Date: Mon, 10 Aug 2009 10:44:01 EDT
From: Park517@aol.com
Subject: as flies to wanton boys  4

"As Flies to Wanton Boys," the story that follows in multiple episodes,
appeared ten years ago as my first submission to the Nifty Archive. Its 46
pages are still there: www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/divine-neglect
under the title "Divine Neglect" for readers who want to consume the whole
thing in one sitting.  That 1999 version, slightly edited and revised, will
now appear in shorter takes and, because several readers were unhappy about
the way things ended, new chapters follow.

[DISCLAIMER: The following completely fictional story, the sole copyright
for which belongs to the author and translator, contains explicit
depictions of sex between men and should not, therefore, be read by anyone
under the legal age of consent in whatever jurisdiction or by anyone
offended by homoerotic and/or pornographic material.  It is forbidden to
post the text electronically or disseminate it in any manner without
permission of the copyright holders.  The author welcomes comments which
the translator, -- park517@aol.com -- will forward at his discretion.]


DIVINE NEGLECT    	Chapter Four


I woke to find Rifat sitting in a straight chair next to the bed, holding a
mug and a plate with slices of bread, some goat cheese and a mound of fruit
preserves, looking directly at me and crying in complete silence.  I sat up
sharply and reached for him.  "Oh, God, sweet boy, what's the matter now?"

	"Your coffee's cold," he sobbed.

	"I like it cold.  No, it's something else.  Tell me.  Why are you
crying like that?  Let me help."

	He set the cup down, handed me the plate and moved to the bed to
sit beside me.  He buried his face in my neck as I stroked his back and for
at least a minute he said nothing.  "Mitya, I've been sitting there looking
at you.  You are not too hairy.  You are supremely beautiful, and I can't
understand why your Ivo ever left you."

	"That's nothing to cry about.  It turned out all right for me.  I
found you."

	"I was crying because I didn't tell you the truth this morning."

	"About what?"

	"I said I am a believer.  I'm not, not anymore."  I started to
interrupt him and say how unimportant that was.  "No, I have to tell you.
Watching your face, so calm and handsome, and your body, so ... so perfect,
I started to think of Alif.  And how beautiful he was and how they killed
him."  The sobbing returned.

       "And how you will die," the boy plunged on through his tears, "and I
will die and how, even if we live to get old, we will never again be as
beautiful for each other as we are now.  I don't know, maybe your hair will
fall out.  Or you'll get a tic.  Or I'll grow a belly.  And anyway, we'll
die.  So it doesn't make any sense to believe in a God who lets all of that
happen.  And I don't believe.  I don't," he wailed and gave himself over
completely to a terrible existential grief.

	I was stunned.  I held him as tightly to me as I could and pushed
up the back of his blouse so my hand could go under it and caress his warm,
naked back while my mind searched for a way to calm him, to reassure him,
to overcome the horrors he had witnessed and the specter of the inevitable
that, like Medusa, could turn him to stone.  Kisses wouldn't drive the
vision away.  Love might hold it at bay.  In addition, I wanted to try
philosophy.

	"Rifat, will you let me talk to you?"  I asked when I thought his
laments were ebbing.

	"It won't do any good," he moaned.

	"But let me try, sweetheart," I beseeched him.  "I can't let you be
so sad all by yourself when I love you the way I do."

	"How do you love me?"

	"Enough to hope you do grow a belly so that you won't be too
perfect and make the world jealous of you."

	"I'm not perfect."

	"You are for me.  I even love your zigzaggy little appendix scar."

	"You do?"  He lifted his head from my shoulder and gave a flicker
of a smile.  "Do you know what I call it?"

	"No.  What?"

	"Zeus' footprint.  Did you know that we Albanians worshipped Zeus
when we were Illyrians and the masters of ancient Greece?"

	"No.  Before my time.  Look how much you have to teach me."

	This time it was a full grin.  I'd forgotten how fast an
adolescent's moods could swing.  "Have you been eating my honey?" I asked.

	"Guilty, your honor.  It's very good.  Can you smell it on my
breath?"

	"No.  But I can see a piece of the comb stuck between your teeth."
I put a finger into his mouth and dislodged the bit of wax.  He closed his
lips on my finger and pulled it far enough in so that his tongue could wash
it.  I had an instant erection and betrayed myself with a moan.

       He released my digit, looked into my lap and actually giggled.
"What do you call that, your manliness, Zeus' thunderbolt?"

	"No," I replied.  "Rifat's flying buttress.  My love, can we be
serious, please?  About God.  About believing.  About love and life."

	"I can't think about all that when I see you naked.  Put on your
clothes first.  They're all clean and dry and ironed."  He pointed to a
neat stack at the foot of the bed.  "And then you can eat the food I
brought you and drink the fresh cup of coffee I'm going to make you."  He
got up and retrieved the mug from the floor, but as he bent to get it, he
put his lips on the tip of my penis and kissed it.  "I don't know what a
flying buttress is," he said, "but if that's mine, it's an example to all
the other buttresses in the world."

	"Don't go, Rifat, please.  I can drink the coffee cold.  And I can
talk while I dress."

	"It's instant coffee," he answered.  "The water's hot.  I'll just
be gone an instant, and the way you are," he stroked my cock, "you won't be
able to dress very fast anyway."  Then he was out the door.  I tried to
prove him wrong by setting a speed record for dressing, but although he had
done a wonderful job with the laundry, he had used a lot of starch.  There
was a knife-edge crease not only to my trousers, but also to my
undershorts.  Their stiffness reminded me of the one time I had seen my
father put on a tailcoat and white tie and had watched him struggle,
wincing and cursing, into his boiled shirt and prickly collar.  As I was
trying to arrange my testicles so that the unbending fabric of the drawers
did not make me a eunuch, Rifat reappeared with a steaming cup.

	"Those are mine," he slapped my hand lightly away from my groin.
"They are indispensable parts of my buttress, and you may not play with
them without my permission."

	"Yes, your worship."  I took the drink from him and sipped it.  It
was as sugary as the morning's tea.  Sometime soon I would have to tell him
I didn't really care for sugar.  But not yet.  He had my socks in his hand
and, pushing me to sit on the bed, he stretched them over my feet.  Then
the undershirt went over my bent head, the trousers up my legs and the
shirt onto my torso.  As he buttoned it and tucked it under my waistband,
he kissed me.

	"What's that for?" I asked.

	"For holding me whenever I cry.  I'm sorry.  I cry a lot.  I'll get
tougher."

	"Don't."  I kissed him back.

	"What's that for?"

	"I've never kissed a laundress before, and it may be a long time
before I get to do it again.  Thank you, Rifat.  You're a wonder worker.  I
feel almost presentable."  I stood up.  "How do I look?"

	"Like Alexander the Great in camouflage.  He was an Illyrian, too."

	"You do have a lot to teach me."  I handed him the cup, pulled a
second chair close to his by the side of the bed and sat down opposite him
so that our knees touched.  I spread cheese and preserves on a slice of
bread and offered it to him.

       He shook his head.  "I've eaten.  This is for you."

	I chewed and swallowed, prepared another portion, drank some more
coffee and tried to fathom the intelligence, the fears and, I was sure, the
love in his amazing, storm-cloud eyes.  "Rifat, about God.  I am a
believer.  I believe we wouldn't exist without a creating spirit of some
sort, but I also believe that since the creation, that spirit hasn't
bothered to pay us much attention.  That's why we do such awful things to
each other.  God is there but he or she or it is looking the other way."

	He gazed thoughtfully back at me.  "Mitya, do you know 'King Lear'
by Shakespeare?"

	"Yes.  Not well."

	"We were reading it in literature class.  We have a teacher who
treats us like grown-ups.  I didn't understand it all, but I remember some
of the lines.  There's one place where a noble who has had his eyes put out
says, 'As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods.  They kill us for their
sport.' I'm sorry, but I think that's really the way things are."

	My mouth dropped open in astonishment and admiration.  The boy had
spoken the lines in perfect English and clearly understood them just as
perfectly.  He misunderstood my reaction.

	"Did I say it wrong?"

	I shook my head.  "No, Rifat," I took one of his hands.  "You just
amazed me that's all.  I never studied 'King Lear' in high school."

	"I go... I went to a special school.  Our people organized them so
we could study in Albanian.  We don't have enough books or desks, but we
have some very good teachers."  He paused.  He took his hand away and wiped
at his eyes.  "Had.  Had some very good teachers.  They shot the man who
taught English.  In front of his door.  I saw the body when I ran away.

       "'Wanton boys.'"  He used the English words.  "I can't believe in
gods who kill for sport."

       "You don't have to," I reached for his hand again.  "You shouldn't.
I don't think belief has much to do with dying and nothing to do with
killing.  Mine only helps me to make sense, sometimes, of living."

       "Your god isn't interested in the way we live or whether we live,"
the boy came back at me.  "Not paying attention.  That's what you just
said."

       "But what if I was able to do something that did catch the god's
eye?  Or the deity happened to take a passing look and noticed me.  Either
way, I would want to be doing something good, something fine, something
that might get that god to take a healthy, helpful interest in me and in
human beings in general."

       "Lots of people have tried to live that way, and it hasn't done any
good that I can see."

       "But someday it might.  You never know.  It just seems to me better
somehow to act as if good could come of it."  I spread another hunk of
cheese on my bread.  Rifat watched me, but said nothing.  I imagined that
he was trying to phrase a rebuttal.

	"Dearest one," I said.  "Have you ever heard of Andrei Sakharov?"

	"No.  Who is he?"

	"Was.  A great physicist.  A Russian.  He invented their hydrogen
bomb, but then he became an opponent of the Communists, a peaceful,
powerful opponent and a great moral thinker."

	"Did he become religious, a believer?"

	"I don't think so.  When he won the Nobel Peace Prize, the Soviets
wouldn't let him go to receive it.  But he sent his lecture to Norway, and
his wife read it for him.  He ended it by speculating that the universe
could easily be full of other, better civilizations than ours but that even
so, even with lives as short as ours, we had to do our very best."

       I groped in my memory for the exact words, and they came.  "'We must
make good the demands of reason,' he said, 'and create a life worthy of
ourselves and of the goals we only dimly perceive.'"

       "That's wonderful," the boy breathed.  "But very hard."

       "Yes.  Very hard, especially in the middle of madness."

       "What about the demands of love?"

       "Maybe even harder.  I can't bring myself to love the sergeant."

       Rifat snorted.  "Not even god could do that."  We heard loud voices
downstairs.  "Speak of the Serb devil," the boy said.  "I'll go give him a
kiss."

       "Not yet," I answered.  "First," I got up, "why don't you see if
these fit?" I handed him the parcel of clothes.  "I'd like to see you
dressed as a man for a change."

       He hefted the package and smiled broadly.  "How about undressed as a
man?"  Rifat stepped out of the skirt and put my hand on the bulge in his
panties.  "Can I give you a kiss, your munificence?"  He tilted his face up
and I kissed him.

	"One kiss now.  Lots later," I said.  "I love you, my love.  We're
going to have all our lives for kissing."

	Voinovic and the two others had had a very successful outing.
Their knapsacks bulged with provisions found, they said, in abandoned
houses, and Drazha had charge of a bleating young goat "just wandering
around lost, lieutenant, and tame as a kitten."  The sergeant, however, had
something of which he was even more proud.  "Where's the boy?" he asked
with an eager smile.  "I have a present I think he'll like."

	Just then Rifat appeared at the door to the kitchen.  He wore
shoes, socks and one of the shirts I'd bought but still had the flowered
skirt around his waist.  He seemed pale and terribly unhappy.

	"Didn't the track suit fit?"  I went straight to him and kept my
voice low as the others chattered.

	"I don't know, sir.  I didn't try it on.  Thank you, anyway.  I can
get along like this."

	"Rifat, Rifat, tell me what the matter is.  What's wrong with the
suit?"

	"Nothing.  It's very nice.  But I can't wear it."  Tears dripped
down his cheeks.  "It's just...," he stammered, "just like the one my
brother had on when they shot him.  It's what I buried him in.  I'm sorry,"
he clutched my arm fiercely.  "I can't.  It would bring bad luck."

	"Of course, you can't."  I put my other arm over his shoulder and
leaned down to whisper in his ear.  "I love you.  I'll find better clothes
in another store.  I'm so sorry, Rifat.  I didn't know.  I didn't guess."

	"Excuse me, sir." Voinovic was behind me.  "Can I show something to
the kid?"

	I moved so that Rifat stood in front of me and held him by the
shoulders, worried that the crude sergeant was about to taunt him in some
way.  But Voinovic was beaming and holding up a pair of jeans for the
youngster to examine.  To my eye, they were badly, irregularly faded.
Also, there was a tear over one knee.

	Rifat loved them.  "For me?" he squealed.  "Can I try them on?"
His skirt was instantly on the floor, and the cherry red briefs I'd bought
him were his only concession to modesty until he had pulled on the denim
pants, zipped up the fly and snapped the waist closed.

       "They fit," he exulted.  "They're wonderful.  Sergeant, you are
wonderful.  Thank you," he kissed a startled Voinovic on both cheeks.
"Thank you.  You're too nice."

	"Least I could do," his benefactor muttered.  "Gotta keep the cook
happy, after all.  They weren't doing anybody any good on a clothesline."

	The jeans were, in fact, fairly snug, faded in suggestive places
and ripped just below one back pocket.  The boy's red underwear flashed
through, but after I pointed out the defect and he wiggled a finger in the
opening, his smile was broader than ever.  "I love them," he declared.
"It's great to be in pants again."

	"You don't mind showing your underclothes off to the world?"

	"No.  I might even catch the eye of another god."  He squeezed my
hand, laughing, happy, young and carefree, and again I marveled at his
ability to bounce from despair into joy.

	Voinovic showed him the little goat, and Rifat agreed to cook it.
"I'll even skin it," he said, "but somebody else has to cut its throat and
drain off the blood.  I don't like the sight of blood."

	Arrangements were made.  The menu was discussed, and nobody noticed
as I walked out to my motorcycle and headed away into town.  There the
major confirmed my orders: report with our unit to Pristina, attach myself
to the German advance team, be useful but not too useful.  "And you should
look like you've been out in the field, lieutenant," he scolded.  "Your
uniform is too clean and too neat.  Go roll in something nasty."

	The next morning, he added, we were all to report to company HQ and
board buses for Pristina.  There would be 15-day leave passes for all the
men and onward transportation from the Kosovo capital back to Serbia.  I
told him my squad had acquired a mascot whom we had to take as far as
Pristina.  He would need a laissez-passer as well because his papers had
been lost.  The major blustered at first but then gave in.

       When I gave him Rifat's name, though, he looked at me suspiciously.
"A Shqiptar?"  he asked.

       "A Kosovar.  A citizen of Yugoslavia.  Sir, he's a kid, a teenager.
He's been very helpful to my men, and if we can get him as far as Pristina,
he can straighten out the documents problems and find his missing
relatives."

	"Only if he's got divine help," the major replied.  "I don't think
Eve could find Adam in this mess."  He looked at me hard.  "I'll give you
the pass, lieutenant, but you're responsible.  Keep the boy out of trouble,
out of sight."

	"Yes, sir." I saluted.  "I will.  Thank you very much, sir."

	The news, especially the prospect of two weeks leave, heightened
the merriment that had already gripped my squad as they prepared the
evening meal.  The nettle soup, Rifat's braised goat, platters of onions
and cabbage, a garnish of pickled watermelon rind, the repast was
pronounced a triumph.  Wine washed it down.  Brandy topped it off, and
after we'd eaten, Petya announced that he'd located a Euroshow music
festival on the television set in the main room.  Since the sofa and chairs
were quickly occupied, Rifat settled himself on the floor to watch, resting
his shoulders on Voinovic's knees, and the sergeant, I saw, occasionally
leaned forward and ruffled the boy's hair.

       The programming was not my taste, and after a while I excused myself
to read in my room.  "I may be asleep when you come up," I told Rifat, "so
please tiptoe."  With a wink, he gave his promise.  In fact, it was less
than 30 minutes later when he quietly pushed open the door and found me
stretched out with my book under the glare of the ceiling lights.  He
promptly turned them off.

	"How can I read without light?" I protested.

	"This is not the time for reading, your learnedness," he grinned.
"And for light," he went to the window and pushed open the heavy metal
shutters, "we have the moon."

       He was right.  The room filled with a silver shimmer, and the night
air carried a breath of sweetness from nearby flowering trees and shrubs.
This fertile land, as indifferent to hateful, homicidal men as the
indifferent god I conceived, was renewing its riches and beauty and would
soon be lush again.  No wonder Serbs coveted it, I thought.  No wonder they
massacred to take it, even without intending ever to occupy it.