very talented."

Nicholas looked up. The deep voice reverberated in his ears.

   "Can you tell from this?"

   "How old are you?

   "Twenty."

   "Academy of Arts?"

Nicholas shook his head. Academy of Arts! The name aroused unpleasant memories. What did this Marcus want from him? He darted a glance at the man opposite. His hair was almost dry and revealed the actual colour: deep brown, almost black. Nicholas felt uncomfortable under his gaze. Marcus wore no ring on his finger, and gave no evidence that somebody else would be waiting for him at home.

   "Would you like to come with me?"

Nicholas almost swallowed a mouthful of coffee the wrong way.

   "Pardon?"

Marcus didn't answer, Nicholas couldn't interpret the look in his eyes, so he just returned the gaze. Marcus leaned back and relaxed on his stool.

   "Suppose I have something you could be interested in."

Nicholas was still looking. Yet, what could it be? Interested in? His cock? Does he want to show me that? Did he always pick up his fuck mates this way? Nicholas found he was shaking. What made him think this man was gay?

  "Gaydar."

   "Huh?"

Marcus tossed some bank notes onto the table, rose and stretched out his hand.

   "Come."

To Nicholas' great surprise he drove, not to Marcus' flat but to the centre of the city to a former factory building now used as a loft. While he was still asking himself why he had gone with a man he didn't know, Marcus opened the iron door to a huge room with large windows. It seemed to be an artist's workshop and instantly Nicholas forgot his doubts and inhibitions.

The room was full to the brim with strange and wonderful things.

Beautifully shaped legs, long and hairless, winged heels, smooth, dark skin polished until it gleamed. He danced on tiptoes upon the breath of the Wind God Zephyr and pointed the way high up with his caduceus, held tightly.

Nicholas' fingertips outlined the muscular back down to the tight buttocks. He sighed soundlessly. Lovingly he looked at the bronze cast of Giambologna's "Flying Mercury".

There were glass and wooden shelves and cupboards with dusted glass doors whose contents could only be seen as vague shadows. Fingerprints in the dust: peepholes into an unknown world. Between the cupboards and the shelves were stacked broken spears with long-time rusted, perhaps blood-encrusted, iron tips.

An old sword stuck into a rock. It had an odd resemblance to King Arthur's sword. Nicholas stepped closer, grabbed the hilt with one hand and pulled lightly. It did not move.

Another hand was placed tightly over his own and loose his finger gently. He heard a deep voice in his ear:

   "You are not the chosen one, my dear. Me neither!"

Nicholas pulled his hand from the sword as if it were red-hot. Embarrassed he stepped away and looked around. The rubbish dump of history seemed to be gathered here, broken pieces of an exhibition, blind busts of Roman emperors, faces with chopped-off noses, maimed limbs made of marble and gypsum, oxidised bronzes.

Nicholas looked up and noticed a framed copy of a Michelangelo drawing hanging on one wall between others. He thought the male head was beautiful and stepped closer to get a better look. Again he sensed Marcus behind him, the very presence of his physical body.

   "Is it a woman or a man, do you think?"

Nicholas was silent. The figure wore an earring and female finery on its head, like a turban, but the expression on this slightly austere face was androgynous enough for Nicholas to see it was a beautiful young man with full, soft, so kissable lips.

   "A man," he said huskily.

Marcus laughed quietly. "A man," he repeated and Nicholas felt the warm breath on his neck.

   "Tommaso de Cavalieri, Michelangelo's young admirer and friend. The old master was infatuated with him. I can definitely understand it. He is beautiful, isn't he?"

Nicholas turned.

   "You too think it is a man? But all the experts say it is a woman."

   "Well!" Marcus grinned. "Then we will have to ask Michelangelo himself." He shrugged his shoulders.

   "Are you interested in all these things? Look here." He took up a little alabaster copy of Donatello's David. One arm was missing and lay on the table beside it. Suddenly he took hold of one of Nicholas' hands and inspected it. Nicholas flinched and tried to take his hand away but Marcus held it tight. "Wonderful hands," he whispered and stroked it cautiously. Nicholas felt his palm begin to sweat and finally was able to pull away.

   "Would you enjoy working for me? Cataloguing all these things, repairing, preparing for an exhibition? I'm planning to make a second one as well as my picture exhibition." He paused as he saw Nicholas' eyes widen. He laughed.

   "Think about it."

Nicholas was dumbfounded.

   "Hungry?"

   "Huh?"

Marcus screwed up his eyes, laughing. "Can't you answer with something else than 'Huh'?" Nicholas was embarrassed again. This man must think him a complete idiot. He looked down at his worn out shoes.

   "Yes, I'm hungry. And..."

Marcus stared at him, relaxed as always.

   "And...?" he whispered encouragingly.

   "I wanted to thank you. And... I'm sorry for my stupid thoughts back in the coffee bar."

   "Your thoughts?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I can guess your thoughts?"

   "But you have..."

Marcus grinned. "Your face is an open book, my dear. I can read everything that is in your mind." He lifted one hand as if he wanted to stroke Nicholas' hair but let it fall again.

   "I'm Marcus Weidenbruch."

Nicholas' jaw dropped.

   "THE Weidenbruch? The most famous Art promoter in town?"

Marcus didn't answer. He didn't need to. He read in the lad's face that we wanted to run away from the place. He certainly didn't like the thought of keeping company with one of the richest men in town. But then was Marcus responsible for his wealth? It was all inherited but he was too tired to try to explain or make excuses.

   "What's wrong, Nicholas? Am I now a different person when you know I am rich? It's always the same, whenever I mention my name I sense a holding back, a dislike - or over excitement. I hate this. It hurts me, you understand this? I'm never sure what the reason is that people say they like me or want my company. Do you understand? Is it because of my money or because I'm a likeable man?"

Marcus stopped abruptly. This explosion of his own feelings startled him. Now where was his self-control? Was it the innocent face in front of him that confused him so much? The violet-blue, sparkling eyes, in whose depths lay something he couldn't interpret... the vulnerability of a child. He felt an urge to comfort him. Then he shook off the sentimental feelings.

   "What do you want to eat? There's no kitchen here and you don't want to come with me to my home do you?" One look into Nicholas' face told him that he didn't.

   "OK, I can order something. Hamburger? Fries? Pizza?"

   "Chinese."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Chinese." He took it as an order, pulling out some loose notes from a drawer and searching for an advertisement for a Chinese take-away.

   "Chicken, pork, roasted duck, fish?"

   "Duck with peanuts and rice, please."

Marcus grinned. "It's your favourite, isn't it?" He turned, dialled a number and ordered. Then he clapped his hand together and asked, good humoured, "Now tell me a little about yourself. You are a pavement artist for your own amusement. What else would you like to do?"

Undress you, was the immediate thought which came into Nicholas' mind. To paint you naked. He assessed the tall figure which was only a few centimetres taller than he was. The strong thighs in the tight jeans. The obvious bulge in the crotch. He looked for other signs as to how Marcus' body would look in the nude. Such dark types with black hair and dark eyes were usually covered in dark body hair but his forearms, which were visible because Marcus had pulled up his sleeves to his elbows, didn't reveal any body hair. This was something Nicholas liked, how the light would have to shine on bare, smooth skin. He knew exactly in his mind how to draw a portrait of Marcus, sitting on a chair, legs spread apart to reveal his balls and the dark trail which led to his hole. He would need a spotlight to let the light fall from one side and illuminate a glow on shoulders, chest, one thigh and knee. It made Nicholas' fingers tingle and this feeling continued until it met the tingling in his groin.

He saw Marcus' gaze and felt his own cheeks flush. Damn it! The man must think he was really stupid. Pull yourself together!

   "Pardon?" he said weakly.

   "What else do you like doing?" Marcus answered calmly.

   "Nothing other than painting."

   "What sort of paintings do you like? Modern Art? Expressionism? Impressionism? Oh I remember, you liked that young lad of Raphael, right, the one you drew in chalk on the pavement? Have you also painted on paper? I'm sure you have."

   "Yes, I have. Mostly portraits."

   "Would you let me see them sometime?"

   "Of course. If you are really interested."

   "I am, Nicholas. I watched you all the time this afternoon and I like the way you drew the lines so confidentlyly and chose the colours. You don't take long to make your choice for the right colour. You have a natural talent for this. That's unusual. Do you sketch with a pencil, too?"

Nicholas nodded.

   "Interested in sculpture?"

   "Oh yes. I like the things here. Where do you get all these from? And why are they broken? Who repairs them?"

Marcus smiled his special, infectious grin.

   "First I'm glad you like them. Second, they come from all over the world, especially Italy, Greece and Turkey. I've got stocks in all these countries and freelance and employed workers who buy up private collections whose owners for some reason or other find they have to sell them. I attend all auctions and public sales in Europe personally, sometimes in New York, too. This - " he stepped up to the marble bust with a chopped off nose and damaged eye "- is about two hundred years old. It's a copy of an old Roman piece and represents the emperor Trajan. Do you know anything about Roman culture?"

Nicholas shook his head. "Only a bit."

   "It doesn't matter. I have graduates working for me from the Academy of Arts, who have degrees in archaeology and are proficient in sculpture and restoring. What you see here is only a fraction of what I'm collecting to sell."

As Marcus spoke his eyes glistened with the light of a true enthusiast. He pointed into the darkness of the room which was shrouded in twilight and Nicholas could just make out some larger object standing there.

   "What are they?"

   "Furniture, old paintings."

There was a knock at the door. "Ah. Our food has arrived!"

Later Nicholas lay in his small bed at home and pondered on the events of the evening. What had happened to him? Had he finally found someone who would care for him? If yes, why was he doing this for him? What made Marcus think he could be any good at restoring all those broken things as well as his other employees? Why did Marcus think he was good enough at painting to give him such a chance?

But you are good at it, answered his alter ego. You know that. Don't be so self-effacing; there's no need for it.

He conjured up Marcus' face in his imagination. He was incredibly handsome - at least he thought so. He had almost the same austere beauty as that face in the drawing by Michelangelo though without the female touch. Marcus must have dozens of lovers who would cling to him like leeches. Well, his love life had not been mentioned this evening and Nicholas could scarcely ask him bluntly how many lovers filled his bed - his doubtless spacious bed with perhaps silk sheets and pillows.

Nicholas suddenly felt uncomfortable in his own cramped single bed. What could he see in me? A 'pick-up' from the streets who could satisfy Marcus' feelings of charity because it was Christmas time...

Nicholas moaned and turned onto his stomach. The movement caused pain to his erect penis. Pain and incredible pleasure... Marcus had mentioned the graduates from the Academy of Arts. Well, they were luckier than he was. He had never made the final exam, although he had attended the course. But that was something Nicholas didn't want to think about right now - it was too painful.

He suddenly thought of his father who was a metal worker in a factory and had to stand for hours on end in the suffocating heat of a steel foundry. He had never understood his son's ambitions. He was a simple man and knew exactly what cost per unit his work would bring but nothing about Art and its expression. There was no profit in Art and he prophesied Nicholas would end his life on the streets. Nicholas smiled a half grin. Well, to a certain extent that had turned out to be right.

In his mind Nicholas checked his wardrobe. There was nothing there which would make an impression on Marcus. Faded jeans, worn-out shoes, old pullovers and shirts. He had never placed much importance on his appearance.

His thick dark-blond hair desperately needed a trim. But he suddenly felt the memory of the touch of Marcus' fingers on his own palm which sent a warm feeling into Nicholas' stomach. He strengthened the pressure on his penis and rubbed it gently on the sheets.

He desperately wanted to see Marcus naked but was afraid of what would happen later... the caresses so warm and soft at the beginning would change into brutality, into pain and hatred. He never wanted to feel this again. Was Marcus different? Could he make love without hurting?

Nicholas fell abruptly asleep.

* * * * *

As always the shopping centre was in turmoil in these last few days before Christmas. People rushed through the departments, looking for this and asking impatiently for that, hardly waiting for the answer. The incessant background music got on Nicholas' nerves. It was repeated every two hours. What a drag! Every year the same. Customers hurried through the sections as if they were driven by Furies in that desperate search for gifts, most of which would be unnecessary and would soon vanish into dusty corners of the flats.

Nicholas watched middle-aged women looking for gifts for their husbands or sons. Silently and carefully he folded a pair of underpants into a small parcel and scanned the price. He himself would never wear such grey-ribbed cotton underpants but looking at the stale housewife of a woman he saw it was a practical gift for her husband and she would never have the idea of slowly pulling down these pants to reveal the hot, hard flesh and to suck on it...

The woman saw his grin and mistook it for a kind gesture to make the stressful atmosphere of the shop more tolerable. She smiled back at him and paid.

Nicholas served the next woman standing in the queue. His movements were mechanical and this gave him time to sort out his thoughts. From the Christmas bonus that was already in his account he had decided to buy a new black shirt, new trousers, shoes, an outdoor jacket and some sexy underwear - just in case - as he soothed his conscience. Although he wasn't sure what this 'case' might be...

His last meeting with Marcus had taken his breath away. Marcus had shown him all the other things in the loft, beautiful old carved wardrobes and partly painted heavy chests with iron fittings.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. "Coffee Break! I'm here now." Nicholas looked and found Kurt, the senior salesman standing beside him, ready for his shift.

Nicholas went upstairs to th canteen to have some coffee. Here he always met Matthias, the salesman from the electricity department and the only person in the store who knew anything about Nicholas' life. Matthias was already waiting for him and patted the red upholstered beside him. "And? Tell me everything. How was it?"

He passed him the little plastic container with the milk. Nicholas opened one and poured it into his coffee.

   "Good."

Matthias raised his eyes despairingly to the yellow painted ceiling.

   "Good? Man! Why do I have to pull every word one by one out of your mouth?"

Matthias grinned and revealed white, strong teeth. His grey-blue eyes sparkled. Unfortunately Matthias was straight as a Christmas tree and had a girlfriend, but he knew that Nicholas was gay. Nicholas grinned back.

   "Fantastic, I should say. He offered me a job, every evening after work in his loft. There's an old man - a restorer who doesn't seem to have a home because he's always there till late at night, but he can't do all the work before Marcus' next exhibition. So he wants me to help him. It's fun, Matthias, really. As well as that he explained the history of the piece of Art he's working on."

He stared intensely into Matthias' blue eyes, his own sparkling with enthusiasm.

   "Have you ever heard of Trajan?"

Matthias partly closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose in an attempt to remember - an expression which always made Nicholas want to kiss him.

   "No, I don't think so."

   "Anyway, he wants to see my paintings and drawings as soon as possible."

   "Who? The old man or Trajan?"

   "No, stupid, Marcus."

Matthias gave his friend a long glance. "You like him, don't you? Are you falling for him?"

   "Up to my ears," Nicholas snorted. He was thankful that he could always make him laugh - he was such a nice guy.

   "Now seriously, Nick. Do you fancy him?"

Nicholas stuck a biscuit into his mouth and nodded slowly.

   "I guess so."

   "Great! And what about him?"

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders.

   "Don't think so."

   "No?" Matthias seemed to be disappointed. "But you said he's gay."

   "So what? Just because he's gay he doesn't have to fancy every other man. Do you think we fling ourselves on every man in town just because he has a cock in his pants?"

Surprised at his outburst, he stopped and gave a long sideways glance at his friend. "I'm sorry, mate." He sighed. "I only wanted to say that we too have our preferences, like you with your women. Where's the difference?"

Matthias nodded and smiled.

   "It's OK. I understand." Then he looked at his watch.

   "Shit. I have to go." He jumped up from his chair. "When do you see him again?"

   "This evening."

   "Fine, I'll await a full report tomorrow, ok?"

Nicholas sighed again. "Ok."

* * * * *

Nicholas didn't know how many times he had stood in front of the Michelangelo drawing and looked at it closely. He liked the light but sure control over the lines with the red conte chalk.

"You like this drawing very much, eh, my boy?"

Johannes, the old restorer took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

   "Yes," whispered Nicholas.

   "Did you bring your own drawings with you?"

Nicholas nodded. "But they are not half as good as this."

Johannes smiled at him and tiny, deep wrinkles appeared around his pale eyes.

   "Marianne and Katja will not be coming today. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and Marcus has already let them go. What are you going to do tomorrow?"

   "Go to my parents. What else?" He turned to face the old man sitting next to him on a stool. In front of him were pieces of an old clay vase, Indian red, which he had sorted and was now preparing to put together.

   "And you?"

   "Invited to my daughter's. The usual things: Potato salad and frankfurters, then presents for the children. I guess it will be a quiet evening. I'm looking forward to her punch." His eyes twinkled.

   "Hello, my dears." They both turned round to see Marcus coming through the door. Nicholas beamed.

   "Morning, Marcus." Whenever Nicholas saw that smile it gave him what felt like a punch in the stomach. He was in love, surely, and remembered briefly the talk he had yesterday with Matthias. They had said goodbye till next year and Matthias had wished him all the best and 'many hot nights with his chosen one'. Nicholas grinned at the recollection.

   "Now, how's the vase, Johannes? Let me see. Ah, you have managed to sort out all these tiny pieces? That's good. I'm sorry for the mishap." He referred to the fact that he had dropped the vase a few days ago. But this piece would only be for his own house anyway so it wouldn't matter if some of the cement traces showed or not.

   "I think that's enough for today. Everything's done. I'll see you on the fourth of January, Johannes. Merry Christmas." He gave him a medium-sized parcel, prettily wrapped in coloured paper. Johannes' eyes smiled his thanks. "Thank you, my friend. You don't have to do this, you know."

Marcus smiled. He watched him say goodbye to Nicholas and go out. Then he returned to the young man.

   "Now you have something for me to look at?"

Nicholas got out a large portfolio. His heart seemed to stick in his throat as Marcus opened it, pulled up a chair, sat down and silently looked at one drawing after another. From time to time he glanced at Nicholas.

   "Good. I like them, Nicholas. Where do you get all the models? People you see in the street?"

   "Memory mostly or fantasy."

Marcus nodded. "And the watercolour paintings?"

Nicholas gave him a second case. Marcus leafed through the paintings in the same attentive, slow, appreciative way. "Pretty." He pointed to a scene of a lake whose shore was covered with plants and trees. "You did this outdoors, didn't you? I'm sure I know this place."

There was a sound at the door and Marcus turned round.

   "Oh, hey, Sebastian, come on in."

Nicholas tensed. The man coming through the door exuded sexual appeal so obviously that it filled the room - literally but Marcus didn't seem to notice, beckoning him over to look at the paintings.

   "Look here, Bastian, how do you like them?" He paused. "Sorry, buddy. This is Nicholas. I guess the biggest talent I have discovered for years."

Nicholas blushed slightly as he felt the green-grey eyes piercing him. This was the first thing Nicholas noticed. This bright eyes in a regular face which got it's interest by a strong nose and sharp outlined lips. His sandy hair hung in waves to his broad shoulders and the grip of his hand was very firm.

   "I have heard about you, Nicholas. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Nicholas had to clear his throat before he could speak.

   "Nice to meet you."

   "Sebastian is the oldest friend I have. We were together at boarding school in Switzerland."

   "Oh," was all Nicholas could manage.

   "And," Sebastian grinned, "I was his first lover."

Marcus pulled up an eyebrow but wasn’t able to hide his own grin. “Right”, he said then, leaning in to murmur into Nicholas’ ear, “it's a long time ago."

Sebastian smiled his very charming smile, blinked at Nicholas, and peeled off his heavy woollen coat. He threw it carelessly over a chair and bent over to look at the paintings.

Marcus turned back to the door because he had seen a movement out of the corner of his eyes. He frowned instantly. Nicholas looked in the direction and saw an older man standing uncertainly in the doorway. His short, thin hair was grey at the temples and his lips were twisted into an insecure smile. The lamp light reflected on his glasses.

   "What do you want?" demanded Marcus.

Nicholas was startled by his cold voice. Marcus went up to the older man and stood in front of him. "I have nothing more to offer you, Alexander. And you know that. I've told you already. You had your chance now now it's over. You'll never get another one. I'm sorry."

   "But, Marcus, listen to me, please." The voice of the man was harsh and despondent. "What shall I do? I'm too old to get another job and you have made sure that what I did is known half way around the city. Nobody now will give me a job!"

Marcus shook his head and sighed deeply.

Nicholas was embarrassed by the scene and he cast a questioning glance at Sebastian who was standing calmly, following the incident with little apparent interest.

Marcus stuck his hands firmly into the pockets of his trousers. "Go now, I'm busy."

   "But what about the job in your workshop? I could make lists of all the things and I still have some good connections."

   "The place is taken already." Marcus' angry eyes turned for a second to Nicholas. "It's too late."

Alexander's head drooped. "Well then," he said - almost a whisper. "Bye."

He turned and shuffled away.

Sebastian said nothing but he and Marcus exchanged glances. Marcus turned to Nicholas who was looking at him curiously. "This was nothing," he said reluctantly. "A dismissed employee, that's all,"

Nicholas didn't know what to think. The charming and gentle Marcus had changed before his eyes into a cold and hard businessman. Why should the man have lost his job? But he didn't dare to ask.

Sebastian bent down again over his paintings.

   "They're beautiful," he said after a while. "Have you any more?"

   "Yes, but these are the best . . . in my opinion," he added.

   "I'd like to see all of them. It would show how you developed. Bring them next time, will you?" Nicholas nodded. Marcus looked at his watch. "Time to go." He thought for a moment.

   "Would you like to come with us?"

   "Where?" Nicholas' voice sounded a little startled.

   "To a restaurant. Where else did you think?"

Nicholas had never been in such a restaurant nor indeed in any hotel resembling the Four Seasons. It was in the Grunewald, the most exclusive area to live. The 'Four Seasons' was a new hotel and its interior had been designed by Karl Lagerfeld, one of the best and most eccentric fashion designers Germany had ever produced. According the prices were astronomically high and Nicholas was glad that he had worn his new shirt and a pretty expensive dark grey pullover.

As he opened the tastefully designed menu he was astounded by the prices of the food and especially of the wines. He watched how confident and self-assured his two companions behaved in this select area and Nicholas felt insignificant and stupid. He left it to Marcus to choose the dishes and drank the magenta-red French wine which to him had a slightly woody taste. He couldn't say he liked it specially.

Sebastian was wearing a silk, bluish-green shirt which complemented perfectly the colour of his hair and gave his grey-green eyes a deep emerald glimmer. Nicholas watched how the dimmed light behind him painted his hair silver and created something like a halo around his head. He regretted not having his sketch book and a pencil with him. Nicholas thought his skin was clear and the colour of marzipan . . .

   "How do you like your venison, Nicholas? You have eaten almost nothing so far. Is anything wrong?"

Nicholas blushed. "No, no. it's all OK. It tastes . . . wonderful."

He picked up a piece of rose-coloured meat on his form and put it in his mouth. It was indeed like butter on his tongue. He dipped a piece of the dumpling into the cranberry sauce and tasted. His face lit up. He smiled at the two men who returned his smile.

   "Now, Nicholas, when will you be having your first exhibition?" asked Sebastian.

   "Exhibition? Me? You're joking, aren't you?"

Sebastian looked at Marcus. "Didn't you tell me he's the biggest talent you had for years? What's stopping you exhibiting his paintings along with your own in January?"

   "Nothing," answered Marcus simply.

   "What do you mean, Nothing?" Nicholas put down his knife and fork and grabbed his glass of wine.

   "You don't like the idea?" Marcus' dark eyes reflected a point of light, from the dim lamps beside him.

   "But of course I like the idea. You never told me you intended to do it though."

   "The pictures you painted are very good."

  "But I have only painted one little thing in your workshop. And the others I just showed you - are they good enough? How can you judge from this to exhibit my paintings?"

Marcus smiled. "Experience, my dear. Just experience. This man by my side knows me like the palm of his hand and could tell that I was going to exhibit your paintings as soon as he say your watercolours - and my expression."

   "Oh," Nicholas nodded. Sebastian filled his glass again.

   "Do you like the wine?"

   "Well . . . "

Sebastian laughed. "OK, you needn't answer. What do you usually drink?"

   "Beer. Cola."

   "I like beer as well but not with this superb venison. Would you like some desert? Omelette with egg-flip, vanilla ice-cream and wild strawberries?" The emerald eyes seemed to gaze into his very being.

   "Yes." Nicholas felt weak. What was this sexy man doing to him?

After another glass of wine which tasted much more pleasant, Nicholas gained the courage to ask Sebastian what he did for a living.

Sebastian seemed slightly put out at the question. He wiped his mouth with his napkin.

   "What do I do? Well actually nothing."

Nicholas stared at Marcus and then looked back at Sebastian. "Nothing! God. I wish I could do 'nothing' for a while."

Marcus looked at the rosy cheeks of the young lad. What a wonderful boy, he thought. He wished he had been like him when he was his age. Interested in all new things, shy yet knowing exactly what he wanted to do. And determined to succeed. He had fallen for those beautiful violet-blue eyes, the sensitive mouth, the fresh complexion and the mature body. But most of all he had fallen for Nicholas' charming personality. His thoughts were intelligent although he was not always able to express them in an intelligible way. But he was so young; he had all the time to learn.

   "You'd be bored soon," he heard Sebastian's voice.

   "Are you bored?"

   "He works for me in Rome, Nicholas." Marcus said. "Did you hear that the Galleria Borghese was re-opened recently?"

   "Yes I have. I've never been to Rome. It's the museum with all the Bernini sculptures, isn't it?"

Sebastian nodded. "Why don't you come and visit me?"

Marcus shot a barbed glance at his friend. Sebastian caught it and was a bit confused. Seconds later it dawned on him that Marcus wanted the lad for himself. Bad luck, boy, he thought to himself, but it never occurred to him to fight against his old friend. Well there are other pretty Roman boys waiting for him though none with this innocent look in his face and so much pain in his violet eyes . . . He looked at Marcus and gave him a silent sign.

Marcus understood. "I think we should go. Will you come back home with me?"

Nicholas hadn't answered Sebastian's question or invitation, and now the moment had gone. He got up. The waiter came to their table, and Marcus signed the bill.

   "Will you?" Marcus asked.

   "Yes."

The whole time Nicholas was sitting beside Marcus in the taxi he asked himself what he was being led into. He wanted to be with Marcus but he was afraid. His heart was beating hard in his chest and his mouth was dry. He could feel the warmth of Marcus' thigh against his own, could see him from te corner of his eye; saw his profile, the straight nose, the full, red lips, the cleft in his chin and above them the shock of black, shining hair. He was breathing calmly and seemed very relaxed.

Nicholas thought about Sebastian who had taken another taxi home. The young man had confused Nicholas. He had played on the keyboard of his feelings like Rachmaninov and Mozart, fiercely and with tender subtlety - both at the same time.

But then Nicholas banished the thought of the tall, sandy- haired man from his mind. All he wanted was to touch Marcus' bare skin, to caress the shape of his body, to taste him, to smell him, to melt into him. Again blood filled his groin and he shifted uncomfortably.

It was only a short journey to Marcus' house set in the exclusive residential area of the Grunewald district. As they stepped out of the car Nicholas saw a large house set amongst fir and chestnut trees and a drive led to the entrance. It was cold and his breath condensed in the air. He was trembling.

Marcus led him through the gateway and silently to the front door. He pulled out his key and unlocked the door, stepped inside and waited until Nicholas followed him. Silence surrounded them. Nicholas sensed the warmth and a pleasant smell, but couldn't identify it - a sort of mixture of lemon and cinnamon.

He waited for Marcus to turn on the light but he didn't. In the dim light that came from the street lamps outside, he led Nicholas up two stairs until he stopped in front of a door.

   "Come here," Marcus opened the door to a room which seemed at first to be complete darkness.

Slowly Nicholas' eyes adjusted and he could make out the