A drizzling and seemingly dirty rain had been falling on the street outside the car window. I felt so small within the automobile's gigantic proportions and, leaning my forehead on the cold glass, could only observe the glowing city. As we sped along the blinding advertisements and balconies lined with the dark, I could form no coherent thought. Figures kept flitting through my brain, incidents came back to my memory, now vaguely, now very distinctly, the tunes of some foolish songs kept ringing in my ears...

'I'm so unhappy,

What'll I do?

I need somebody who

Will sympathize me...'

I reached for the radio and turned it off. Hamilton glanced at me sideways and returned his gaze to the road once again.

"Do you not like this song?"

"It depresses me."

For a moment I entertained a desperate idea of telling him how bad I felt, of telling him that I had so much regret; I wished we had no background, that he was just a stranger who emerged from the night, so that I could speak with him sincerely. But I survived the temptation to confuse all values and forced myself to concentrate on city lights.

"Are you crying?"

"I'm not."

I broke down completely and covered my face with my hand. Everything was topsy-turvy and aching in my soul.

"Stop," Hamilton turned the wheel. "I don't like it either, but you don't see me crying about it.

I forgot myself altogether.

"You don't like it? What could you possibly not like?" I wiped the tears with my fingers. "And what the devil do I care for you? You reproach me..."

"That's not so, and not for that reason. It's because I see no difference between you and other people. I treat everyone alike because everyone's alike in my eyes."

"Oh, you are funny, so funny!" I said, affecting to laugh.

"Of course, people are all different in one way or another, but differences don't exist for me because the differences between people don't concern me; all of them, all of them..."

All of a sudden he hit the wheel several times with his fist.

"Idiots! I'm surrounded by idiots, goddammit!"

I can't express how my heart ached. Why he had so suddenly lost his temper, and what insulted him I couldn't say now; nor could I at the time, of course. And how pale he had turned! And who knows, perhaps that paleness was the expression of the truest and purest feeling and the deepest sorrow, and not of anger or of offense.

Hamilton pressed his forehead against the wheel and muttered:

"Of course, I am an insignificant link..."

He breathed hard as though after some difficult achievement. I cut him off.

"I thought you were... A Treasury secretary, or something of the sort."

"Of course. I am actually the President."

I had to laugh.

"You laugh, you are dumb," he added with incredible simplicity. He was abrupt and bitter, quite unlike himself. "It's not funny. But I dare say you're right. Of course I know nothing of real life; that's what Jefferson tells me; and indeed everyone says so; I should be a queer sort of politician. Fuck!"

He hit the wheel once again.

"You should be very... A very good politician," I answered, barely conscious.

Hamilton turned to me sharply. His face turned pink, and there was a look of bewilderment in his eyes, some idea in the form of a question which he had not the strength to answer. "What?"

"You are good with words, you speak well..." mumbled I. "You read a lot. It must be good for a political career."

We were silent for a few moments.

"Why, thank you."

A strange feeling of pleasure set his pale, rather crumpled looking face working. Now he looked not with indifference on the city glow.

"If it were up to me, I'd choose you instead of Jefferson," I shot at random. "Anyone would be better than Jefferson."

I was right going at it that way. Hamilton laughed, and his laugh pierced me like a spear.

"You are looking at it from the position of a slave. But thank you."

He glanced around and carefully spun the wheel.

"I must make you one confession," he continued. "I could never understand why we needed to talk to the Soviets. It's so stupid. My head aches because of it and I am sad."

"Ask Jefferson," I answered tiredly.

"Well, I know nothing of it so far, and can't understand it, and the innumerable mass of people are with me there. The question is—"

I turned away. I did not care what he had to say. I had been prepared for his anger, thought that he should begin to scold and reprove me, and perhaps I was unconsciously longing at that moment for some excuse to cry, to sob hysterically and even to break something in my vexation, and with all this to relieve my capricious and aching heart.

I covered my face with my hand again.

"You . . . are angry that I'm sad," I tried to say, but could not finish; I hit the window and burst into loud sobs. "O-o-h.."

"Shut up!" Blurted out Hamilton.

"No, leave me alone, let me go to the devil!" I cried suddenly, catching again at my original idea, which agitated me violently. Clearly it was more serious than whatever Hamilton was going through. "Why did you tell him that I murdered? I didn't want to murder! I didn't!"

I began trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation.

"They'll kill me! They'll kill me there in Russia! Aren't you suffering, too? I have a good heart. It may explain a great deal. I have murdered, but not because I am bad. I am a coward and... a mean wretch. But... never mind! That's not the point. I don't wanna go there. I don't wanna go!"

Hamilton braked hard (we were not on the main road anymore) turned around and grabbed my hands.

"John."

"O-u-u-g-h..."

"John, calm down."

Terrible images flashed before my eyes again, but I forced myself to look up at Hamilton. I felt it horribly indecorous to touch his hands. I stared at the red handkerchief which protruded from his pocket, and at the golden chain visible from under the collar of his shirt, but then, not knowing where to turn, I ended by staring Hamilton again straight in the face.

"They are not going to buy slaves from us. It's nonsense. Do you understand?"

What was so special about this moment, it's hard to say. I felt shaken to my core and stared at Hamilton in amazement. Then all mists seemed to clear away from my eyes; my breath came and went; but the moment passed.

"What's this meeting for, then? Why this... Spectacle?"

"Jefferson has no idea of what he is doing."

"Tell him, then..."

"I'm his secretary, John, not his advisor."

I turned away.

"I may perhaps have not expected it myself," said he. "I had a message from their stupid committee yesterday that they reckon on me and invite me to the party today as one of the stewards or whatever it is..."

"You didn't know that Jefferson wants to sell slaves to Russia? Who does he think he is to handle international relations anyway? He isn't the President..."

"He will be soon," Hamlton turned to some parking lot. "He's with Wall-Street."

"And Mr. Burr is with the people! How can you possibly know at this time who wins?"

I began looking at him with naive expectation. Hamilton frowned, almost ready to start talking politics. Seeing that I was noticing his fretful expression and frowning brows, he put his hand to his head and said:

"My head aches. Let's not."

I glanced out the window. We were in the parking lot of some hotel. We sat without speaking. I was considering how to begin.

"It's a warm autumn this year," said Hamilton. "But I remember in '16 there was snow even earlier."

I sighed.

In 1918, the Grand Blue hotel was almost deserted after its city clientele went South or turned into slavery. Lately it has become an exclusive night resort of notable and fashionable people, turning into somewhat of a Love hotel. Here rich ruins, fugitives from justice, jobless slave owners, lived on the derivatives of opium or barbitol. But what does Hamilton care about reputation? In a minute we arrived in the foyer, and in another minute we were joined by a gendarme. In the interval Hamilton found time to whisper to me, "Be quiet, be quiet, do not say anything." I don't know why he said this: I couldn't speak anyway.

Hamilton took an instant step that may only be imagined (I heard Jefferson's name being mentioned), but that influenced the gendarme so as to make him pull his mustaches in a frenzy of uneasiness or greed. We were immediately shown to an empty apartment.

Our room was a Mediterranean room, almost ascetic, almost clean, darkened to the glare of the city. I felt out of place here. Hamilton was straightening up; he had examined the gloves he wore that day and thrown them on the floor by the bed. He had hung up his coat and vest and spread his shirt on another hanger. Then, half-naked, he turned around and looked at me.

"You are going to sleep right now."

He was thin, although not as thin as me. Through the opening of his tank top could be seen the chest and black hair, the like of which for thickness could be found only on men from southern countries. His legs were bare to the knees; the enormous balls of the feet of the most vulgar form; below the big toes stand pointed, ugly, irregular tumors.

"Where?" I asked, in my confusion twisting a button of the obrecatcher.

"Hm?" Hamilton turned back to the bed. His back was white and covered with red spots.

"Where am I to sleep?"

My subterranean, submerged, mysterious "I" rapidly, rapidly whispered that I ought to simply get into bed.

"In the bed. Where else?"

"I am not sleeping with you."

"Sleep on the floor, then. I don't care."

He turned away with a skillfully executed yawn and began smoking.

"Do you seriously intend to go on with this?" I cried, looking at him with a sinking at the heart, scarcely knowing what I was asking.

Hamilton kept looking at the ceiling, unbothered.

"What am I supposed to say to you?"

"Tell me what you want with me!"

With pain at soul, with malice and repulsion toward myself and Hamilton, and, it would seem, toward all the world, I sat down on the edge of the bed; there, where the shadow of the lamp fell.

"Well!"

"I'm sick of you."

It was annoyance– relentlessly angry, but indifferent at the same time. A kind of bewildered silence, a forced, as it were, strained silence followed.

"Turn off the lamp."

I turned it off and began undressing, angrily and rapidly. And he didn't even look at me, didn't even budge. He just settled in his corner like a snail, or, anyway, he was in that respect very much like that remarkable creature, which is an animal and is called a tortoise.

We lay in the dark. In the distance, several rooms away, a broken-down grand piano was tinkling; somebody's vibrating laughter floated in; from the other side—a little song, and rapid, merry talking. Words could not be heard. I seemed to feel near me and around me were sleeping several score of people; sleeping with the fast night sleep, with open mouths, with measured deep breathing, and did not know that somewhere near them two men were sharing a bed. By some accidental effort of the will, I succeeded in tearing my thoughts away from it, and at once a heavy sleep enveloped me as though in black cotton

"Mr. Laurens."

I don't know how much time had passed, or if any had passed at all. I opened my eyes and saw before me the cat-like eyes of a man; the same man whom I had once not recognized.

"Sir," I pronounced in a voice which quivered on a breaking note, "Is that you?"

"Sweet boy."

Oh, this horrible honey voice! My heart was beating in my throat. My gaze glided over his well-made legs, over his arms, upon which, above the bend of the elbow, the muscles tautened—firm. So dark, strong, muscular; with a high and broad pectoral cavity; with well-made ribs; with a narrow pelvis; and with mighty, bulging thighs...

"I am no boy, Mr. Jefferson."

Breathing heavily, as though I was drunk, I reached for him. Jefferson leaned in closer, and as he did so, our cheeks slightly grazed each other. The sensation provided by this touch vibrated through all my body, giving all the nerves around the reins a not unpleasant twinge.

The tips of his fingers twiddled and fondled my chest, right below my collarbone. The longing that I felt to press my mouth on his beautiful mouth and full lips was so intense that it made me shiver. We kissed, and kept kissing each other with ever-increasing greed, my fingers feeling his curly hair, or paddling the soft skin of his neck. Our legs being clasped together, his cock, in strong erection, was rubbing against mine no less stiff and stark. And– without any words, with a blank mind– I was ready to forget myself, forget everything.

"Strange ... The wine seems to be sort of bitter today."

At once I opened my eyes, not understanding him, but could not see him nor feel him. I could not see him even in the dark. When I had grasped it, I woke up at once, as though this realization was the worst of all evils.

I sat up, my teeth gnashing from shame.

"No, no... No."

Outside the window a light rain was falling, manipulating the illumination in the room in a counterpoint. I would have preferred to enjoy the changing colors of darkness instead of thinking about the image created in my head. Gasping momentarily from my efforts to wake up, I looked around me. Hamilton was fast asleep, facing the wall.

I nervously fixed my hair and got up from the bed to take the decanter of water off the bedside table, and avidly, straight from its mouth, drank several big draughts. My head was on fire; my eyelids were smarting, my lips dry.

"Why am I going on like this?" I thought, sitting down again and covering my burning face with my hands. "Yesterday, yesterday, when I saw him, yesterday I realized completely that I could never bear it.... Why am I going over it again, then? Granted that all that is decided, clear as day... God! And why Jefferson?"

I lay for some time in bed, drowsily contemplating that horrible vision, so vague and indefinite, trying to forget the features which had got mixed up with those from the past. A man's passions always remain the same– it's true. I was born a sodomite, I see no reason to hide it anymore. Still, I was young and inexperienced, therefore abstained; for what is abstinence but prejudice?

I always had a hankering for mature men – of the prizefighter's type and preferably older that I. My first infatuation was for my school teacher – I remember him as a closely−propped gentleman in a gray suit. Professor K-k was his name. My love had passed tiresomely, but with youth−like continence, and, which happens especially rarely, without the slightest shadow of mutual affronts, or jealousy. The scandal approached only when I decided to confess to him. I have already said once that the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them often ought to make an adult laugh. It must be said that for 15-year-old John Laurens, in general too restrained for his age, existed special firm moral prohibitions. Probably he understood, despite his seeming naiveness and, perhaps, even owing to possessing fine psychic intuition, that having taken one step he would be forever subjected to hell. After all, he feared sodomy more that any wild beast. He dared not to speak about his feelings and wrote a letter instead; a note, rather. You can fancy after this what an hysterical pitch the ideas of this most innocent of all fifteen-year-old infants sometimes reached! He wrote to a married man after all, seriously married and with children. The professor gained the ascendency over him only by entering into his plans, by working upon him with the grossest flattery and had become as necessary to him as air. "I can't... I must be honest... I'll die if I don't confess!" Thought John, sending the note almost in fever. The Professor read the note carefully, returned it to me in person and asked kindly not to share poetry with him again. Of course it was a slap in the face. John decided to never visit his lectures, to stop following him, to forget him completely. Oh, I scout with indignation the contemptible slander which was spread later of some supposed liaison between John Laurens and his roommate (Mr. L-s). There was no such thing, nor could there be. John renounced his nature, as soon as everything went down, ridding himself of a shameful mark of pederasty. It's a pity that six years later another John ruined everything – that is, me.

Jefferson's name was ever on my lips. I writhed from shame, and, of course, had at once recalled Hamilton's mad escapade, but now, in a sick mood, in the wearisome, prosaic light of the city, this adventure appeared to me as unnecessary bravado; something artificial, imagined, and poignantly shameful. But I was equally scared now as on that nightmarish evening when he made a wrong impression of me. I, as well as many sodomites of our time, was always playing a role; was always not my own self, and always regarded my words, movements, actions, searching for mistakes. Perhaps my acting wasn't convincing enough when it came to Hamilton.

I raised my hand from the pillow and touched my forehead.

"Forget. Forget. Thomas Jefferson."

I hit myself on the head lightly. He was far too handsome to not think about him.

In the morning likewise, when I came to myself, his name was ringing in my ears, and my first thoughts reverted to him. I saw him—in my mind's eye—standing there on the stage, bowing before the public, his burning glances riveted on me.

The unusually confident and triumphant air of Hamilton revived my flagging spirits and at the same time confused me. All the way from the hotel to Manhattan Bridge, with peculiar, gleefully-obsequious humor, he was beginning to describe his collection of snuff boxes. He spoke jauntily and coquettishly drawling his words, with a sort of lively excitement. I was barely listening, preoccupied with analysis of reason and common sense.

"Here's another joke for you," Hamilton choked on a laugh. "What do an abolitionist and a bull have in common? It starts with a 'B'".

"Boobs," I answered distantly.

I came to my senses only when I saw his disfigured physiognomy. I stared at him, red all over.

"I'm sorry... Your Excellency. I forget myself."

Hamilton was silent at first, then he would shake for a long time from irresistible laughter; then, finally, burst into laughter, filling the whole car with explosive, prolonged peals.

"Ha-a! Ha-Ha! Good one!"

He must have passed a couple of drinks during breakfast. I laughed too and finished all rosy, with eyes downcast and moist from shame and laughter.

"What's the real answer, though?"

It was of course very awkward.

"Bullshit."

We commenced to tell obscene anecdotes. I was pouring them out as from a bag, and Hamilton squealed from delight, bent in two from laughter and threw himself against the back of his seat. Very strange. As if he wasn't himself.

Before the view outside the window changed to country-like, Hamilton exited the main highway and we went on a narrow street in the direction of a residential area. Huge houses hemmed me in and weighed upon me. People of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards. A whole party of drunk men came out in front of the car, and pitiful cries were heard. Hamilton drove around the crowd easily, his face expressing nothing but indifferent disgust.

"Where are we going?" I asked, breaking the tense silence.

By all accounts it was Broklyn – a typical example of an impoverished New York district. The ugliness of the "middle class" living quarters was in the main inseparable from the work by which the city was sustained; against it were to be set off luxurious comforts of life which found their way all over the world. Expensive goods that America was able to produce existed due to the system most people could scarcely bear to hear the name of. It felt weird to be here, surrounded by poverty, rags, sickness and hopelessness.

"Urgent business," answered Hamilton.

We drove for half a mile or so and finally stopped in front of a building with a sign: "Gas. Cars bought and sold." The building was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was a dust-covered wreck of a Fiat which crouched under its tin roof.

"Terrible place, isn't it," said Hamilton, exchanging a frown with the Fiat's headlights.

"Awful."

By that time the rain had cooled to a damp mist, through which occasional heavy drops swam like dew. Hamilton was peering outside his window as if a series of important happenings were about to take place. He pulled an opium-filled cigar out of the glove box and lit it up. The smell tickled my throat.

"I don't think there's anybody in there," I observed, fanning the smelly smoke away. "Do you need to have your car fixed?"

Hamilton glanced at me but did not answer. I decided to wait.

When I began to think that nobody would come out and nothing would happen, a figure appeared in the door of an office. I recognized it at once.

"Ms. Batrow?" I cried in disbelief.

Theodosia wore an ombrecatcher; her breasts and stomach weгe shaking under the firm cloth with the motion of her steps. The mask stretched tightly across her chin.

"Why is she here?"

"Quiet."

I winced. Now, when the ride, the jokes, and the friendly, everyday setting had entirely relaxed me, I was beginning to experience within my soul an indistinct feeling of a certain awkwardness, needlessness of this sudden order; and at the same time something in the nature of an unconscious irritation. Theodosia got into the car and sat down in the back. Hamilton said hello and immediately drove off.

"Another mystery!" I thought with vexation.

But was it worthwhile, after all that had happened, to contend with these new trivial difficulties? Was it worthwhile, for instance, to ask Theodosia where she's been? Was it worthwhile to investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste time? Oh, how sick I was of it all! I looked back at her. She glanced at me alarmingly. She certainly was getting more and more exasperated with me as time went on. Perhaps it was only fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not her but Hamilton whom I needed. But what should I go to him for now? To beg for answers again? I was afraid of Hamilton, too. And I could not help inwardly owning that I had long lost my need for him.

In any case there will be no direct answer anyway , I finally decided. But if Theodosia were capable of intriguing something—then...

I was so exhausted that I decided to put such questions away for later.

We drove and drove, until the giant pine trees, threatening but so cheering and welcoming, came into sight. When they at last stood firmly before my eyes, when they grew bigger and closer, when the road changed from asphalt to gravel, I began feeling a bit better.

"Come see me in my room tonight," said Hamilton, getting out of the car.

And all at once I got worse.

The barack and the familiar walls cheered me up somewhat; but even so, once indoors and sitting on my bunk, not feeling the heat from the stove and savoring in advance the healing oblivion of sleep, I thought to myself:

That may be so, but this loneliness is terrible. Terrible.

The razor lay on the table, beside it a cracked mug. And I badly, badly needed to shave, to put on the dress...

An hour later Theodosia invited me to dinner. I didn't talk to her about anything; I was afraid to. But from some signs I had noticed, I fancied that she was going through something. But she was silent and suffered in secret.

I turned away the tea and went in the general direction of the supply closet, peering into the library as if by accident. I hastened on account of a matter of urgency which admitted no delay. I began searching for it , almost in a frenzy, jumping from one bookshelf to another. Not that I was so very much ashamed of myself. But still I felt it would be unseemly to switch so quickly. I suddenly recalled how I had once in the past asked myself, "Does the illness have any symptoms?" And how I had answered them, after my aimless reasoning, "It only happens at the moment of aberration or impairment of will."

Remembering that now, I smiled quietly.

"Mr. Laurens?"

I shuddered and turned around. Vella sat at the table, looking at me worriedly, and even began at last to tremble. My face must have looked very angry.

"Sorry," I muttered awkwardly. "Why are you here...?"

"I'm reading the Scripture."

Vella smiled. There was a look of quiet pain, tenderness, patience, in her smile. Her eyes seemed to have grown bigger, her hair looked thicker from the thinness of her face. At once I forgot what I was searching for.

"I began to think you moved away. I was afraid you might be ill again."

"No, I'm not ill. I was in the city. I'll tell you directly. Well, how are you doing?"

I stepped closer to the table and looked into the book. It was the New Testament.

"Where did you get this?"

"I asked for it."

"Asked whom?"

"Mr. Hamilton. How do you mean you were in the city?"

I told her everything in shortened facts and asked her again:

"Have you been reading it for a long time?"

"Yes... I have. His Excellency and I used to read it and study it together. A year ago."

And she said this with such an air of conviction, with such good nature that I could not pluck up a resolution to stop her and throw cold water on her fancies.

I sat down in front of her.

"Do you read anything else?"

"No... it's not allowed."

She evidently did not like the speed of my questions. How could she have remained so long in that position without going out of her mind I do not understand. I propped my head on both hands.

"There's a wonderful section with fiction novels, you know. On your left hand."

"Why, Mr. Laurens!" She stopped me. "It's forbidden."

I scoffed, with passion even.

"Why do you think so?"

"It's against the law! We may not read!"

"Maybe we may," I whispered to her.

Vella looked fearfully at the shelf, and, somehow awkwardly, she threw her head back, as if convinced that she should not even look.

I got up, took out a random book and placed it in front of her instead of the New Testament.

"Here, look. If you think there's anything that should be forbidden..."

Vella lowered her gaze and studied the cover. Of course it was my favorite "Jane Eyre."

"What is this about?" She asked timidly, opening the book up with her trembling hands. I could see now that she was bursting to read it.

Theodosia called me from the kitchen.

"Love and whatnot," I said, getting up hastily.

Vella grabbed the book, visibly confused and agitated. She did not even glance at me. I stood and waited in silence.

"Well, goodbye then, Ms. Smith."

"Goodbye."

I left, entirely satisfied.

***

"What? No, I will not lay with you!"

It was half past ten when I came to Hamilton's room. The rain outside the window spat and whistled like a witch, the wind screamed and howled, and I felt a cold stab in the region of the solar plexus at the thought that we might return to the beginning. Hamilton was sitting with his back towards me, on the couch, and was shaving lazily. He wore a wide nightgown. I walked towards him along the creaky floors.

"Do you hear me?"

Cautiously he parted his soapy lips.

"I do. I want you to sleep in my bed."

He said it nonchalantly. So nonchalantly, in fact, that I don't even understand how dare he do that.

Hamilton wiped his chin silently, put his razor in a box, and sat down on the bed. I imagine that he was deeply shocked by his own coarse and mocking freak. I imagined that he would feel ashamed of himself, seeing the humiliation on which he himself had so insisted. Of course no one but he would have dared to bring a slave to his bedroom so openly.

"You are to sleep here from now on."

There was perhaps more malignant anger in me than ever, but it was a calm, cold, if one may so say, reasonable anger, and therefore the most revolting and most terrible possible.

"You intend to go on with this," I said in a sense of a perfect assertion. "Why don't you just calm down?"

"I am calm."

The words were uttered savagely, and with horrifying distinctness.

"Can you suppose," he began again with hysterical haughtiness, looking me up and down, "can you imagine that I cannot find in myself the moral strength to give up on you? Do you think I still care?"

"Yes, I do believe you still..."

"Well, no! No, I do not care, and it has nothing to do with you."

"If one is a man of self-respect," I went on, "one must know how to explain himself. What do you need me for?"

Hamilton scrunched his pillow hard, lay down, and put the back of his neck against it. A silence fell.

His face was hard, almost stern, save for the soft gleam of piteous doubt that looked from his eyes.

"Don't torture me," he said quietly in an unnatural voice. "Lay down."

And so I did– indeed I did. I changed behind the partition, washed my face and lay down. I don't know what came over me. We lay close to one another, but not close enough for our bodies to touch. The night had drawn the color from his face—he was pale as dead now. Finally I realized that indeed he did not have any desire towards me. But what if he did?

I was suddenly confused, not about the ethics of the matter, for the impossibility of a different outcome was sheerly indicated from all angles, but simply confused. There was nothing else to wait for. I turned away from him and fell asleep.