Greenland, page 11
I don’t care, Morgan.
But will it hurt you, Mohammed?
Do you want it to hurt me, Morgan?
I want you to never leave me, Mohammed.
You want it to hurt me, then hurt me.
But don’t leave me, Mohammed.
Fuck me, Morgan, hurt me.
I won’t leave you, Mohammed.
Never?
Never.
When we were spent and sweaty on the sheets, I looked Morgan in the eyes and said, If this will happen again, I have conditions: You can never own me. If I do not want to meet, or I do not want to lie with you, you must follow my word. I must never feel obligated. Do you accept my conditions?
Morgan smiled for a long time before he answered. He kept looking at my face—his gaze shifting from my eyes, to my nose, to my ears—as if seeing me for the first time, or perhaps the opposite, as if he were seeing me again after being separated for hundreds of years. Finally, he said, Yes, of course, Mohammed. It will be just as you say. Nothing but mutual respect.
I do not think Morgan intended to lie. Perhaps it wasn’t an intentional lie. “Respect” is simply an impossible word to translate, I suppose.
Often our sex began like that—with Morgan reading Whitman. When he would read of “the midnight orgies of young men,” he would excite my desire to feel what Whitman felt, to savor in Morgan’s touch, and to let our bodies sing. But I could never exactly feel this connection that Morgan and Whitman spoke of, this body electric.
But sometimes, after Morgan left, when I read Whitman on my own, alone, I found other poems, and they began to remind me not of sex or Morgan anymore, but of myself—of the self I could be. My Possibility.
Alone with my leather-bound Whitman, letting the candle burn down to a nub before sleeping, I would feel as if I too were crossing on the ferry to Brooklyn, with the same salty sea breeze blowing across my face, rolling forward upon the scallop-edged waves.
And even now I can feel Whitman with me. What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not . . .
And I know I am not alone; or rather, I am more myself in my solitude, because he is here.
Yes, you are here too, my Possibility; you also know what it is to cross over to Brooklyn.
And I too, like Whitman, have knitted the old knot of contrariety . . . resented, lied, stolen, cheated. Yes. And the wolf, the snake, the hog are not wanting in me. Who is completely free of evil thoughts and deeds? Be clear about this, my young man of the future: I too know what it is to be evil.
When I hear a knock on the door, I decide to ignore it. I’m convinced it’s Ben. I’m not going to answer. Let him suffer; he’s the one who broke up with me. But is it really him? Six in the evening—too early for the goddess; she only comes at the witching hour. But as the knocking persists—an irregular, tentative rapping, like a child’s—I’m realizing it’s neither Ben nor the goddess. I get up and tiptoe towards the door. If I get close enough, I might be able to detect some slight sound to identify the knocker. Then, I smell rose perfume wafting up from under the door.
“Kip.” Concha finally speaks, her voice as tentative as her knocking, very unlike her.
What should I do? Should I answer? I’m still upset about her eight months of silent treatment, and I’m not even sure if I can trust her motives now. How did Ben get her to come here, anyway? I turn to go back to my desk, but then I feel a strange weight grounding me in place, making me slump with my back against the two-by-four boards nailed over the door, and I sink, slowly but inevitably, to the floor. And when I’m there, squatted in place, I rest my head back on the door with a little thud.
“Kip? What are you doing in there?”
I shut my eyes and take in a deep breath. “I’m trying to write my bloody book. You know what I’m doing. What are you doing here?”
“Look, I’m not going to bother you for long. If you want to starve yourself to death, that is your problem. I just came here because when Ben told me you were doing this crazy thing, I realized that it may be my last chance to talk to you before you absolutely lose your mind. And also, since you’re locked in there, you can’t run away when the conversation gets difficult.”
“Run away? Me?” I shake my head then grip it in my hands for a second. “Don’t you think you’re confusing me with Trent? And anyway, you’re the one who ran away. You didn’t answer my calls. You never reached out. How can you say I am the one who runs away?”
“Well, you are!” I now hear the clickety-clack of Concha’s high-heeled boots pacing in the hallway on the wooden floor, like a ticker-tape machine.
“Concha, can you stop that noise and stand still while we talk?”
“No, I can’t. I won’t! This is exactly the issue, Kip. You are always the one setting the terms for everything. You pretend to be meek and humble, but you’re a great big ego! And you have been from the first day we met. Remember? It had to be either at Alameda or by the cathedral where we met—nowhere else! Always your way! And you think because you’re gay you can get away with being an entitled male asshole. Well, lots of gay men are entitled assholes. My father is gay—he left us when I was eight years old. He had to go to Madrid, he said, to find his truth! Truth! I can tell a gay, patriarchal, narcissistic asshole when I see one!”
Suddenly, I’m on my feet, rising from pure adrenaline. “What are you talking about?” I turn towards the door now, grabbing a two-by-four in frustration. “What in the hell is this about?”
“Do you know what I am in your life, Kip? I’ll tell you. I am a secondary character in your novel whose only purpose is to illuminate the protagonist’s puny development. That’s all I am for you. Do I have an arc of my own? No, of course not. It’s Kip’s story. The only one that matters! The long-suffering writer whose story must be heard or else the whole world will stop spinning! And Concha is always there to pick up the pieces when the many, many lovers leave or disappoint poor Kipling. Always there to be on your arm as you pretend to be straight when you feel it’s necessary to impress.”
“Oh, that is so unfair! Never!”
“Yes, it’s true. And you never approved of anyone I ever dated. You hated Trent—”
“He was boring. He wasn’t even your type!”
“That was for me to decide. You don’t get to decide! Why is that your right, Kip? Because you’re a man?”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Concha.”
“Do I? Do I really?”
She stops pacing. I listen to hear what she may be doing, but there’s nothing—silence. Is she gone? “Concha?”
Then her voice comes again, closer and sterner and harder. “Kip, what did you think when I asked you to father my child? Be honest. What did you really think?”
“I don’t know—I guess I was shocked. Honored, of course, but—”
“Honestly, Kip. Aren’t you always talking about honesty?”
“I don’t know.” And I really don’t. I’m so confused by the way I’m being falsely accused of things. Can she really believe I view her as only secondary in my life? A bit part in the plot? “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Concha.”
We are both silent. I sink to the floor again, sitting with my elbows on my raised knees, leaning my back against the door.
“Kip, do you remember that time we went to the Neue Galerie café and we pretended to be from France, speaking out loud in bad French, going on about all those rich Upper East Side women with their face-lifts and furs? Quel dommage! Quelle scène moche! Remember?”
I do remember that day, with a tinge of embarrassment—how adolescent of us! But I don’t have the spirit to say anything. And I don’t think Concha is really asking for an answer, anyway.
“Well,” she continues. “You were joking when I told you about my troubles with Trent. You kept saying, ‘Well, then, leave him, Madame Bovary! Find another man with more passion. Go on, Madame Bovary!’ What did you mean by all that, Kip?”
“Concha, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember that.”
“You don’t? You kept on saying it. Even after we left the café. All week you kept up the joke: ‘Yes, Madame Bovary.’ ‘Do you think so, Madame Bovary?’ Kip, what was that about?”
I really have no recollection of ever calling Concha that. But I do remember I was rereading Madame Bovary around that time, so I believe her. But that was over a year ago. I feel a sinking in my gut. How can she have harbored so much resentment over that?
“You weren’t taking me seriously, Kip. My life is a big joke to you. I was talking to you about my real problems with Trent. Painful stuff. Ten years of a marriage. But it was like a silly fiction for you, and I was no more than a fictional character—a frivolous and tragic one at that! Your Madame Bovary!”
“Concha, what is this all about? I don’t understand. Is this about you having a baby? About the fact that I didn’t just say yes? That I suggested we have a more in-depth talk about it?”
“You are blind, Kip! It’s about everything! I’m not going to be a bit player in your life, Kip. And none of you—you, Trent, or any other man—is going to be the one to set the terms. Not for my life. And yes, it was annoying that you felt you could decide how and when we talked about my body having my child. Yes, you also reduced all my pain to a clever excerpt from a book you quoted—words of wisdom, from a man, of course. The Sense of an Ending. Ironic title, or maybe prescient? And yes, you expected me to come back and apologize to you. Poor wounded, misunderstood Kip. Always victimized by racism. Do you think I care that you’re Black?”
“Well, you should!” I yell back. “That’s the bloody point: it matters!”
“But the real issue, Kip, is that you weren’t being honest. And you still aren’t. What did you really think when I asked you to father my child? You haven’t been honest about that yet.”
“What do you want me to say, for Christ’s sake?”
“The truth. What was the first thing that went through your head when I asked you? The first thing you thought of! Say it, coward. Be brave and say it!”
And then it comes out of me—something I didn’t even know was there: “Fine! You know what I really thought?” I shout. “I thought, ‘Oh God, she’s in love with me! She wants me!’”
“Allí está! Finally,” she says. Then nothing. The silence seems deafening. I actually wonder if I’ve lost my hearing until Concha speaks again, more quietly now. “Finally.”
I stand facing the door, numb, speechless. What the fuck have I just said? Is it even true?
“At least now we can be honest, Kip. You’ve known how I felt about you all along. And you took advantage of that. Used me. Well, do you know what I finally told myself? I can use him too. For his semen. Why shouldn’t I use you too, Kip? Then we’ll be even. Bueno. Allí está! That’s all I have to say. Now you can starve yourself to death if you want.”
“Concha, I know you don’t mean that. And how can you say I used you? Concha? Concha?” In frustration I bang my fists against the rough two-by-fours. I don’t even realize how hard until I see blood on the boards, blood dripping from my fists. “Concha?” I shout out again.
But I can’t hear her heels anymore. I can’t smell her rose perfume. She’s gone.
I got nothing written yesterday, or today so far. Before Concha came I was, admittedly, stuck but determined to get back on track. But after her visit I was gutted. Couldn’t write a thing. I’ve never believed in writer’s block before, but I think I’m genuinely blocked now.
Also, something odd is happening inside of me, distracting me. It could be Goddess Shakti’s damned Kundalini snake curling up my astral body, but there’s something else I’m even nervous to say aloud—you will think I’m truly losing my mind. But, oh well, this is it: I feel as if, somehow, Mohammed has possessed me—or rather, that I am being possessed by him. He is becoming me, or I am becoming him. I don’t understand what’s happening but I can’t shake it.
And although I feel stuck about where I’m going with his story, Mohammed assures me with a voice that somehow comes from deep within me, that is me. He knows perfectly well what he has to say. All I need to do is open up the channels, to let it flow, and he will do the rest.
But how am I to open the channels?
And there is an even bigger problem, yet. I sense that Mohammed is more dangerous than I had previously assumed. God knows where he’s going with this story. Or, even worse, what he’s going to do with me.
Mohammed’s Story
Wild Warriors
I am whispering to you, dear friend, from this cold cell floor. Come to me. Come closer still. Yes, dear Possibility, we are alone. Time avails not; distance avails not. Do you not feel me here?
What do you want to know of me? Go ahead, ask it. What’s that? Do I use Morgan to my own advantage? Why not? I say. Who doesn’t use the one he loves? Who else do we have to use? But the mutuality makes all the difference. Do you think you are not both the tormentor and the tormented?
We outlaws have to look out for each other. Do you think we dark ones have not unseen ourselves? We need wilderness more than the rest—the space and the silence to be. Where is the wilderness, you ask, dear friend? It’s where your demon, the evil one, is.
Ah, don’t pull away, come closer. Do you think you are not the enemy too?
But we’re not there yet, not in our wilderness. This is not your house. Not our Home of Misery. Farther, farther, we must go to become the wild warriors. Wrestle the true demon, my friend—but out there, beyond the reaches of their civilizations. Out there, where there is space enough to see him entirely. Go, my Possibility. Go!
I’m plagued by Mohammed’s voice urging me towards the wilderness. I don’t know where exactly he expects me to go. In any case, I’m blocked with the writing—ironically, because of him. He’s supposed to be telling me of his affair with Morgan but he keeps taking me off track.
I’m reviewing my notes, trying to get unstuck, to get back on track with the actual story. As I’m thumbing through a Forster biography—the fat, heavy double volume by Furbank—I stop at a passage I’d forgotten I’d earmarked. On the yellow Post-it stuck to the page I’ve written, Forster’s visit to the wilderness.
I remember when I stuck that note there. I was doing my research for the Forster novel at King’s College’s archives, feeling very much like a Cambridge intellectual—in my white, Irish cable-knit sweater and brown tweed jacket—sitting in that gorgeous Gothic room overlooking the front lawn and King’s College chapel. There, I’d come across the notes Forster had written for his then “unpublishable” gay novel, Maurice, and his description of a fateful and, in retrospect, monumental visit with his friend and mentor, Edward Carpenter.
I have not given this episode much thought since then, but now I’m remembering that it was on this visit that Forster had a peculiar experience that got him unstuck from a bout of writer’s block and propelled him to write Maurice, the most daring work of his career.
Edward Carpenter was a Victorian-era gay guru, a humanitarian, philosopher, poet, and socialist activist. He was tall and slender, with a shock of white hair and a Whitmanesque beard. A charismatic character. He had also achieved what few ever achieve—as a young man, he’d shagged his idol, Walt Whitman. Carpenter lived in the woods, in the East Midlands, near the hamlet of Millthorpe, with his lover, George Merrill, a younger man from the slums of Sheffield.
On their farm, Carpenter and Merrill wore only homemade sandals (often nothing else but the sandals), which were fashioned after a pair Carpenter had brought back from his time in India. But sandals were not all Carpenter brought back with him. He had also studied yogic mysticism and had been transformed, perhaps spiritually enlightened, by the experience. The yogic philosophy was in full alignment with all he’d learned from Whitman about the oneness of humanity with nature. Civilization, he felt, was the result of a human illness; it ran contrary to man’s truest nature. Industrialism and capitalism, along with class, race, and religious distinctions, would ruin man and the planet itself, he felt. Carpenter lived by his beliefs. He loved and made love and ate—as a vegetarian—in the most natural way possible, with no heed to civilized norms.
Forster’s Cambridge friends Roger Fry and Goldie Dickinson urged him to visit Carpenter and Merrill at their cottage in the woods on the farm. There was something very powerful about the two men in the wilderness, they said. The couple emitted an otherworldly energy, a sense of serenity, but with an electric twinkle behind their eyes. Forster later described it as “the influence which used to be called magnetic.” The healer’s power. So, when Morgan was creatively blocked after publishing Howards End, he decided to pay a visit to Carpenter and Merrill.
Years later, Morgan spoke to Mohammed of the intrepid gay duo as an example of what they could also have together one day. “They live as a married couple in the woods, without giving a damn about society, absolutely off the map, in the wilderness.”
In his diary, Forster wrote that on his visit, Carpenter and Merrill “touched everyone everywhere,” not just energetically but physically. They were a randy duo, especially Merrill, who caught Forster in private by surprise one day and slapped him on the buttocks. The sensation was shocking to Forster. And the strangest thing was it lingered and grew in intensity. For several hours afterwards, it continued to arouse Forster, stirring an erection.
In his Terminal Note to Maurice, Forster wrote that Merrill’s touch “was as much psychological as it was physical. It seemed to go straight through the small of my back into my ideas, without involving my thoughts. If it really did this, it would have acted in accordance with Carpenter’s yogified mysticism, and it would prove that at that precise moment I had conceived.” In a flash, Forster had been given the entire story for his gay novel. One smack on the arse and a seminal novel was born.
