Date: Wed, 21 Nov 2001 16:53:16
From: Ganymede
Subject: The Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT I.

The Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT I, by Ganymede


WARNING:


This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts
between men and MINOR boys. It is not true! The story is not
intended to promote illegal acts against minors. I do not
condone child abuse, however the love of boys is a different
matter. Despite the prevalent attitudes of western society,
men have loved boys throughout recorded history. It is my goal
to help readers appreciate that love can exist between men
and boys. If the subject of man/boy love offends you, if
this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you
are under the legal age for such material, do not read further!

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for mature, responsible members of society capable of making
decisions about the content of documents they wish to read...."

Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely
accidental. The sexual acts described in the story are the
result of my imagination. I have not performed these acts, and
I do not encourage others to perform them with minors.

The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym, Ganymede. Copies
have been placed in two archives for your enjoyment.
The story cannot be used to derive monetary gain. The story
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FINAL WARNING:

If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in
your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't your
thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin!


The Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT I, by Ganymede


Dedicated to another's friend, a boy who wanted to dance.

Thanksgiving, 2001



OVERTURE


Alesha danced. Every move was nearly perfect, exactly
choreographed for the right effect, yet his motion was as much
instinctive as the result of reason for that was how it was
supposed to be. He danced not by habit formed by endless
repetition, although he practiced for as long as he could
remember, but driven by an inner sense that was the purpose for
his life. Each elegant, precise step was absolutely controlled,
his mind constantly challenged to convey meaning, to imbue this
dance with that certain something that his mother said was the
sign 'par excellence'. She often spoke to him in French, for it
was the language of ballet.

The sunlight through the clerestory windows made distracting
patterns upon the polished wooden floor, yet Alesha did not
notice. Neither did he notice the sounds from the busy street
outside. When he danced, nothing could interrupt him until he
finished. After two hours without a break he was beginning to get
tired and each breath seemed shorter, faster than the one before
it. He began the long arching steps that led up to the final
pirouette of the Grand Allegro. Past his mother, barely noticing
her nod of admiration. Past Monsieur Ricard, who smiled at him.
The choreographer of the New York Ballet seemed pleased.

Yet, at that very moment, Alesha's body chose to do something
that it had never done before. Perhaps it was the tights, a second
sheer skin that made him excited, for he relished the feel of the
sleek thin cloth against his lithe body. Perhaps it was the
feeling of success, triumph from doing his very best. The other
possibility would not have dared to enter his mind. Alesha had
never experienced sex, not even with his hand. However, because of
his mother's devotion to his education, he was entirely familiar
with the basic principles at work, from how a baby was conceived
to why two men would share a bedroom. He had never had the time to
discover how his body worked. He was too busy during the day, and
at night, he was too tired.

His penis, which until that moment had always been about the
same size as his thumb in dimension, hardened quickly. His heart
was pumping powerfully and it was only natural that once
initiated, a good portion of his blood rapidly found its way into
his tiny flaccid organ. It swelled and lengthened, thickened, and
became erect. It stuck straight out, a fraction under three inches
long from the hairless base to the still-foreskin-covered tip. It
pointed into the crotch of his tights, noticeably stretching the
material across the tip. When he executed the pirouette, he
glimpsed Monsieur Ricard's expression. He held his final
position, a graceful poise, balanced on the tips of the toes of
his right foot.

"En pointe?" Monsieur Ricard applauded as Alesha came slowly
to stand on both feet.

The boy was trembling. His delicately featured face was
flecked with minute beads of sweat. He panted for a moment,
closing his eyes to concentrate, to resume another life.

"How utterly delightful," the man continued with a smile.

His fingers fluttered. he stepped back a pace. His eyes
appraised the boy from head to toe. Such long thin legs. A narrow
waist. At least he had the pelvis of a boy. A face that kept him
awake at night. And the boy was erect, as hard as a nail, poking
out between his lithe thighs. He smiled knowingly.

"But 'en pointe' is not for a boy despite how beautiful he
is," he laughed teasingly. "Perhaps he should wear a tee-shirt,
Ioana. All the boys do nowadays, at least for practice, so they do
not look like girls."

"He won't wear one. He says he cannot move properly. Besides,
he has a very nice body so he should show it, no?"

"Ha! No matter. You surprise even me, Alesha. You will most
certainly win. You have trained him well, Ioana-Christina. I
regret that I must go back to work. I would love to watch him
longer. He dances divinely for one so young."

The man turned with a distinctive flourish. Alesha watched
his back until he was gone from sight, barely cognizant that he
appreciated what he saw.

"Mama?" he asked nervously. "Was I good?"

"My darling, you were better than I can say."

"Monsieur Ricard looked at me strangely, Mama."

His mother smiled slightly. She had noticed too. "You do not
like to wear a dance belt, but perhaps you should wear a poche."

"A pouch?"

"It seems the child is growing up," she mused aloud.

"Who me?"

She laughed and pointed down. Alesha looked. Only then he saw
the cloth pulled taut across his squat projection, and realizing
what part of his body caused it, he blushed instantly.

There had been signs along the way, of course, beginning one
afternoon at the National Museum in Kiev. It was the first time
that there had been something that she could put her finger on.
Alesha was six years old and he stopped to stare at an enormous
painting of a man. A man of the new Stalinist society, a laborer
with bulging hairy arms by Gerasimov. Alesha's eyes did not waver.
It was as if he had never seen a man. With longing eyes, he gazed
upon an enormous mound and wondered what was there hidden beneath
the overalls. After that day, like a jigsaw, the pieces had slowly
fallen into place. How often she had seen the same thing in other
boys.

ACT I, SCENE I.



The first time I saw Alesha Yaroshenko was in early Spring.
I tried very hard not to stare at him, but from the moment I first
saw him, I felt my heart lurch and begin to beat faster. I could
not stop looking at him. Not that I cared that someone would
notice. The judges realized that although my position did not
require that I evaluate the candidates, I still made some notes
and gave scores. According to the schedule and performance
sheets, there were seven candidates for three scholarships, two
to be awarded among five girls and the other for one of the two
boys. They were all aged between eleven and twelve, all ready to
enter the New York Ballet Junior Academy in the following Fall,
all very talented. I thumbed through the sheaf of papers several
times before I found the one I wanted. By then, it was the only
choice because the girls danced first. The entrancing boy was
obviously not Darius Kgotso Washington, a name as black as the boy
who sat next to him. In Russia, Alesha was a boy's name. He looked
so much like one of the girls that the name was very appropriate.

The girls were very good. Two of them were better than the
others and I checked their pages out of interest to see whether my
evaluations were the same as the five official judges. My highest
score went to Amanda Burns, closely followed by Elena Friedman. At
the bottom end of my scores, was Janelle Futaba Washington, the
black boy's twin sister. Knowing the other Board members who were
judging the competition, I had a bad feeling about how the
scholarships would be awarded. Then, it was the boys' turn to
dance. As soon as Alesha Yaroshenko stood up, I had the strangest
feeling that he was going to be the best dancer of the seven. that
could only belong to a dancer of the highest order. He had
wonderful long legs. He had thin ankles, lithe calves, thighs that
were not much thicker than his knees. He had narrow hips, an even
narrower waist, and slim shoulders. His legs were spaced apart,
creating a gap between the insides of his thighs such as might be
seen on some of the girl dancers. The bulge of his groin was
barely noticeably, yet it was there. A compact hemisphere, just
slightly larger and rounder than the girls who had preceded him.
His hair was blond, not long, not short, just right. There was a
simple copper-colored band on his wrist.

I listened to the Chairman's announcement, even though I had
read the details for myself no less than half-a-dozen times while
the girls were performing their auditions.

"The next candidate is Mr. Alesha Yaroshenko. He is eleven
and he has been taking dance classes for seven years, four years
at the Kiev National Ballet Primary School, and since coming to
the U.S. with his mother, he has spent three years in the advanced
class of our junior program, along with taking lessons at the
Greenwich Academy of Gymnastics."

The Chairman stopped there as if to let his words sink in.
The boy had a remarkable amount of experience for one so young.
Most children did not begin formal ballet classes until they were
eight or nine years old. if they started younger, they attended
one of the amateur programs elsewhere in the city.

"Since we are running behind schedule, and there are only two
candidates for the boy's scholarship, they will be dancing the
Adagio and Petit Allegro, either classical or modern dance. If
there is a tied score, then both boys will do the Grand Allegro.
The judges will adjust their scores accordingly."

He started to dance, accompanied only by the grand piano. My
first impression was confirmed immediately. I gazed silently,
aware that my heart was beating quickly, that my lips were dry,
that I was holding my pen so tightly that my hand hurt. He was
nearly through the Adagio before I realized how beautiful he was.
Each and every movement took my breath away: 'plier, etendre,
relever, sauter, elancer, glisser, tourner; the seven movements
that all ballet are grouped in; to bend, to stretch, to rise, to
leap, to dart, to glide, to turn.' Then, he followed in quick
succession, with petit jete and pirouette. His culmination of the
first requirement was a nearly perfect emboite. From fifth
position, with his right leg in front, he jumped like a gazelle
and bent his leg before landing once again. It seemed to me that
he had been in the air for a very long time.

It was only at the very end that my interest was diverted
from motion back to the lithe body of the boy. His poised stance
was a sinuous curve, a flowing line that even Edgar Degas could
not capture. Perhaps he made the mistake of always painting girls.

I leaned forward, placed my elbows on the desk and watched
with interest. I was not there to judge, all I had to do was
watch. I had a position on the board only because my mother loved
ballet and her will established a foundation that I was supposed
to run. The only reason why I was there at all was to present the
awards and scholarships. Her foundation provided three ballet
scholarships for the junior students every year. For as long as
they remained in the Academy they received full tuition and very
generous living and travel expenses, even for New York. Her
objective was to select the best students from throughout the U.S.
and bring them to the New York Ballet Junior Academy. All seven
candidates had been through several levels of competition already
and at the culmination, they were extremely nervous.

My eyes had followed Alesha's every move, until, without
realizing it, I sighed aloud.

"He's incredible."

Randal Wilson, who was sitting next me, turned suddenly.

"Yes, I must say that I agree with you, Sheldon. He's very
good. It's not often that our students have gymnastics training as
well as ballet, but they all should of course. It makes quite a
difference."

"So I see. He's just very good?" I whispered back.

Randal smiled innocuously. He scribbled something on the top
of the page in front of him. "I'm a judge. I have to be fair to
everyone."

I returned his smile and wrote down the score that I had
assigned to Alesha. Unless Darius Kgotso Washington danced
considerably better than he looked capable of, I would shortly be
handing a check for the first year's thirty-five-thousand dollars
to Alesha Yaroshenko. He would also receive a mahogany and gold-
plated plaque that would eventually be modified to include his
name.

Unlike Alesha, whose leotard was skin-tight and very
revealing of his form, Darius wore a loose tee-shirt and hip-
hugger bell-bottom jazz-pants which showed very little of his
body except his legs. He did have nice legs, legs that were
noticeably sturdier than his competition. Darius was good at jazz
ballet, just as I expected. However, even to my untrained eyes he
lacked the other boy's timing, precision, and graceful ease of
movement. By comparison, he appeared clumsy, yet I had the same
nagging thought that had been in my head since the competition
started. The judges would be swayed by the black twins no matter
how much they claimed to be 'fair'.

Several minutes passed while the judges confided, while they
added up the combined scores, while they engaged in an earnest yet
whispered conversation that I could not overhear despite being so
close. Finally, the Chairman stood up and gave the pronouncement
that the seven children were anxiously waiting for. Five girls and
two boys were so nervous that they were all but trembling in their
seats.

"Thank you very much. I think I speak for all of the judges
that today's performances were clearly among the very best that we
have seen in the twelve years of awarding the Beaufort
Scholarships." He paused and took a deep breath before continuing
his unrehearsed speech. "We are very lucky today to have Mr.
Sheldon Seymour Beaufort, the Third, with us to award the
scholarships. He has been the chairman of The Beaufort Foundation
for the Performing Arts since its inception in 1997. Mr. Beaufort
also represents the New York ballet because he is a cherished
member of the Board of the Company.... Mr. Beaufort."

I walked across the small temporary dais to the lectern.
Uncertainly, I tapped the microphone, not that I needed the audio
system because the audience numbered no more than a few dozen, a
few teachers and students from the school, the children's
parents, and the judges. I was as nervous as the children, one
child in particular. While I stood there for a few seconds, trying
think what I should say, his eyes met mine. I had not noticed how
blue his eyes were. I had left my brief prepared speech at the
table where I had been sitting.

"Ah-hem," I muttered. "Um,..." I stopped and took a slow
breath. "I used to think that I was accomplished at public
speaking, but after what I've seen this afternoon, I'm lost for
words."

There! When lost for words, tell the audience what you are
thinking, what is in your heart. Now what? More of the same? There
was nothing quite like the truth.

"I am very impressed! No, make that extremely impressed."

He was gazing at me, that beautiful boy-dancer who sat second
from the end. His head inclined slightly, his expression
quizzical as if he knew that I was talking about him and not the
rest of the candidates. I almost used his name.

"All of you should be very proud of yourselves. I truly wish
that the Beaufort Foundation could provide scholarships to all of
you."

I tried to look away from him. Magnetic eyes. Eyes that had
locked on mine and were absorbing my every thought. I wondered
what he was thinking.

"However, there can only be three winners today. I am certain
that the judges have had an exceptionally difficult task deciding
who they are. Mr. Chairman, if you would be so good as to give me
the list?"

He passed me the unsealed envelop. I held it out, hoping that
the Foundation was going to provide a scholarship to Alesha
Yaroshenko. His name had to be among one of the three winners,
despite the worry that loomed in my head. My fear was entirely out
of proportion to what I had just observed. Alesha was simply so
much better. Slowly I opened the envelop. My hand trembled when I
read the names.

"The winners are, in order of points scored, Amanda Burns,
with 280, Darius Washington, with 275 after being corrected for
the different number of requirements, and Janelle Washington,
with 270."

His face paled. His mouth moved, opened, swallowed. He
trembled, ready to burst into tears. I wanted to shout out that it
was a joke. A mistake. That the decisions were wrong. I watched
him with an overwhelming sense of his sadness. It was no different
to mine. Still uncertain, I glanced over my shoulder at Randal
Wilson. He was one of the few people I had met while serving on
the Ballet Company Board that I truly liked. He was also a teacher
at the school, Classical, Virtuosity, and Repertoire. He shrugged
his shoulders, not much, but enough that I saw it. What was he
trying to say?

"Congratulations to the winners," I said glumly. "The judges
must believe that you have truly deserved to win given the very
high level of competition that I observed."

I wanted to say that their choice was not my choice, that my
choice had Alesha Yaroshenko as the clear winner with 290
corrected points. How could the judges have possibly given Darius
Washington 275 points? Of course, I knew the answer to that
question. Every time the Board convened, we talked about
increasing the number of African-American dancers. It was a high
priority and it would be no different in the Junior Academy. After
the awards had been given to the children, I walked away from the
lectern, feeling his eyes on my back. Even more than the judges, I
had let him down.

"Very good?" I said sarcastically to Randal in a muted yet
strained voice.

"Sheldon,... I tried to be fair."

"Of course you did. I'm tired."

Randal raised an eyebrow but did not say anything. The
competition concluded with the Chairman thanking the contestants
and their parents for coming, some of them from as far as Oregon.
As people stood up to leave, I turned to Randal again.

"Fair?" I asked.

"Sheldon, let it go."

"That other boy, Alesha Yaroshenko? He was much better. You
know as well as I do that he was excellent. So was that second
girl, what was her name?"

"Elena Friedman!" Randal offered calmly. "Perhaps the other
judges saw something different."

"I'm sure they did," I fumed. "I don't think they saw talent,
except Amanda's. She was very good."

"Yes she was. And so was your boy," Randal replied pointedly.

I hesitated when he smiled. "My boy?" I asked awkwardly.

Had Randal observed me staring at the boy? Randal shrugged.

"You know his mother, don't you?" he said absently.

"I beg your pardon?" I felt my face begin to blush. It
sounded like Randal was accusing me of being biased. "Hardly. I
have no idea who he is."

The words of denial rushed out of me. I had spent a lifetime
as a man who loved boys and I still was uncomfortable with it.

"Of course you do, Sheldon. Ioana-Cristina? The Russian we
brought over a few years ago?"

"Who?"

"You must be getting Alzheimer's, Sheldon. I'm sure she was
presented to the Board when she first arrived. A few years ago?
You'd been on the Board for about a year, I think. Remember the
prima from Kiev? The woman who broke her ankle when she slipped on
the ice outside the Starbucks on 75th?"

"Oh! She's his mother?"

It all came back to me then. Ioana-Cristina Yaroshenko,
principal dancer in a dozen different ballets before she
emigrated to the West. I had seen her dance Pas-de-Six in Giselle,
just after she had arrived. While not a lead role, it demonstrated
what she could do. There was some discussion on the Board about
elevating her status to 'principal' for her next ballet role.
Unfortunately, it was only a month or so after that when she
slipped on a sheet of ice and shattered her ankle. Her lead role
in the Company had not even started and it was lost forever.

"The last thing I heard was she was having trouble paying the
medical bills," I said absently.

Even though she had health insurance as a member of the
company, she still had to pay a portion of the bills. After
several operations to reconstruct her ankle, The Beaufort
Foundation had provided several thousand dollars to assist her in
meeting the deductions.

"That's more than likely," Randal agreed. "As you know, we
pay our dancers a pittance."

I grimaced. Salaries were a continuing issue in Board
meetings and certain to heat up the discussion. Everyone accepted
that it was very expensive to live in New York, but the funds
simply were not available to provide substantial increases.
Increasing ticket prices would reduce attendance. It was a
classic `Catch-22'.

"And Alesha is her son?" I mused aloud. Randal nodded. "I
don't understand why he would want the living expenses when he
already lives in New York. Is he even eligible?" I pursued
curiously.

"I think the rule is that the scholarship holders have to
live far enough from New York that daily travel to the Academy is
unreasonable?"

"Okay. Then my next question is why does he need a tuition
scholarship?" I asked. "I thought there was free tuition for
Company members?"

"There is, but she's leaving us in the near future, I
believe. After the accident, she's not been given a soloist role
for obvious reasons."

"Where's she going to, Randal?"

"A Texas company from what I hear. Dallas, or somewhere like
that, has offered her a solo role. Foresten in Sleeping Beauty, I
think it is."

Randal did not have to say that the standards were generally
a lot lower in Texas. A lot of dancers who could not make it
beyond the second row in New York went south, and not just for the
milder winters there.

"I think she wants to leave the boy here in New York with
friends, at least for a while."

"That's a pity," I mused. "He's too young to be left behind.
He's only just turned eleven."

Again Randal regarded me quizzically. I was not at all
certain why I had made a point of remembering his age, and then
referring to it when it should have been unimportant to me. I
needed to exercise more caution. However, from the evaluation
form I had noted with interest that Alesha had been born eleven
years and two weeks ago.

"Well, the Academy is one of the best in the country, and
it's unlikely they would have anything like it in Texas. Line
dancing is about as much as they have down there," Randal added
cynically. "I expect that's why her son was here today," he
continued. "If he's going to stay in New York, he'll need a full
scholarship to do it."

"Oh!" I sighed. "It's a pity he didn't win then, isn't it?" I
added.

I scanned the retreating backs of the audience, mostly
mothers with their daughters in tow as they headed for the
changing rooms. There was no sign of Alesha and his mother. I
wanted to see him again, even if only for a few seconds.

"I agree with you, Sheldon. He should have won," Randal
confided. "It wasn't because of my score, you know. We both gave
him 290."

"You saw my sheet?" I asked petulantly.

Randal shrugged and gestured with his hand to suggest my
complain was unfounded. He smiled, fluttering his eyebrows for an
instant.

"But he was delightful, wasn't he? Even my score was probably
lower than he deserved," Randal said quietly. "It's a pity he'll
probably have to go to Texas with his mother."

"Yes," I agreed. Had Randal emphasized 'delightful', the way
that it sounded to me? I felt my face begin to flush. "Very
delightful," I muttered.

We parted a few minutes later after reviewing some matters
that were due to come up at the next Board meeting and after
saying good bye. I was depressed, as much from realizing that I
would never see Alesha again as having witnessed as cruel a
miscarriage of justice as anything that in a courtroom. What made
the latter even worse was that it had occurred in front of me and
I was helpless to do anything except hand over the checks to the
wrong people and congratulate two of them as sincerely as I could.
I went outside to catch a taxi back to my house.

I lived on East 78th Street, Upper East Side in a large four-
storey Vermont-marble house that had been in the Beaufort family
for several generations. It was a very large house for an
unmarried man, but I could not bring myself to sell it. The house
was in a pleasant neighborhood with at least one tree outside
every house, although there were too many stock and bond traders
for my taste. It seemed that every car on the street was a
Porsche, a BMW 850, or Mercedes limousine. Interestingly, only a
few weeks earlier I had received a discreet inquiry from the U.S.
State Department about the buying the house. Until then, I had no
idea of the house's value. For a few days I considered selling and
moving back to Paris. The nice thing was that the house was so
close to Central Park that I could walk there in a few minutes.
Even when the weather was cold and gloomy, there were always a few
boys to watch in the afternoon.

From past experience, it usually was not difficult to find a
taxi in the vicinity of the Lincoln Center Plaza. However, the
auditions had gone much longer than expected and the work day for
many people had finished. There were two mothers and their
talented offspring waiting for taxis to go back to their hotels as
well. I avoided looking towards the Washington family, the twins,
an older and taller brother, and a mother with tightly coiled
hair. After a minute or two, I acknowledged Amanda Burns with a
smile. As soon as she showed recognition, I promptly averted my
gaze, even though she had deserved to win. The last thing I wanted
was to become involved in a desultory conversation with her
mother. I waited impatiently as scores of yellow taxis sped past
carrying single passengers. It did nothing to relieve my feeling
of utter frustration.



"Sheldon?"

I turned when my name was called. Randal came down the steps
and crossed the footpath to where I was standing near the curb. I
ignored him for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. Alesha
Yaroshenko and his mother were not very far behind him. They
waited off to the side as Randal began to speak. Alesha was still
central in my mind, although I tried to avoid looking at him.

"I'm glad I caught you," he began.

He took a deep breath. He was flustered, not out of breath
but visibly anxious about something. I waited for him to continue.
I glanced at Alesha. I was transfixed, captivated, engrossed. I
could not remember seeing a more beautiful boy.

"After what you said inside,... um,... well,... I thought
you might like to talk to him,... and his mother too, of
course,..."

Randal's voice faded away in my ears. I was not listening. I
was looking. It was impossible to imagine a more perfect face.
Such clear blue eyes. There was a wisp of hair across his
forehead. He had changed out of his ballet attire and was wearing
tight blue jeans and a sweater emblazoned with 'pas de deux' and a
picture of a young man and woman dancing. There was a hint of
sadness on his face, yet I could not help but admire his lips,
lips that were full and red and almost feminine.

"I need to be getting back," I muttered awkwardly in reply.

Randal smiled. "They would like to meet you. It really won't
take very long, Sheldon. Just say 'hi'."

What could I do but wait and be infatuated for that was what
it was, of course. Infatuation. Yet even then during that first
brief meeting, there was something more between us. From the boy's
nervousness I could see that he was impressed, but that was only
natural. And I saw curiosity, too, from the flicker of his eyes
when they met mine, a sign of deep intelligence. A shy smile as he
approached. His eyes travelled rapidly, taking in my appearance,
the clothes I wore, even the bright polish on my shoes. There was
another hint of a smile, less shy, becoming bold, when he extended
his hand to mine. We shook perfunctorily, yet the thrill lasted
much longer. His hand was small, bony, soft, surprisingly strong.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Beaufort," he said in a clear,
well-dictioned, European-sounding voice.

"You danced beautifully, Alesha," I replied.

I could still feel his hand in mine, although the friendly
grasp had long since departed and both hands were by his sides.
How natural it had felt to hold his hand.

"Thank you, sir." He smiled again. "This is my mother, Ioana-
Christina Yaroshenko" he added politely.

There was an accent, but three years of living in New York
City had tamed it considerably. He sounded refined, very mature
for his age.

She was close behind him, like a protective hen, but far
enough away that her son was in the spotlight as was appropriate
to the situation. Her eyes flashed, a smile like his, but one of
initial recognition that we shared an interest in her son. Warily,
I extended my hand to her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you once again, Ms. Yaroshenko," I
said. I had very nearly called her Ioana, but it was hardly
appropriate.

"You remember me, Mr. Beaufort?" She sounded very surprised

"Of course. It was only three years ago, just after you
arrived. I saw you dance the 'six' in Giselle. You were excellent.
Randal might think that I have Alzheimer's, but I'm not so old
that I don't remember the important things!" I said with mocking
exaggeration.

She laughed gayly, a musical sound that made me laugh as
well. "Well, I'm surprised." Her Russian accent was suddenly much
stronger.

"You're not old, Sir! I forget things all the time," Alesha
announced in his beguiling tones.

He had a sweet voice that lingered in my ears. It was
different to the boys in Paris. I thought of music, of a bell
tinkling in the breeze. It was a refreshing sound.

It was followed by a persistent silence that continued until
Randal gestured to a cruising taxi. It came to an abrupt halt a
few feet away from me. Randal stepped forward and opened the rear
door for me. The engine rattled and nearly died. I wanted to stay
and talk, but the driver impatiently gunned the engine to keep it
running.

"Can I offer you a ride?" I offered hopefully, even though I
wondered why anyone would want to ride in a taxi with a noisy
engine and the smell of artificial lilac-scented air freshener.

"No, but I thank you. We must do shopping on the way," she
answered.

"Well, I guess I have to go or he'll charge me extra for
waiting," I muttered the obvious. "Good luck, Alesha. I'm sorry
about the scholarship."

Before I closed the door, I looked up at him. He was still
smiling, but he was not so far from bursting into tears that the
slightest provocation would set it off. Again, we made deliberate
eye contact. If I wanted to I could easily create another
scholarship just for him. Given the injustice that I had
witnessed, it was the least that I could do.

"You were by far the best, by the way," I said loudly. I
hoped that the Washington family would hear me.

The last thing I saw when I turned around in my seat to look
out the rear window was Randal talking to the Washingtons. Alesha
and his mother had turned the corner and were gone from sight.



ACT I, SCENE II.



Randal telephoned me two days later. It should not have
seemed like a long time. Certainly, I missed being in Paris in the
spring. I owned a sixth-floor apartment overlooking the
Luxembourg Gardens in the heart of the Latin Quarter. The Bohemian
culture continued, which was my primary reason for living there in
the first place. A single visit nearly twenty-two years earlier, a
evening not unlike that depicted in John Singer Sargent's
painting of 1879, and a meeting such as Victor Hugo described for
Marius and Cosette in `Les Miserables':

'Marius had opened his whole soul to nature, he was thinking
of nothing, he was living and breathing, he passed near this seat,
the young girl raised her eyes, their glances met'.

In my case, I was seated, and the girl, Cosette, was a boy
aged thirteen. Martin was just thirteen, but he was old enough to
flirt. First, with his eyes while he promenaded with his friends,
strolling down a brilliantly flowered pathway, lingering by the
long fountain whose name I always forgot. At first, I took little
notice of him, not until he turned around and looked directly back
at me. Like me, he was a dreamer. He was also gay. He came to
visit every afternoon and sometimes stayed until dark. Two years
passed before I missed Martin, but there were always other boys.
Some boys I paid, but most came voluntarily or in return for
expensive gifts. My mother died and duty called. I moved back to
New York. I missed Paris, but there were always other boys. For
the last four years it seemed that I paid all the boys.

During two long days, I thought often about Alesha, more
often than I thought about Paris and the boys I remembered from
the years I had spent there. I grumbled at my housekeeper. I
stayed indoors, from dawn to dusk reading in the Library. When
Peters announced the call from Randal, I was grateful for the
interruption to my melancholy.

"Sheldon, I'm glad I caught you at home," he began. "Are you
by yourself?" he asked secretively.

For no reason other than the mysterious tone of his voice, I
glanced over my shoulder. No one was there. No one had been there
since I had come downstairs. From somewhere in the house, a door
opened and closed. A momentary voice. Silence again. It had been
like that for two days. My bad mood was contagious.

"Yes."

"I wanted to, um,... talk about something with you,... if you
have the time, that is?"

"I'm not busy if that's what you mean," I replied.

I walked to the window, parted the brocaded curtains, and
looked down into the street. It was nearly lunch time and the
residential neighborhood was much quieter than usual. There was a
thin film of dust on the wide cherry sill, leaving a path behind
my tracing finger. It was time to talk to Peters again about
replacing the cleaning company. He had suggested that we employ a
woman on a continuing basis, but I had resisted for no other
reason than stubbornness. Certainly, the rugs were always
vacuumed and the mirrors were clean, but the little things were
being missed. A window sill was hardly a 'little thing', was it?

"I was wondering if the Foundation might be interested in
doing something for Alesha Yaroshenko," Randal asked suddenly.

"I suppose it could, depending what you had in mind," I
replied.

"Um.... Another scholarship?" Randal suggested.

"Another scholarship?" I repeated. "It might be possible, I
suppose. It's difficult to be certain until I talk to the
accountants. The market is down at present."

"I thought the funds were all in blue-chips?"

"Yes, that and long-term Treasury Bonds. The bond income is
fixed, of course, but the dividends are being cut way back. Most
of the portfolio-value is down at current prices."

"It's only thirty-five thousand dollars."

"But it's a seven-year commitment, Randal. I expect I'd have
to provide principal out of my own funds if it's going to happen
before next year," I added vaguely.

At a market yield based on recent dividend payouts, I would
need to add close to a million dollars of my own money to the
Foundation's funds. It was not impossible, but it would certainly
need a lot of thought. I wanted to say 'yes'.

"Um, Sheldon?"

"Yes."

"If possible, and I know it's asking an awful lot of you, but
it should have something for overseas travel in it as well. You
know, like you do for the senior scholarships," he suggested,
still hopeful "Not a lot! Maybe a couple of thousand a year."

"Why?"

"You've seen him dance. He's good enough to do his summers
overseas. He could get into any children's program he wants,"
Randal explained. "Did you know he speaks five languages
fluently, Sheldon?" he added with a high-pitched, somewhat silly
laugh. "Let's see,... You've heard his English already, and he
speaks Russian, of course. He has excellent German and French,
which is ideal for ballet as you know,... and the other one is,...
damn, I forget."

"Who did you say has Alzheimer's?" I teased. "That wasn't on
his form."

"His mother told me." Randal paused. I waited for a few
seconds. "Sheldon,..."

"Yes?"

"The reason why I called,....Um,... you see,... I hope
you'll forgive me for saying this,... I know you like boys."

"What?" I blurted out angrily.

My face flushed. My heart pounded. My legs felt weak. It was
the last thing that a boy lover wanted to hear. There was no way
that Randal could possibly know about that. I was very circumspect
in that regard. A few times, boys had come to my house, but none
had stayed overnight. I was very careful about being seen in
public. I used hotels or stayed with friends. The people who saw
me with boys were boy lovers themselves. They were as careful as I
was.

"Sheldon?" Randal began after the silence had become
interminable.

"Yes."

"It's true isn't it?"

"What's true?"

"What I just said."

Randal was as reluctant to repeat himself as I was to admit
that I had heard him say it. Again, we descended into silence.

"Sheldon,...."

"Yes."

"I'm the same way, okay."

"You?"

"Yes, me."

"Oh!"

"I like boys, Sheldon. I have since I was a boy myself."

"That's good?" I said sarcastically.

"No, but I can't change what I am, even if I wanted to."

"Why are you telling me this, Randal?" I asked coldly.

Silence again. I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. He had
been honest with me, or at least he gave me the impression of
telling the truth. Maybe I was being too careful. From my
experience, most men did not come right out with it. The word got
around because of mutual friends, either men or boys.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that," I apologized. "It's
just, well,... I try to keep my private life private for obvious
reasons."

"Me too, Sheldon. I usually don't go around telling people
about my perversions."

I laughed. It was impossible not to like him.

"So tell me about your, er,... interest?" I asked with
amusement.

"Hm,... I guess I'm what you might call a chocolate twinkie
lover at the moment," Randal answered after a few seconds.

"A what?"

"I have a thing with older black boys right now," he replied.
His voice became furtive. "Of course, I don't like them hairy, but
I've found I can enjoy a nice big cock when nothing else is
available. I'm not about to say that the more cream inside a boy
the better. Give me a pre-pubescent boy any day, but I'll take
what I can get. What about you?"

His excitement was apparent in his voice. I held the
telephone tightly, hoping that no one else was listening in. It
was always a problem with portable telephones.

"You already met my ideal," I answered ambiguously.

"Alesha? Yes, I thought so. He'll be a little minx, that one,
when he starts making decisions for himself."

Alesha, a minx? The very thought made my heart start beating
faster even though part of me wanted the boy to stay pure and
innocent, always a boy in that idealized perfection that men like
me tended to create.

"Maybe," I ventured. After a lifetime of being careful, it
was impossible to let my guard down.

"Sheldon?..."

"Yes?"

"About the scholarship?"

I thought for a moment. The situation was out of control. I
needed more time. I was not going to commit, not now, not yet.

"I'll have to talk to the accountants."

"Will you?" Randal asked. "It's important, Sheldon."

He did not say anything for a while and I could hear no sound
in the background. I had the distinct impression that his hand was
cupped over the telephone to muffle what he was saying to someone
else. I shuddered at the thought that someone had overhead the
conversation.

"Sheldon, is it possible to meet you for lunch somewhere,...
today?"

My intuition was that I should have said 'no'. However, I had
no plans other than reading a book and having a glass of wine. I
was honest to a fault.

"I suppose,..."

"I'd like you to talk with Ioana."

"Oh! Randal, I don't think that is such a good idea. I
mean,..."

"Sheldon, can you trust me for an hour? I promise it will be
worth your time. I'll even pay for lunch. At the tavern?" he
offered smoothly.

"At the Tavern?" I laughed. "You're on! You'll have trouble
getting a table without a reservation."

"I'll use your name?" he suggested gleefully. "I hear you go
there all the time."

"Hardly. I'll have Peters call," I said. "It's a bit chilly
to be on the terrace. How about the Crystal Room? In an hour?
Would that be too soon?"

"No, it's perfect. I'm at the Academy right now. We can catch
the subway up to 68th street and walk over. If you're walking from
78th Street we should be there about the same time. We might even
see you on the way. Oh, and by the way, the other language?"

"Yes?"

"I forgot. He also speaks excellent Italian and is passable
in Spanish."

I wondered how Randal knew where I lived, that I preferred to
walk where ever I was going, that I often had lunch at the Tavern.
Normally, I would have asked. Perhaps I did have Alzheimer's. I
could not remember what subway line Randal would take to get
there. When I put the telephone down my hand was clammy. I let the
curtain fall back into place.



ACT I, SCENE III.



I walked quickly. Walking was my only exercise and I tended
to pace myself. My best time to the Tavern was a little under ten
minutes. I arrived only a few minutes before Randal and Ioana. I
waved from the Crystal Room and beckoned to the waiter to bring
them to my table. I stood up to welcome them. I waited until they
were both seated before I resumed my position in the familiar
green chair that might as well have had my name on it. Certainly,
the prices were outrageous, but the food was usually excellent,
the decor was stunning, and the setting was luxurious. I
particularly enjoyed the paintings. There were three tricks to
having a good time. For the best service you had to eat there
often. You had to know what to order from the extensive menu, and
you had to forget about what it cost.

From the startled look on Randal's face as he scanned the
menu, I presumed it was his first time dining at the Tavern on the
Green. At the table next to us, I could hear a couple of
investment bankers talking in exaggerated terms about items on
the menu. It always annoyed me when people 'dropped names'. It
wasn't long before I heard 'Warner LeRoy' and 'Gary Cole'.

"The lobster bisque is quite good," I announced. "It's one of
my favorites. Gary uses a special cream, I believe," I said in a
louder voice than I needed to use.

Randal almost laughed aloud when he caught on. Ioana looked
at me blankly, my innuendo trapped in the language vacuum.

"I suppose we should have eaten at the Russian Tea Room,
being as this is a meeting about ballet and you're from Kiev," I
joked. "Of course, I'd still be walking to get there, but the food
is usually better. The Tavern has a very nice smoked salmon by the
way," I added to Ioana.

To be honest, I had only been to the Russian Tea Room a
couple of times during the last year since the renovation had been
completed, and then it was for dinner with members of the Board.
Each time, for some reason completely unknown to me, we bypassed
the original cafes and ended up on the second floor with its
modern Russian style. The food was better, but the setting lacked
romance, and after all, romance was the spice of life.

Randal smiled, bravely putting the best face that he could on
prices that were out of his league. "This is fine, Sheldon. I'm
not one for caviar."

"After thinking our phone call earlier, this is on me,
Randal," I winked.

That calmed him down and he studied the menu with
considerably more interest than panic. I took the time to think,
keeping an eye on Ioana out of curiosity. I was not surprised to
see that she was also very aware of me. Our eyes engaged several
times before the waiter came over to take our orders.

"I talked to the accountants as I promised I would," I began.

They waited with bated breath for what I was going to say
next. Ioana's hands were clasped in front of her, saying a silent
prayer no doubt for what she wanted to hear. I took a deep breath
and started the explanation that what I had been thinking about on
the way from my house.

"As I explained earlier, the market is depressed right now.
The Foundation is stretched to make its current obligations, and
we have a firm policy about continuing to build the principal no
matter what. I'm afraid there isn't any excess income available,
certainly not in the amount required for a full scholarship."

"I know that policy was created to ensure the Foundation's
long term future," Randal chimed in. "But couldn't you make an
exception just this once?"

I shook my head. The rule was one that I had established
early on. Fifty percent of the dividend and interest income was
applied to increasing the principal. Before I could go on to the
next option, which entailed my contribution of funds to the
Foundation, Ioana nodded.

"I understand, Mr. Beaufort. To have Alesha dance in New York
means so much to me."

She hesitated to continue. I nodded once, understandingly,
sympathetically, yet reluctant to reveal what I had in mind. I
wanted Alesha to be in front of me when he heard. He would be
excited. I wanted to see his face light up because of me.

She leaned forward. Instinctively, I followed her lead and
lowered my head.

"When I was a girl in Russia, Mr. Beaufort, you did not get a
scholarship to dance unless your parents were members of the
Party. Or there were friends in positions of importance." She
tensed, nervously rubbing the tips of her long thin fingers
together "My parents were poor farmers, Mr. Beaufort. And poor in
Russia is not like poor in this country. However, I was young and
I was pretty. I was a very good dancer."

She glanced at Randal for encouragement. He nodded slightly.
"In order to be a dancer par excellence, I needed what you
Americans would call a 'patron'. There is a different word for it
in Russian, it is like 'protector'. It means a person who provides
for a young artist, but unlike America, patronage does come for
free."

Ioana paused and again glanced nervously at Randal. This
time he did not respond. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Randal
toyed with the silver-wired basket of bread that had been placed
on the table before he selected an interesting slice with a thick
crust and large yellow seeds.

I'm not sure that I understand, Ioana," I said uncertainly.
"In this country, the tax laws are fairly precise about donors
getting something back for their money."

"It isn't what she's talking about, Sheldon," Randal
interrupted. "Perhaps you had better explain, Ioana," he
suggested.

"In Russia, things are very different to here. Even today,
not much has changed since I was girl. Today, if I wanted to
attend ballet school, to become a good dancer, I would still need
a patron to succeed. It is one of the reasons why I left Russia.
In America, if you are good at what you do, you will succeed. That
is not true in Russia."

I nodded, still not understanding. I wondered when the
waiter would bring my customary glass of chablis. My throat was
dry.

"In Russia, it is no different for boys who wish to become
excellent dancers. It is very expensive. They also take patrons."

"I'm sure it is. That's why we have scholarships for our best
students," I said, recognizing the injustice yet again as the
words were leaving my mouth. "I was very sorry about Alesha. He
should have won."

"He's the best I've seen, Sheldon," Randal interjected.
"He's outstanding. He's going to go a very long way. I'm sure you
know that too. I mean it," he added with unnecessary emphasis.

"He is a good boy, and he is smart," Ioana continued. "He
will understand. He will accept. I am mot worried for him."

"I wish I understood," I thought aloud. "I'm sorry. It's just
that I'm getting confused."

I opened my mouth to tell her that I would provide my own
funds for a scholarship for Alesha.

"He must go to school here,... in New York," Ioana said
flatly, before I had a chance to speak. "If Alesha must have a
patron, then so be it. I would like you to be his patron, Mr.
Beaufort."

"I would love to be," I began awkwardly, still not
understanding why a patron was so important when I would provide
another scholarship. "There is nothing I would like more than to
see Alesha go to school and become a great dancer, and,..."

"So it is decided?" she asked with instant, eager happiness.

"Is what decided? I will try to do whatever is needed."

She inclined her head. "Alesha will he happy. Already, I
think, he likes you. Perhaps he will love you. Only time will
tell."

I turned to Randal. Her accent was such that I missed one
word out of four. Was she saying what I thought she was saying?

"I'm missing something, I think. Could you explain?" I
asked.

"I'm not sure I can do much better, Sheldon. I'll try."
Randal scratched his head. "According to what Ioana told me
earlier today, in Russia having a patron is,...well, you might say
it's a very exclusive thing. It's very different to here. The
patron provides everything for the child, in this case a boy. It's
more than just money for tuition and a living allowance. Sometimes
the patron supports his family, in return for,... well,... shall
we say, certain favors."

I gaped at him, mouth open, dumfounded.

"It's usual for a boy to live with his patron," Randal added.
"And as you know, Sheldon, given the opportunity,... well,
relationships of a certain type can happen."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked frankly.

Again, Ioana leaned towards me. "It is no secret that boys
bend over for their patrons," she confided. "I have told Alesha of
this before. It is not good for a boy who dances to be ignorant of
what is going on around him. I am sure he will agree."

I was unable to speak. Both Ioana and Randal looked at me
with quizzical expressions, as if they were waiting for my answer.
My mind churned, thinking mostly of Alesha, of his slender lithe
body dancing across the stage, his lean legs moving so gracefully
that I could not look away. And I remembered the little bulge, not
large, but big enough to show he was a boy. And his bottom too,
that delightful, firm little bottom that was hidden under his
tights yet so deliciously revealed. It was all so easy. All I had
to do was say 'yes' and the most beautiful boy I had seen would be
dropped into my lap. Just say 'yes'. I would not have to worry
about finding boys in remote corners of Central Park, I would have
my very own 'live-in'. Perhaps it was too easy. Part of the
excitement lay in the chase, watching for a boy to show interest,
the casual approach that was quickly rejected if he wasn't
interested, the risk of being exposed if he was, of not knowing
who it would be, of not having to make a commitment.

"Randal!" I said. "It's against the law."

"I know, but it's not like it sounds, Sheldon."

"It sounds like glorified prostitution to me," I remarked.
"Patronage prostitution. Like he's some kind of courtesan."

"More like a catamite," Randal quipped with a smirk.

"A what?"

"A catamite. A boy who's,..."

"For heaven's sake, I know what a catamite is, Randal. This
is ridiculous! We're talking about child prostitution."

"It isn't like that, Sheldon. I won't say that the type of
men who become patrons aren't like us, because obviously they are.
However, there's no pressure. It's entirely voluntary."

"I'm certain that's true," I said sarcastically.

I was shocked, shocked by the suggestion that I should take
Alesha as my,... my catamite. Alesha was a beautiful, wonderful
boy with an exciting future as a dancer. I was shocked that his
mother could sit in front of me and calmly negotiate his future
with a complete stranger with that in mind, that she could even
consider that I would be interested in a relationship. But I was
interested. My heart was pounding. My penis was hard. My
excitement was building rapidly. I thought about saying 'yes'. I
said 'no'.

"No!"

"No?" Randal asked. He appeared surprised. "Sheldon, think
about it for a moment."

"I have thought about. This isn't right!" I rebuked
adamantly. I lowered my voice. "He's a kid! He's only eleven years
old."

"Yes, he is," Randal replied. "And Ioana was ten when her
patron took her in. They tend to start young for obvious reasons."

"This isn't Russia, damn it. There are laws, for God's sake.
The last thing I want to do is spend the rest of my life in jail."

"Okay." Randal shrugged dispassionately. "I'm sorry. I
thought you'd be interested."

"I'm not," I blurted out. I was interested. I wondered if my
heart could take the stress of being close to Alesha.

"It's the only way he's going to the Academy," he countered.
"Ioana won't take any support from the Russian community in
Brooklyn, although they support a lot of less talented kids. I'm
not exactly sure why, but she won't."

"I said I will provide a scholarship from my money."

Randal seemed not to hear or care. "Sheldon, don't say no.
This is the chance of a lifetime."

I glared at him. "The discussion is finished," I said
forcefully. "We had better order lunch," I added as I beckoned to
the waiter to come to the table.

After a difficult few minutes of trying to make conversation
about other subjects, Ioana excused herself. I did not apologize.
Neither did she. I watched her leave, both of us still fuming.



ACT I, SCENE IV.



"Randal! How could you?" I said with exasperation.

Randal shrugged. "I guess because I thought it was worth a
try. I don't know what you're bent out of shape about, Sheldon. It
happens a lot."

"What happens a lot?" I demanded.

It was difficult to keep my voice lowered so that people at
the adjoining tables could not overhear. Randal replied with a
'you-should-know look'.

"Oh, you mean child abuse?" I added sarcastically. "I
suppose it does, but that doesn't mean I have to be part of it."

"Shhh.... You've never been with a boy, I take it, Sheldon?"
Randal countered with a whisper. "I mean a young boy. One who
isn't legal?"

I swallowed. It was tantamount to an admission of guilt. It
was the one thing that boy lovers were careful never to do. I did
not answer. My silence spoke for me. Randal nodded thoughtfully.

"And you loved him too, didn't you?" he continued. "I'm not
talking about sex, about picking up some suck-and-fuck Puerto
Rican street trash out there." He gestured towards the park.

Most of the boy lovers I had met knew where to find boys in
New York. The haunts were shared, even the names and telephone
numbers of boys who were willing to go around, did not have AIDS,
and who were discrete. There were always a few white boys who
could be had for a price, but most were older. The younger boys
were almost always colored.

"I'm talking about love," Randal added. "Real love where you
can't live without him. When you love him so much that you want to
live with him and you start thinking about adoption."

I nodded, less certain.

"Then you know what it's like to be a boy lover in the way
it's supposed to be," he finished. "Despite what most people
think, it isn't about abusing a child. If he wants it, and there's
love,..."

"You can spare me the lecture. I've been there, Randal, both
ways. I'm not proud of what I've done sometimes. I knew it was
wrong at the time. I also know there's a big difference when love
is involved. There have been a few boys in that category. They're
still very special to me. That's why I'm saying this is wrong."

Randal studied me with interest. "She was right about you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ioana," Randal answered. He began to push his chair back.
"Let's forget this ever happened. I'm sorry about lunch, Sheldon.
Send me the bill, okay."

I gestured to him to sit down, slowly shaking my head.

"Randal, do you have any idea how dangerous this is? If word
got out about you and that Washington boy?"

His startled expression indicated that my assumption was
fact. He smoldered under my watchful gaze.

"How?" he asked simply.

"I guessed."

"I love him, Sheldon. I love him the way its supposed to be."

I raised my eyebrows to show disbelief, frustration that he
did not appreciate the risk, surprise that he was so transparent.

"You're not interested in his brother by any chance, are
you?" I asked cynically.

That would help to explain the high score that Darius
Washington had received in the competition.

"Maybe in a year when his brother finishes as the Academy,"
Randal admitted with surprising frankness.

"That certainly explains a few things," I said bitterly.

Randal sighed. "Sheldon, it isn't like that. I wouldn't let
my judging be influenced by it."

"But you would take advantage of a situation if it arose?"

He sighed again. "Sheldon, how many male dancers do you think
are gay? The ones in the Company, I mean."

"Most probably a lot of them," I ventured. "I know of at
least four or five of them who are married."

"And I happen to know from a mutual friend that at least one
of those is bi," Randal smirked knowingly. "I calculated it once,
you know. A conservative estimate is close to ninety-percent.
Most likely the number is even higher."

"Your point being?"

"My point is that they go together. Dancing and sexual
orientation, that is. It's in the genes. Sure some of it is
learned, but the basics are always there from the start. It's one
of the reasons why they dance. It's part of the persona. You've
seen Alesha. What do you think he is?"

I tried to avoid the obvious response. "I have no idea. I've
spoken with him for all of a few minutes at most. Besides, he's
barely eleven years old. It's much too soon to tell."

Randal fingered his nose, rubbing along the ridge. "I knew at
nine or ten." He smiled, remembering fondly. "My dance instructor
helped me to,... understand."

"And I was a teenager," I replied. Part of me wished it had
happened earlier.

"What I'm trying to say is that it isn't a matter of age,"
Randal persisted. He touched his head. "It's in here, Sheldon. All
gay boys have a little time bomb of desire, ticking away, just
waiting to explode into lust. All they need is the right man to
come along."

"For Heaven's sake!" I muttered.

I drank some of the chablis, savoring the taste and color
before I put the glass down. Of course, Randal was right. I had
seen it for myself often enough. All it took was a gentle push,
the right moment, the right person, an opportunity.

"Be honest with me about Alesha. What are the odds he's gay?"

"I thought I had already answered that question. Seriously?"
I asked. Randal nodded. "I wouldn't bet on the odds he wasn't."

"He might not even know it himself yet, but his mother is
certain that he is. I guess mothers see things in us that we miss
ourselves. My mother knew what I was long before I started getting
interested in other boys. She had terrible fights with my father
about my dance lessons. The last thing Dad wanted was a queer
son."

"If my mother knew, she never let on to me," I added
hopefully, even though my mother was long departed.

"Your father died during the Second World War, didn't he?"

"He was in France when the Germans counter-attacked through
the Dordogne. His fighter was shot down just before the German
advance ended. I never knew him, but I expect he would have been a
lot like your father," I ended. "Most men are."

We stopped talking as the waiter set plates before us. I
began eating, enjoying the lobster bisque although it was a little
cool. Perhaps it was time to try the Russian Tea Room for lunch. I
was getting tired of cold waiters and sometimes-cold food.

"The odds are a hundred to one he's not," Randal began.

I wavered my spoon in the soup. "Don't spoil the meal,
Randal," I commented.

He smiled back at me. "You haven't been to the Club for quite
some time I hear, Sheldon."

"Pardon?"

Had I heard him correctly? I had never seen him at Apple-
boys. Of course, that did not mean that he had never been there. I
did not go very frequently. Without a boy for company there was
not much point in going.

"We have some mutual friends there," Randal explained
obscurely.

I wondered who they were. I could not think of anyone that
Randal would know, at least not intimately enough to share
information like that.

"You don't have a lad at present, do you Sheldon? Actually,
I'm told the current expression is 'y-f' for young-friend,"
Randal joked. "It's from the Internet. In fact there is even a
website that you ought to check out. Ghoul drool or something like
that. "

"No, I don't someone," I answered simply. "It's not like I
can go down to the Kurfew Club and pick someone up, is it Randal?"

He smirked. "That place rocks, but the boys are all too old
for you, and you're too old for them. Which leaves you with,....
apple boys," he whispered. He made it sound like two words,
innocuous words, instead of the best kept secret in New York City.

I turned around suddenly in my chair. It was highly unlikely
that any one had overheard. I glared at Randal.

"No one heard me," he said confidently. "This place is too
crowded. The only problem with going there, as we both know, is
it's strictly b-y-o-b. It's okay to look at the boys, but you
don't touch them or make a move on them."

I smiled. "That's why I haven't been there for a while," I
admitted.

"That's what I heard," Randal confided. "Do you have any
plans for the future?"

On the surface it was an innocent question.

"I might go to Paris soon. I usually there later in the
year," I replied.

In truth, I had been considering a trip to Paris. It was
impossible to forget Paris in the spring. The boys of Paris,
dressed in their fashionable clothes, their eyes flashing as they
strolled through the Luxembourg Gardens in the afternoons. Those
boys who came in the early evening, often came for things other
than simply walking and relaxing with their friends. If you were
patient it was usually possible to pick up a boy in his mid-to-
late teens. Younger boys were much harder to find. A lot of boy
lovers headed off to Thailand. Others went to Turkey. A few of
friends had spent an enjoyable summer in Czechoslovakia the
previous year, and wanted me to go with them when they returned.

"Alesha's just been accepted in the summer program of the
Ecole Nationale de Ballet," Randal announced. "His mother told me
on the way up here. I'm surprised she didn't bring it up, but
considering how things turned out, it wouldn't have made a
difference. It's quite an honor, you know, getting accepted into
that program. They usually won't take someone that young,
particularly with just a videotape audition."

"It must be expensive," I said vaguely.

"He has a partial fellowship, of course. All the foreign
students get one. And Ioana said he's been saving like crazy since
he applied just in case, but he'll still need about ten thousand,
Sheldon."

My jaw dropped. "Ten thousand?"

Randal nodded and rattled off the items. "Airfare. His room
and board for the summer. Travel when he's there. It mounts up
pretty quickly."

"I know." I sighed. "Ten thousand though?"

Randal nodded again, seriously. It was evident that he
expected the Beaufort Foundation to make a contribution if not
foot the entire bill.

"I'm not promising anything, but I'll look into it," I
offered. "How is the soup?"

"Excellent," Randal replied. He smiled at me.

"What is it now?" I asked with undue cynicism. "He needs
braces?"

Randal laughed. "No, he has perfect teeth. I thought you
would have noticed when he smiled at you. It's just that he could
stay at your place in Paris and it would cost next to nothing.
Just the air fare and a few thousand for the tuition."

"You aren't serious? You are serious, aren't you?"

Randal put his elbow on the green baize arm-rest and inclined
his head. He did not answer until he had stared at me for what
seemed to be at least a minute.

"You don't get it, do you Sheldon?"

"Get what?"

"All of this? What we've been talking about? The ballet
scene? You really don't understand what it's like for a boy dancer
do you?"

"Pardon?"

"A truly delightful boy falls into your lap and you push him
off. A boy who really needs you too, to make it even worse. That's
what you're doing, you know Sheldon. I wish something like this
would have happened to me. I wouldn't be a teacher at a ballet
school. I could have gone a long way with the right opportunity,"
he finished.

"Such as?" I prompted.

"For one thing, I never had the chance to show what I could
do. You know as well as I do how most of the good roles are
assigned. It's true for just about every form of entertainment.
People think it only happens to Hollywood starlets. Sure, we can
be cynical and say 'it's not what you can do, but who you do it
with', but it amounts to the same thing. You probably don't
realize that Peter Burke only got the lead in Romeo and Juliet
because he let Olson and two of his faggot friends fuck him for a
weekend."

"Burke is in his late twenties," I interjected. "He's old
enough to make his own decisions. We're talking about an eleven-
year-old boy."

"You don't have to fuck him, Sheldon," Randal said with
exasperation. "What you do with him is entirely up to you,... and
him, of course. All I'm saying is you should consider being
Alesha's patron. If you were willing, he could live at your house.
God only knows it's big enough for a dozen families. You take him
with you when you go to Paris,... You do whatever else is
important for his career. If the two of you get it off, so much
the better."

"That's all?" I nearly choked. "He becomes a permanent house
guest?"

"Take my word for it. He's probably better off living with
you in the Upper East Side than in some private boarding house in
Chelsea. Raymon was in one before he moved into my place."

"Raymon? You mean Raymon Washington?" I queried, guessing at
the last name. It made sense. Randal nodded. "He lives with you?"

Randal grimaced. "It's not what you think, Sheldon. There is
no way I could afford to be his patron. He boards with me and I
charge the Foundation. I give him whatever I can afford, but so
far it's mostly been clothes and CDs."

"You have sex with him?" I had to ask.

"Of course, I have sex with him. I told you I liked chocolate
twinkies, didn't I?"

Randal stretched and ran his fingers through his close-
cropped hair. He was still a dancer even though he had not
performed on stage for as long as I had known him.

"It's been two years now, and we're still going at it like it
was the first month. Boys at Ray's age are perpetually horny, I
think," he said with a smirk. "There are some mornings when I'm
too tired to get out of bed."

The idea grew slowly in my mind. However, once the idea was
there, it was impossible to hold it back. I considered it from
every angle. There were problems but none of them were
insurmountable, especially if the relationship was innocent as I
intended it to be. I told Randal that I would give the proposal
some thought. It sounded as if we were making a business deal.



ACT I, SCENE V.



I had a chance to think on the way home from lunch. I walked
slowly, forgetting about the time, about walking for exercise. I
extended my walk through Central Park by visiting the zoo.
Usually, there were a few boys to be found, even when they were
supposed to be in school. I saw one boy, a red-head who could not
have been more than twelve years old. I noticed immediately that
he was very good looking, perhaps too good looking. We made eye
contact, but only for an instant before he quickly glanced away.
He was wearing those shoes with wheels in the heels. With the
slightest effort he darted forward. He reached for the hand of the
man who had been walking a few paces ahead him. Both were well-
dressed, tourists out for the afternoon. They turned the corner. I
could have followed. Instead, I turned and went the other way, on
my way back to East 78th Street.

While I walked, images of Alesha ran, or should I say, danced
through my head. I began to realize that Randal was correct. I was
being given the opportunity of a lifetime. In fact, knowing how
little second-row ballet dancers were paid, the same could be said
for Alesha, for his mother would have great difficulty in
providing for her talented son. I hummed and practically skipped
along, stopping only to watch some boys on their way home from the
local city school. There not many children in the Upper East Side,
at least in my neighborhood, and none that I knew who attended a
city school. The boys laughed and teased each other as only boys
can do. Their boundless energy and effervescent happiness and
struck a chord inside me so that I nearly laughed with them. Life
was good. I was in a good mood and it was not because of the warm
sunshine. Perhaps I would stay a while longer in New York instead
of going to Paris for the spring.

Peters opened the door for me even as I lifted my hand to
ring the bell. I invited him to join me in the Parlour, an
antiquated name for an otherwise useful room for meeting visitors
without having to bring them into the house proper. Like many of
the major rooms in the house, the Parlour was oval-shaped with
niches in the walls. The architect's use of ovals alone accounted
for the distinguishing feature of the curved walls on the
exterior. Within the house, pastel hues and floral-patterned
cloth-covered walls decorated every room except the Library,
which I had refurbished in dark-stained wood shortly after moving
back in. One room in the house had to look as if it was a male
abode.

In the short silence that intervened, it was apparent that
Peters had discerned that there was something going on. He
accepted my offer of a chair. He sat uncomfortably on the velvet
edge, barely resting. It did not matter that he had been employed
by the Beaufort family for all of his working life. He was three
years older than I was.

"Peters, we need to talk," I began uncertainly.

"Is there a problem, Sir? Is something wrong?"

It always bothered me when he called me 'Sir', but that was
his job. Professional subservience. I shook my head.

"It's not a problem in that sense, Peters. It's more like a
situation that we need to talk about," I explained. "I need your
advice."

I endeavored to sound as serious and genuine as possible. I
glanced through the open door, wondering where the housekeeper
and cook were at that moment. Did I need to include them in the
conversation as well? They had only been with me for three years
and six months respectively. I turned back to meet his eyes.

"Peters, I've been made aware of an extremely talented young
dancer who requires a place to live in New York. Alesha was
unlucky not to win one of the Foundation's scholarships. I had
been considering providing a scholarship from my funds, but what I
heard during lunch leads me to think that the housing situations
for our out-of-town students are far from satisfactory."

"Yes Sir. Your mother used to say much the same thing."

"Oh?"

"She often used to have a student staying here during the
season. A girl, of course. It wouldn't be right otherwise, would
it?"

"She did?" I asked in surprise.

"Of course, it was a long time ago. It's been nearly ten
years since the last girl stayed here. There was a bedroom set
aside on the fourth floor for the girls," Peters explained. "As
you might remember, the attic was converted to a dance studio.
Your mother even had a private staircase constructed from the
bedroom into the attic so it was very convenient for the girls to
practice and they didn't have to disturb the rest of the
household."

I nodded, suddenly realizing in the four years since I had
come back to live in the house, I had never seen the attic. Until
now, there had been no reason.

"A dance studio, you say Peters?"

"Yes Sir."

"And it's still there?"

"Of course, Sir. It's a bit dusty and we've put some unused
furniture and a few other things up there, but nothing that
couldn't be thrown out or given to charity. I had a call only a
few days ago from the Salvation Army. With a day or two of
cleaning, the attic would be as good as new. If I remember
correctly there's even a set of skylights that your mother had
installed. They used to leak for the first year or two."

"Really?" I scratched my chin. "And the room on the third
floor? What are we using that for presently?"

"Nothing Sir. It's been left just the way it was when your
mother passed away. It's the room right above yours, Sir, so it
looks out onto the Avenue."

"Hmmmm. I had no idea. Above my room, you say? It must be
quite large then?"

I furrowed my forehead, not meaning to frown, but pondering.
It was true that there had sometimes been, no, almost always been,
young girls staying at the house when I made the three compulsory
devoted-son visits; for Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I
presumed the girls who were there, were students who for some
reason or another, had been unable to go home for the holidays. My
mother was merely ensuring that the girls had a place to stay.

"It is, Sir. The ceiling is just a little lower so it appears
smaller. Your mother did not think it was appropriate for the
girls to be on the third floor with her. I'm sure she thought that
people might talk,... rumors and that sort of thing even though
she was always careful to have only girls staying."

I nodded vaguely. "Tell me more. How old were the girls? Did
they stay long?"

Peters had to think before he answered. He did not look
particularly enamored. In fact, his expression was almost sour,
although that was not unusual for him.

"Well, it was ten years ago like I said, but I seem to
remember that most of them were sprightly young things. Always
girls," he emphasized pointedly, "and always giggling and running
around the house they were, Sir. They couldn't have been more than
thirteen or fourteen when they first moved in. Some of them stayed
for several years."

"Really. Imagine that. I had no idea. And the girls went to
the Academy?" I enquired.

"Yes Sir. You might remember your mother used to have a Rolls
back then. One of my jobs was to drop the girls off and pick them
up every day after school."

I nodded again, lifting my eyes to the painting that hung
above the fireplace. Like most of the art my mother had acquired
over the years, it was Impressionist, although not renowned, not
some of the work on the floors above. She was never one to display
her wealth. I smiled at the implications of what I had heard. A
psychologist might have said that she was infatuated with young
girl ballet dancers. In my case, I would be called a pervert.

"Peters?"

"Yes Sir?"

I paused, still thinking, still trying to decide. The
slightest mistake could ruin my reputation. Worse, I could go to
jail. However, all I could think of was Alesha. This was the
opportunity of a lifetime.

"If I did offer the room upstairs to one of the students from
the Academy,... what would you think about it?"

"It would depend, Sir," Peters paused, "on whether it was a
boy or a girl."

"A boy?"

"You mentioned a name, Sir,... Alesha?" He paused, letting
the word sink in, as if I needed more reminding. "Isn't that a
girl's name?" he added acutely.

"It's Russian, Peters. His name is Alesha Yaroshenko. He's
just turned eleven years old. His mother is in the Company, but
she's leaving soon for a position in Texas. I saw him dance a few
days ago. He's very talented and we'd like to keep him here in New
York at the Academy."

I thought the use of the royal 'we' was a good touch. It
sounded as if the request was being made by the Board. In fact,
the idea could even be presented to them, and with Randal Wilson's
support, it might be made interesting enough to be given their
blessing.

"Then I think it's a very good idea, Sir. Would you like to
see the rooms? They're quite dusty after all this time, at least
the attic is, but as I've said, it's nothing we couldn't fix up
with a little effort and some cleaning rags."



It seemed that the decision to become a patron of the arts,
and young ballet dancers in particular, had been made for me more
than twenty years ago. As soon as I walked into the attic, I
realized that it could be returned to a wonderful dance studio
without much work. The room was a long rectangle with a few small
dormer windows along the avenue side and larger windows along the
atrium side. The light, and the light was abundant, came largely
from a row of steeply angled skylights that continued along the
same side as the atrium. The room was filled with light, and was
made even brighter by the white painted walls. The oak floors,
while certainly straight and level and ideal for dancing, were
hidden beneath a thick grey layer of dust, which upon gentle
scuffing with my foot were revealed to be highly polished. Along
both long sides were the requisite wooden bars in front of floor
to picture-rail-height mirrors. It did not take very much
imagination to visualize a dancer, young, beautiful, agile,
stretching, practicing, becoming ever more graceful.

Peters led the way across the room to a small changing room
and toilet to the left from where we had entered the attic. There,
as elsewhere dust had taken over, but again, a few hours of
cleaning would make a big improvement. As in bathroom that was
next to the main bedroom, my mother had installed a bidet. It was
yet another intriguing reminder of my French heritage. Peters
turned the handle on the other door and opened it to reveal a very
narrow and very steep staircase.

"I'm not going down there," I laughed as I stepped through
the doorway and onto a dusty landing.

"As I said, the stair goes down to the girls' bedroom on
fourth floor, Mr. Beaufort. The girls used to use it all the time.
That way they didn't have to worry about going through the rest of
the house dressed in their ballet tights or disturbing the staff
when they finished practising. Sometimes they would work until
quite late at night. It was my idea," he added proudly.

"And a very good idea too," I muttered, still surprised.

"It's rather cleverly concealed, don't you think, Sir?"

I looked around uncertainly. "Pardon? What is cleverly
concealed, Peters?"

"The other door, Sir. If you didn't know where to look, I'm
sure you'd never find it."

"What other door?" I asked.

"The door to your mother's private room, Mr. Beaufort. She
wanted to be able to use this toilet as well."

"Her private room?"

"Your mother liked to come up here and watch the girls
practicing, so of course, it made sense that her private room was
up here as well."

"What private room?" Again, it was the first that I had heard
of it. I had lived in the house for four years and I had never
ventured beyond the third floor.

"Her private room, Sir. I have no idea what's in there. It's
been so long since she used to come up here that I had nearly
forgotten it was here. It's right through there."

He pointed to the mirror.

"The mirror?"

"The mirror is a door, Sir. There had to be a mirror in here
so the girls could put on their costumes. It was my idea."

"And another excellent idea too, Peters," I agreed. "I don't
see any handle. How does it open?"

"There is one on the other side, of course. It's quite
simple, but there is a little trick to it. From this side, you
need to push here," he indicated and touched the side of the
mirror.

The mirror-door eased open a few inches and stopped. I
laughed. So did Peters.

"I'm rather surprised it still works after all these years."

"When was all this done, Peters? The stairs and bathroom, and
so on?"

"It was when your mother had the elevator installed, Sir.
That was in, hm,... 1975, or maybe six, I think. When the stairs
became too steep for her to climb, she had to stop using them."

I took the initiative and walked from the bathroom into my
mother's 'private room'. That room was also dusty. The furniture
had been covered with linen sheets, yet even before I lifted the
first dust-cover away I could still discern the form. A
escritoire, of deep, violet-colored amaranth with a dozen
different drawers. It was probably from 18th Century France. The
chair before it was Art Deco, upholstered in lightly-patterned
pale pink silk. By lifting back another sheet I revealed a cabinet
with doors paneled with glass work by Lalique. The scenes were
ballet dancers. On the polished marble top were glass vessels, a
flagon and carafe that were likely done by Orrefors, both
delightfully engraved crystal and still holding what looked like
different types of sherry.

I moved around the white-painted room, removing sheets,
studying my finds. My mother had collected from a wide range, yet
the ensemble was wonderful. In one of the niches I discovered a
marble pedestal and Jean Gaugin's bronze, 'Wounded Bull'. It was
so unlike my mother that I laughed before I remembered that Peters
was still in the room.

There was a round, thick-legged table that was most
definitely Empire-style, and held a coffee service by Pomone that
was similar to the one I had in my apartment in Paris. The two
Rococo chairs were covered with a matching blue-and-pink textile
with dashes of lemon yellow, also by Pomone. It was a nice touch,
I thought. There was another table whose sole function was to
support a large eggshell-glazed pot by Raoul Lachenal. Knowing my
mother, at one time it had probably held flowers. I passed by a
painting before I stopped and suddenly turned back. Over the years
and on one of her many trips to France, she had acquired a small
painting by Jean-Francois Millet. I had assumed that it had been
sold or deeded to a museum. But there it was, in an ornate gold-
leafed frame, a misty day, a peasant's farmhouse, chickens in the
yard, and what appeared to be a man sharpening his axe. In both
size and detail, the painting contrasted with a thin wood-framed
painting on the opposite wall, a modern gauche-and-oil of two
dancers, one seated while the other prepared to dance.

My next discovery took my breath away. In the second niche
was another statue, this time without a pedestal. Instead, there
was a small block of variegated dark-green marble, and a statue.
By Degas, no less!

"I had no idea," I murmured.

The work, a ballet dancer, needless to say, was not one that
I had seen before, although it possessed the fragile silk skirt
that Degas often used for some of his earlier sculptures. The
child was arched back, one slender hand extended up, the other
bent to balance her pointed leg, emboite. But for the
disintegrating dress and the tiny bob of hair behind her head, it
could have been a boy.

Under the next sheet was a rolled-arm library-chair with
carved ivory legs and an ornate back. It needed to be upholstered
because there was a yellowish stain in the very center of the
seat. I replaced the cover and continued on.

The largest sheet was over what appeared to be a large couch.
It was placed before the dormer windows that looked out onto the
street. I lifted back the sheet to uncover a wide divan, a long,
cushioned seat without arms or back. It was upholstered in fur
from some exotic animal that was more than likely on the
endangered species list on a 'purple-heart-wood' frame. It was
the color of a plum. There was to the far side, a hand-tooled
brown leather cylindrical pillow, a bolster, of questionable
origin, but useful nonetheless. The divan was hardly the sort of
furniture that one expected to find outside Europe or the Near
East, although undoubtedly there were several antique pieces to
be found in the Upper East Side. At the end of the divan was a
small straw basket, one that I had sent her years ago. Then, it
had been packed with tins of caviar, pate de foie gras, and other
delicacies. When I lifted off the lid, the basket appeared to
contain dozens of strands and bands of beads and other costume
jewelry. I shook my head and wondered why.

So far, the room had been very surprising, providing
insights into my mother that I had never had before. I uncovered a
writing desk, beautifully inlaid with floral motives among burled
walnut that extended to its ornately carved legs, that was 19th
Century American and had probably been acquired by one of my
ancestors. There were several pieces of dainty French porcelain.

I opened the doors to a closet, not at all certain what I
would find inside. At first glance, I saw a row of gray plastic
bags. I knew that my mother had collected ballet costumes over the
years but I had no idea where she had put them. I lifted the
plastic covering of one costume. It was a delicately embroidered
short skirt of very flimsy, peach-colored material. I did not need
to see it off the hanger to know that was ideal for a young girl
dancer.

I ambled back to Peters who had been patiently waiting by the
door throughout my inspection.

"There is one thing more you should see, Sir," he added.

My exploration had taken me around the room, thereby
overlooking the sheet-draped form in the center. From its size and
shape I had presumed it to be another table with an oversized
vase, not unlike the desk had just seen and therefore not worth
the effort or trouble in getting myself covered in dust.

"It is the 'piece de resistance'," Peters added confidently.

He stepped forward, and with a flourish, lifted back the
sheet. It had been drained, but it was a fountain nonetheless.
There was an alabaster statue of a 'Cupid' in the center of pure
white marble basin.

"I only came in here once or twice, Sir. There used to be
orchids around it."

"How on earth did she manage to get that up here?" I laughed.

Peters chuckled. "Believe me, Sir, It took quite some
doing." He pointed to the skylight above. "When they put that in,
they used to crane to lift it up."

"It must weigh a ton."

"Several tons actually, Sir. I know we had to strength the
floor below with steel beams. It was very pretty when it was
working. I had the water drained once your mother became too sick
to come up here. All the plants would have long since died, of
course, so we moved them down to the atrium. They're doing very
nicely, although the light isn't as good as it is up here and your
mother did have a way with plants."

I slowly shook my head in disbelief. So much had been under
my nose and I had no idea. Much though I would have liked to
continue my exploration of my mother's 'private room', I decided
to keep that task for a later time. I was far more interested in
seeing the room that would be used by Alesha when he came to stay.



ACT I, SCENE VI.



The next evening I met Randal and Ioana for dinner at the
Russian Tea Room. Of the four floors, I had decided on the
traditional experience of the red leather banquette, surrounded
by gold samovars, ornate paintings and elaborate chandeliers, and
shining green walls.

I was anxious to break the news of my decision to both of
them, yet I was still having second thoughts. Not that I did not
want to be Alesha's patron, because I did, but simply because it
was difficult to change after a lifetime of being very careful to
conceal my real self. It was difficult enough under ordinary
circumstances where I could contain my enjoyment of young boys to
very private situations, but to be with Alesha and maintain any
semblance or a normal relationship would be close to impossible. I
was very afraid of being discovered. However, the decision had
been made and Peters had employed the cleaning company to overhaul
the attic, my mother's 'private room', and the fourth-floor
bedroom.

So, I apologized to Ioana and thanked Randal for bringing us
back together, and after we had ordered the first and second
courses of dinner, I returned cautiously to the conversation of
the previous day. Since we were seated in a booth there was little
chance of being overheard, yet I tried to appear blase despite my
excitement. I wanted everything to go perfectly. So much depended
upon it. Still, for the first time in a dozen years, I stuttered
when I started to speak. I had to stop and take a deep breath, let
it out slowly, and start again.

"Ioana, I've been giving what we talked about last time a lot
of thought," I began nervously.

I glanced at Randal. He returned an encouraging smile as he
dipped the spoon into the beluga caviar. Ioana nodded slightly. I
clasped my hands. This was the moment that I had feared. Perhaps
she had retracted her offer. Perhaps her situation had changed.
Perhaps she had decided to remain in New York. Perhaps,....

"Last time I proposed an option, but maybe it wasn't clear,
so I'll repeat it. I am going to use my own funds to establish
another scholarship for Alesha," I said firmly. "It will cover his
tuition and living expenses, and it will have the same travel
allowances as the senior dancers get. That's about $10,000 a year,
I believe. It will require nothing of Alesha except working very
hard at school," I added generously.

Randal nodded in agreement. He smiled, crinkling the corners
of his eyes. I paused, watching to see her reaction. Ioana said
nothing, yet there was relief on her face. The issue of my
becoming Alesha's 'patron' in order for him to continue at the
Academy was voided. I felt relief as well.

"I am also prepared to offer, should Alesha need it,
accommodation in my house while school is in session. And in Paris
too, should that need also arise."

Ioana nodded slightly. She had started to reach for her glass
of wine, but stopped with her fingers extended to the crystal
stem.

"There is a dance studio on the top floor which I am having
cleaned, and a very nice bedroom. My staff will do whatever they
can to ensure that he is comfortable, including taking him to
school and picking him up in the afternoon. I don't think the
subways are safe for a young boy by himself."

"He would live with you?" Ioana asked softly.

"In my house? Yes, if he wishes? If you want him to," I added
hopefully. "I can assure you that he will be safe, Ioana. I have
two live-in staff, a butler and a housekeeper. And I have a cook
come in five days a week who is quite capable of cooking anything
he would want to eat," I continued, thinking that most children
preferred hamburgers, and hotdogs. "Although her French cuisine
hasn't included french-fries up to today."

Ioana smiled. "She will not need to learn. Alesha is very
careful with his diet."

"I'm sure he is," I muttered, thinking of the lithe body I
had observed during the competition.

"He will not eat very much," Ioana said apologetically.
"However, he will always try different foods. Do not worry if
sometimes he barely touches his food. When he is hungry, he eats
like a normal boy."

"You will not be his patron?" she queried.

"No! At least not the way it is in Russia."

"You do not like boys?" she asked in a subdued voice. She
glanced at Randal, her eyes signalling her question.

"Um,..."

I shrugged. There was no point in denying what I had admitted
to Randal on the telephone. Perhaps she had overheard the
conversation.

"I do," I answered simply.

"You do not like Alesha then?"

"No! I mean yes, I like him. He's a very nice boy."

'Nice'? What did that mean? Alesha was wonderful, beautiful,
brilliant, an excellent dancer.

"It's just that, well,... It wouldn't be right. Alesha
deserves, he has the right to be the best he can be, without,
well, without what it means to have a patron,...." I replied
clumsily. I fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. "I'd like to
provide him with that opportunity without any strings attached."

She regarded me thoughtfully. Slowly, she smiled.

"I think that I like you, Mr. Beaufort," she said cautiously.
"I was not happy last time we met. I have good memories of my
patron, you understand, but I was a child when I started. I had no
choice but to share his bed if I wanted to dance. I do not want
that for Alesha."

"Alesha will have his own room," I said quickly.

She gestured as if another room was of little or no
significance. I took it the wrong way.

"It is on the floor above my room," I added with more force
than I intended.

"It is not important." She touched her breast, above her
heart. "It is in here that counts, Mr. Beaufort."

"Please call me Sheldon," I interjected.

"My Alesha needs you,... Shel-don," she said awkwardly. "My
son will be gay and it is right that you will be there for him."

I glanced at Randal. His hands were folded, fingers
intertwined. He had a faint smile.

"Um,... Well,... It's probably too soon to tell for
certain," I muttered.

"I know that he is," she said confidently. "I also know that
it will not be long before he begins to discover it for himself."
After a sip of her wine, she continued. "I am not surprised. I
have known only a few dancers who were not gay. I think to dance,
a boy, a man, must be that way. It is in the genes," she ended
with conviction.

"Maybe a lot are, but it's not absolutely certain," I
ventured.

"No, that is true. There are a few men who are not. My patron
was a very famous dancer, Yuri Garnov. For a long time, he was the
best in the Soviet, in the world perhaps. Now, he is the Director
of the Moscow Ballet," she said with pride. "He has no interest in
men."

"Ioana, I think it might help if you told Sheldon why you
left Russia," Randal suggested.

She inclined her head, then smiled. "I was a girl, just ten
years old when I started with my patron, you understand. My
parents were poor, and on the Collective, there was not much
choice for anyone. I was lucky to win a place in a regional talent
show. That helped me get into a children's summer program in
Moscow. Yuri was already very rich, and he often came to watch. It
was no secret that he was attracted to young girls. He met my
parents and they decided what was best, but there was no other
choice if I was to continue dancing."

She stopped to butter a slice of crusty bread and I picked up
the thread by describing a visit I made to Moscow several years
earlier. She smiled when I talked about trying to find a taxi to
take me around the city for a day.

"He had a dacha in the country. A beautiful villa from the
Tsarist era," she continued. "It was pink and white. My parents
took me there in the Collective's truck one afternoon. I was
introduced. Then, they drove off and left me with him. No
explanation, nothing!" She paused for dramatic effect. "I lost my
virginity within the hour. I was so frightened I could barely
speak."

"Oh dear. That's terrible."

"I knew nothing of sex," she explained with vague amusement.
"However, he taught me everything I needed to know within a week,
except birth control that is, and I didn't need to know that for
six years," she added cynically.

"Six years?"

"Delayed puberty is not uncommon among dancers," Ioana
replied. "I did not have my first period until I was nearly
sixteen." She smirked. "I expect Alesha will be the same. He works
so hard that it will take nature a long time to catch up. However,
it will not be very long before his body has energy for other
things. Already he is showing interest in men."

"That's one of the things I've noticed as well," Randal
admitted with a smirk.

Ioana laughed softly. "If there is both desire and time to
enjoy before the boy becomes a man, it is more fun for you?" she
observed with a friendly gesture that could be interpreted in any
of a dozen ways. Randal nodded.

"By the time I became a woman, Yuri's interest in me was
nearly gone, however, he continued to provide for me. That is the
obligation of the patron. It was because of him that I was able to
join the Kiev Ballet. I think he was glad to see me leave Moscow,
however, when he came to visit, we still made love." Ioana
shrugged absently. "Of course, Yuri would never use a
contraceptive with me. It took several visits before I became
pregnant."

"Yuri is,... Alesha's father?" I asked awkwardly.

"Yes. You see, my son truly has the genes of a great dancer,"
Ioana acknowledged with a smile. "He will also be a great dancer."

"His father,... your patron, he can't help?"

Ioana shook her head vigorously. "That one!" she said
vehemently. "He offered the help of one of his friends when Alesha
was barely seven. He was still a little boy and that man would
have him with a patron!"

"You mean?...."

I was shocked. The very idea of a seven-year-old boy being in
a homosexual relationship with a man in order to continue in
ballet school was appalling."

"It is why I left Russia," Ioana said dryly. "It is not that
I disagree with a patron for Alesha,.... but he was too young. He
would be hurt, perhaps so badly that he could not dance. And the
man who would have been his patron? He is rich enough, but without
breeding it is wasted. He is an entrepreneur."

"But eleven is okay?" I mused aloud.

Ioana shrugged dispassionately. "When he is ready, he is
ready," she said vaguely. "I think if you like boys, Mr.
Beaufort,... Shel-don,... you will like Alesha very much."

"I like what I've seen so far," I answered respectfully. "I
don't think I've ever met such a remarkable young person. Your son
is very talented. I'm certain that I will enjoy having him living
in my house."

"You will be happy together," Ioana continued thoughtfully.
"I have talked with him already, and I will do so again so that he
understands thoroughly what is expected of him. It is not right
that a child knows nothing of sex."

"Uh,... well,... I,.... I don't think,.... I mean I
know,.... we won't! I wouldn't,..."

Ioana gave a little chuckle that sounded like a clucking hen.
"He is a boy who likes men and you are a man who likes boys. It is
only to be expected you will make love to him. There are things he
needs to know before he bends over for you."

"Ioana! I would never do that! Not to him!" I said in heated
whisper.

"You've never been within a boy? But that is what gay men do,
is it not?" she asked with amusement.

"Well, yes,... ah,... I suppose it sometimes happens,... but
not all the time. He's still a boy," I added quickly. I could feel
my face becoming redder and redder. "And with Alesha, it's
entirely possible for us to be good friends and that's all."

She raised her eyebrows mockingly. "No matter! I will still
talk to him," she ended with her Russian accent.

For a moment I was reminded of the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show
on television. Ioana sounded like the ever-plotting Natasha. It
was the only one of my favorite shows I watched while growing up
that did not have boys appearing in it.

"How soon are you leaving for Texas?" I asked, valiantly
hoping to change the subject to something less provoking.

Ioana glanced at Randal.

"I haven't told him yet, Ioana," Randal said. "Sheldon,
they've asked Ioana to finish this season with them. It only
happened yesterday. She hasn't told Alesha yet, either."

"I am worried how he will take it," Ioana added. "He knows he
must stay in New York if he wants to become a great dancer. There
is nothing for him where I am going." Her voice was sad. "He was
hoping that we could go to Paris together for summer. At least for
a little while." She sighed and slumped her shoulders. "Now? I do
not know what to do. The scholarship you will give him is very
wonderful, but it seems it does not come soon enough. I think he
will have to come with me to Texas and then come back to New York
in the Autumn."

"When do you have to leave?" I asked.

"We are still talking. However, they want me very soon."

"In a week? A month?"

"They want Ioana to be in the next ballet they're putting
on," Randal answered. "It would be best if she was there quickly.
First thing next week would be ideal." He regarded me with undue
deliberation. "It would be a pity if Alesha couldn't finish this
term at the Academy. He's doing a solo in the Junior Program
Graduation Show."

I shook my head. Things were never as simple as they appeared
on the surface.

"I expect that we can have his room ready in a couple of
days," I offered uncertainly. "It would mean that it's not
redecorated, but it would be clean and comfortable. My mother used
to have girls from the Academy staying there before she started
the scholarship program. It's a very nice room, but not at all
what a boy would like," I explained.

"Oh, do not worry about that," Ioana laughed.

"Well, my mother had a thing with orchids," I explained. "The
walls are papered with a pink and grey floral pattern and the
bedspread and curtains are covered with something out of a
greenhouse, I'm afraid," I laughed.

"It is enough that he has a place to sleep. Besides, he is a
sensitive boy. He enjoys the flowers at the Conservatory. Anyway,
he will only be there at night, and then the lights are off so he
will not see," Ioana reasoned.

"Well, at least he could look at it before we do anything," I
said. "I'll have it ready by Friday. And the studio too, although
all it needs is a thorough cleaning. For that matter, Alesha could
even move in right away and stay in one of the spare bedrooms on
the third floor until his room is ready."

Ioana and I shared a long silence that was almost enjoyable
because the caviar was so good. I wondered what was going through
her mind. Perhaps it was the same thing that I was thinking about.
Alesha. Always Alesha, it seemed. Over the last few days I was
preoccupied with him. I had constant ideas about how to redecorate
his room, the theater-sound system I was having installed in the
attic, and even the new car that I was in the process of
purchasing, surely an unprecedented step for me. I turned to
Randal, having a problem I needed to solve in that regard.

"Randal, I've placed an order for a car," I began.

"You! I thought you had forsaken the automobile long ago, and
taken to using your feet as your only means of transport," he
sniggered. "And taxis too, of course."

"Only when it's raining or I'm in a hurry. In fact, I've
never bothered to get a driving license."

Randal laughed. I laughed with him; appreciative of the
opportunity for humor for until then it had been a very serious
conversation. Our salads arrived and we began to eat.

"The situation is that I've been trying to find a chauffeur,"
I continued between bites of romaine lettuce. "And I'm not having
much luck doing it. Either they are all ex-taxi drivers who don't
speak more than a few words of English or they have arrest records
as long as my arm."

Randal was attentive. He nodded slightly. "And you want
someone you can trust, of course. What are the hours?"

"It would be best if the person was flexible. He'll be
driving Alesha to and from school each day, but once he's there, I
usually wouldn't need him until sometime after lunch. He'd be
finished by six p.m. Perhaps one or two nights a week? I'm asking
you because I thought it might work for one of the dancers," I
suggested after a moment's thought.

"A driver? Hm,... If the job is anything like I imagine,
you'll want him to be discrete, of course," Randal mused. He
smiled knowingly. "How much are you willing to pay?"

"The going rate, whatever it is, plus a bonus if I'm
pleased," I added.

"Ideally, he'd be like-minded, wouldn't he? It would
simplify things, I'm sure. Would you be interested in an ex-
marine?" Randal suggested.

My mouth dropped open. "I'm not looking for a bodyguard,
Randal."

"Probably not, but I know someone who might be interested. A
friend of a friend you might say, Sheldon. He was stationed in
Okinawa until a year ago. Unfortunately, there was an incident
involving a local boy. His name came out in the investigation. He
wasn't officially charged with anything, but he still received a
dishonorable discharge. He's been looking for work since he
arrived in New York."

I nodded thoughtfully. "And he can drive?"

"Humvees, trucks, personnel carriers, you name it," Randal
joked. "He probably drives tanks as well."

"Well, the car I'm getting is definitely big enough to
qualify as a tank," I laughed. "Have him call Peters, or better
still, send him around. I'd like to meet your ex-marine."

"You really bought a car because of Alesha?" Randal said,
still disbelieving.

"Yes. A Bentley Arnage, in fact. God only knows why I need
all that power, though. It was the only car they could deliver
within a week. I saw it in the show room. It's quite an automobile
and my mother always had such good luck with Rolls. I hope things
haven't changed now that Rolls Motors have been acquired by
Volkswagen, though the Bentley is still hand assembled at Crewe
I'm told."

I enjoyed some of my Tsar's Salad, in reality a Russian
version of a caesar salad before I turned back to Ioana.

"Perhaps you had better tell me more about this boy who's
going to be living in my house. What have I gotten myself into?" I
joked.

"He's usually very quiet," Ioana remarked. "He's always been
very shy, but the last few months especially so."

"Why is that?" I asked curiously.

Ioana regarded me for a moment. "He's beginning to discover
who he is," she answered ambiguously. Then, she smiled. "I've
talked with him, but it must be very difficult for him. He's
always known that he's not like other boys. He's accepted that
he's different, but it makes him work even harder to be the best."

"He sounds like me," Randal interjected. "The other boys in
my class constantly made fun of me because I danced. It didn't
help that I was never interested in playing sports. And when the
few friends I had started getting interested in girls, it was
pretty much the end of that. I was lucky to meet someone who cared
for me. Of course, it was different then. There wasn't AIDS for
one thing, but the gay-bashing was just as bad."

Ioana nodded sympathetically. "I've worried a lot about him
getting Aids. Most gay men are so promiscuous, especially
dancers. I'm sure it goes for boys as well."

"Alesha hasn't,... I mean,..... um,... had sex?"

His mother smiled. "No, not yet. He'd tell me if he had, I
think. We're very close, perhaps closer than a mother should be to
her son, but he is all I have. I'll miss him dearly. He'll take my
leaving much the same way, I expect."

"Sheldon?"

I glanced at Randal. He pushed his salad plate away. Within
seconds a waiter had removed both plate and fork, refilled our
glasses with more of the wine I'd selected, and stepped away.

"What Ioana said, about dancers being loose, Sheldon. It's
true. It also goes for most of the boys too. Once Alesha starts at
the Academy, he'll be fighting them off. And not only boys. His
teachers too. Just about every man he'll come in contact with will
want him."

"Including you?" I quipped.

Randal winked. "I'd be lying if I didn't say that I'd be very
tempted to try. I know one thing though. I'd have some stiff
competition."

I chuckled at his innuendo. "I'm surprised you would be
tempted. I thought you were interested in young Darius," I added.

"I said I'd be tempted, not that I would make a play for him.
But trust me, others will. He's a virgin now, but he'll be lucky
to last a week before one of the boys gets him alone in a changing
room. It won't be rape, but it won't be love either."

"Perhaps it would be better if it was a boy who got him
started," I suggested half-heartedly. "The psychologists would
certainly say so. I'm old enough to be his grandfather."

"In Russia, it is usual for patrons to be older," Ioana
acknowledged with a smile. "A young man has neither the money nor
the interest in the welfare of his protege. Besides, I expect
Alesha will look upon you as the father he's never known. I don't
think it will take very long before he falls in love with you."

I felt my cheeks flush. Ioana spoke so candidly about things
that I concealed with almost fanatical zeal. And so did Randal,
for that matter. It would be easy to convince myself that it was
because I had much more to lose.

"And he'll be safer," Randal added. "I would not have
introduced you to Alesha and his mother, Sheldon, if I thought
there was the slightest possibility of you hurting the boy in any
way." He paused. "It isn't common knowledge, but we had a problem
last year."

"Yes?" I gestured for him to continue.

"One of our older boys was diagnosed with AIDS." He shook his
head sadly. "Fortunately, we caught it in time before he passed it
around. There are several of us, teachers who know what it's like
for them,... We talk privately to the boys. I've even managed to
locate a pharmaceutical supply place who will sell us condoms by
the box. The boys know where to find them. Some do," he added,
leaving the implication unstated.

"Mr. Beaufort,... Shel-don,.... I must ask. I'm sorry, but
it would wrong if I did not..... Do you?...."

I quickly shook my head. "No, thank God! I was lucky. When I
was younger,.... Um, and I was more active, shall we say,... it
wasn't a problem. I've been very careful to use a condom if
there's even the slightest risk of infection. Of course, I will
get myself tested to make sure,..." I added gratuitously.

Ioana did not respond. Our dinners arrived. I had chosen a
coulibiac of salmon, in puff pastry and champagne sauce, a choice
that was equal to anything I had eaten at the Tavern on the Green.
It struck me, as I ate with gastronomic relish, that with a
Russian boy in tow, I would probably be eating often at the
Russian Tea Room.


END ACT I.


INTERMISSION