Date: Thu, 10 Sep 2009 13:07:38 EDT
From: Park517@aol.com
Subject: As Flies to Wanton Boys -- Chapter 7

"As Flies to Wanton Boys," the story that follows 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 version has now been slightly edited and revised into shorter takes.

Because several readers in 1999 and since were unhappy about the way
"Divine Neglect" ended, the author had planned to post a sequel. Having
received only one feedback comment in the weeks since the first chapter
appeared, however, he is reconsidering that decision since there seems to
be next-to-no interest in the story.

[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 Seven



       I devised a plan as we trotted to company headquarters -- my
battered motorcycle wouldn't start -- and I rehearsed it as our overcrowded
bus crawled to Pristina along cratered roads through ghost-haunted, burned
villages and as I said good-bye to Voinovic, Stankovic and Makaveyev, all
of them headed home with the battalion. My idea was to persuade the Germans
that an Albanian-speaker who knew the countryside and some of what had
happened in it would be a genuine asset to their mission.  They agreed, or
rather Colonel Haffengot, the tall, blond, Prussian officer to whom I
reported, agreed.

       "It's a good idea, lieutenant," he said, "but you're not the first
to have it.  We have a full complement of English-speaking Albanian
refugees on the roster already, and I'm sure you'll understand that the
recommendation of a Yugoslav Army officer is not likely to weigh heavily in
our decisions on matters of personnel."  He gave me a cold, blue-eyed stare
of total distrust, and I knew that it would be useless to protest.

       "Thank you, sir," I squared my shoulders and tried to look military.
"I understand completely.  I am responsible for the young man though and I
need to arrange a place for him to stay.  His entire family was killed and
their home burned so he has nowhere to go.  If I could have a few days
free, I'll try to find someone here in Pristina to take him in or escort
him to my parents in Montenegro."

       The colonel looked at his wrist-watch and then at me.  "I can give
you two hours and fifteen minutes, lieutenant," he said.  "At 1830 hours
this headquarters will move to Djakovica.  By helicopter.  You are now part
of this command.  You will move with it.  Do I make myself clear?"

       "Yes, sir."  I saluted and, in near despair, hurried out to the
street where Rifat was waiting.  Mirko was with him.  The corporal had
decided to activate his 15-day pass in Kosovo and make his way home through
Montenegro where an old girl friend lived.  He was now my last hope.
"Mirko," I ran up to him. "I can't do anything for Rifat here.  Could he
travel with you?  My parents live in Cetinje.  I'm sure they'll take him
in."

       "What about you?" Rifat interjected.  "I want to be with you,
Mitya."

       "And I want to be with you, but in about two hours I'm being taken
to Djakovica, and there's no room in the helicopter for Albanians who have
friends in the Yugoslav military.  I'm sorry."  I clutched his arm.  "Hell,
that's not the word for it.  I'm devastated.  But, Rifat, my mother and
father will like you, and you'll like them.  My father taught history.  And
it's safe there.  This assignment won't last for ever.  I'll be with you
soon."

	"Rifat," Mirko weighed in.  "I'd be grateful for the company.  I'll
look out for you if you'll look out for me.  This part of Greater Serbia is
about to be a somewhat uncomfortable place for Serbs, especially in
uniform."

	The boy turned back to me, a look of total misery on his face.  "I
could get to Djakovica," he said.  "It isn't that far."

	"But where would you stay?" I asked. "I don't even know what I'll
be doing there or for how long.  Rifat, please, this is so hard.  Don't
make it harder.  I'll come to you as soon as I can, or I'll work something
out so that you can come to me.  Please."

	He bit his lip.  His eyes filled, but they didn't overflow.  And he
nodded.  I put my hands on his shoulders.  "It'll be all right," I
whispered to him.  "It won't be long.  I promise."

	Rifat knew the way to the bus station.  He had visited Pristina
with his mother on several futile trips to see cancer specialists.  And we
were able to buy tickets for him and Mirko to Pec where they would connect
to a bus to Montenegro.  Even though the tickets were for scheduled
service, the motherly clerk warned that the roads were in bad shape and the
vehicles overcrowded.  "If you haven't got a sleeping bag," she said to
Mirko, "you'd better buy one.  Nothing's working the way it did in the old
days."

	Mirko thanked her and gave Rifat a wink.  "I've got a sleeping bag,
kiddo," he said.  "Big enough for two at a pinch."

	"No pinching," I said, pretending to be jealous.  "No pawing.
Those are orders."

	"Yes, lieutenant, sir," Mirko snapped me a mock salute.

       Rifat gave a wan smile.  He was still desolate.  To distract him, I
gave him some money to buy food both for an immediate meal and for the
road.  At a kiosk I bought writing paper and an envelope and found a bench
in the bustling gloom of the station where I could compose a hasty letter
to my parents.  I told them my news, introduced Rifat as a war orphan I had
helped and asked them to take care of him until I could get home.  "He is
very bright and quick and has excellent manners," I wrote, "but he has just
lost all of his family, and his moods can cycle unpredictably from
adolescent high spirits to the depths of depression.  Please be patient
with him.  I will be with you as quickly as possible."

       I signed the letter and started to fold it.  Then I added two
sentences.  "P.S. If Petar has some free time, maybe he could teach Rifat
to play tennis.  He wants to learn."

       Petar, a cousin and a friend, was not only a very good tennis player
but a notorious Don Juan.  He might well help Rifat find a willing girl.  I
wanted to be sure that the boy I loved sampled other kinds of love before
he tied his fate to me I did not really doubt the outcome, but I did not
want him torn some day by regrets for experiences he had never had.

	I had finished the letter and put my parents' address and telephone
number on the envelope when Rifat and Mirko returned carrying greasy
cevapcici [spicy pork kebabs - Trans.], bottles of warm beer and a sack of
oranges.  "Don't sneer," Mirko warned me.  "These things cost an arm and a
leg.  Someone is getting very rich off this war, and it isn't me."

	We ate and drank in silence, Rifat with his eyes cast down, making
no response other than a shrug of his shoulders as Mirko teased him about
the sins he was committing by swallowing pork and alcohol.  "You two are
not exactly sparkling company," the corporal said as he finished and got
up.  "If you'll excuse me, I'll take a walk and give my digestive system a
chance to survive."

	Grateful for his tact, I gave him a look of thanks.  He gave me a
wink and disappeared.  Rifat turned to me and clutched both my hands in
his.  "This is awful, Mitya, awful," he groaned.  "I can't do it.  I can't
leave you.  We've only had two days together.  Don't go.  Please, don't go.
You're all I have in the world."  The color of burnished pewter, his eyes
filled again and this time overflowed.  He put his head down on my knees
and sobbed.

	I freed my hands and began to rub his neck and back.  "Sweetheart,
my beloved boy," I murmured, "every minute away from you is going to be an
hour of terrible pain and longing for me.  I can't believe that I could
become so close to someone in such a short time, but you are now my world
and my life.

       "But I can't disobey these orders.  I hope my father can use his
influence to get me released quickly.  But we can't count on that.  We have
to be realistic.  And once this is over, we'll never be apart again.  I
promise.  I want to see what you'll look like naked and brown with a big
mustache on that beautiful face of yours."

	Rifat raised his head and wiped his forearm over his tear-streaked
cheeks.  "You are my world, too, Mitya, and my life."  He tried to smile
but only grimaced.  "I know this is the only way, but I'm so scared.  I
told you last night that I love you because you love me.  You didn't just
save me from being killed.  You saved me from being alone.  Now, I will
have to be alone again, and I don't know how I can live like that.  With
the nightmares.  With the fear and the shame."

	He stopped abruptly and clutched me.  "I'm afraid, Mitya.  I'm a
coward."  His tears began again.

	I pulled away and gave him a quick, stinging slap on the cheek.
"Stop it," I said. "Stop right now, Rifat.  You're not a coward.  You're
not a baby.  You're the strong, wonderful, beautiful young man I adore.
You won't be alone.  There's Mirko.  And my parents.  And I've asked them
to introduce you to a cousin of mine, a tennis player.  You'll meet new
people.  You'll have fun.  Your ghosts won't go away, but you'll learn to
control them.  And I'll be in your thoughts all the time, just the way
you'll be in mine."

	He looked at me with hurt astonishment.  "Why did you hit me?"

	"Why did you bite me?"

	"So you wouldn't go off."  He thought for a moment and laughed.
"Oh, I love you so much, your brutishness.  Can I demonstrate one of my
hugs?"

	"Please do.  That would make me very happy."

	We wrapped our arms tight around each other and in silence laid our
heads on each other's shoulders.  Finally, Rifat spoke.  "This model hug
comes with a special kiss."  He brought his face to mine and rubbed our
noses together.

	"Thank you, Mitya," he said.  "Thank you for loving me enough to
hit me when I was being a fool.  I'll be all right now.  I'll be strong and
brave like a good Muslim boy."

	I looked at him and tried to believe him and to believe that I
could be strong and brave, too.  "My sweet Muslim love, can I give you
something to keep for me until we're together again?"  I reached behind my
neck and undid the chain my mother had given me.  "Would you wear this,
even with the cross?"

	He took it from me and put it around his neck.  His eyes grew
liquid again.  "I'm not going to cry," he said.  "I'm not."  He took a deep
breath.  "Mitya, I have nothing of my own to give you, but I did save
something to remind me of how we met."

       He dug into a shopping bag that held, I thought, only the few
clothes I'd bought for him the day before.  From it, though, he handed me a
grimy piece of studded leather.  It was the dog collar I'd taken off his
neck before washing him under the pump.  I shuddered slightly at the memory
it brought back.

       "You don't have to wear it," he tried to smile.  "But if you carry
it in your pocket, maybe you won't forget me right away."

       It was my turn to fight back tears.  "I won't forget you soon," I
stood up, "or ever.  I will be thinking of you every minute of every day
and I will probably be so inefficient that the Germans will send me away.
If I don't go to them, though, right now, they will have me shot for
desertion.  Goodbye, Rifat.  Be strong.  Be brave.  Be the boy I love."

	I bent to embrace him, but he stopped me.  He stood, took my right
hand and put it to his lips, then to his breast and finally, bowing
slightly, to his forehead.  He looked up at me.  "Goodbye, your honor," he
said.  "That is the way a good Muslim boy says farewell to someone he
respects and loves.  I will be waiting for you."

	I turned and hurried out of the station, almost running into Mirko
in the doorway.  "Take care of yourself, corporal," I said, "and of Rifat.
Damn, I nearly forgot."  I handed him the letter I'd written my parents and
then I had a last thought.  "Mirko, are you carrying a weapon?"

	"No.  When I went on leave, I turned in my gun.  Why?"

	"Because you never know."  I handed him the pistol I wore tucked in
my belt.  "Keep it out of sight. But keep it until you get to my parents'
home."

	"Sure.  Will do.  Don't worry.  And don't let the Krauts fuck you
over."  We shook hands, embraced and parted.  I made it to the Germans'
temporary headquarters with only five minutes to spare and, as punishment
for my unmilitary tardiness, was the only passenger on the helicopter to
Djakovica who was not given earphones to drown out the ferocious noise of
the engine.

	The next three days passed in total confusion that ended, at least
for me, when the German forces decided they could easily do without my
services.  Finding that I spoke better English than German, they
transferred me to the Canadian contingent investigating war crimes in the
region.  Policemen instead of soldiers, the businesslike Canadians actually
seemed glad to have my help in persuading both Serbs and Albanians to
recount and even to reconcile their wildly differing versions of events.
One uniformed young detective, Herb Inkvist, became genuinely cordial as we
worked together and allowed me on my second evening with the unit to use
its satellite communications gear to call home.

	My mother answered, cheerful, relieved to hear from me, anxious
about my health, full of family news and local gossip.  Finally, I managed
to interrupt her to ask after Rifat.

       "Who?" she asked.

       "The Albanian boy I sent to you.  Didn't he bring you my letter?"

       "Your father got a letter, but he said a young woman brought it.
Nobody else came.  He didn't mention a boy.  Your father's not here now,
but he said that if you telephoned, you should talk to the young woman.
Just a minute.  I have her name and number here someplace."  There was a
pause, long enough for a knot of fear to cramp my stomach.  Something had
happened.  Something had happened to Rifat.

       My mother picked up the receiver again.  "I found it, son.  Her name
is Katja.  She told your father that she knew you at school.  Do you miss
school, Mitya?  Are you going to have to take the whole year over?"

       "Please, Mama, the phone number," I begged.  "We'll talk about
school when I get home.  I'm not allowed to use this telephone for more
than a few minutes.  Please."

        Grudgingly, she gave me the number and, full of foreboding, I
dialed it.  For what seemed an eternity, it rang and rang.  Just as I was
about to give up, a woman answered, breathless, flustered.

	"May I speak to Katja, please?  This is Dmitrij Njegos.  I'm
calling long distance."

	"Dmitrij?  It's me.  Katja."  She gave her last name.  It rang no
bells.  "You don't remember me, do you?  It was in the sixth class, a long
time ago.  I had a long braid, and you and your friend, Ivo, used to tease
me that only pirates and Chinamen wore pigtails."

	I did remember.  Sort of, but not clearly.  I apologized for
forgetting.  She apologized for being out of breath.  She had just come in
when she heard the telephone ringing and dashed upstairs to answer it.
Then she delivered the blow.

       "I'm so sorry, Dmitrij.  About your friend, I mean.  He was such a
nice boy.  Did your father tell you?"

	Was!?  I began to scream, silently, inside.  "No, Katja," I said,
maintaining as calm a tone as I could.  "I don't know what you're talking
about.  I haven't talked to my father.  Thank you for delivering my letter,
but how did you happen to have it?"

	Returning from work as a translator for the United Nations in the
Macedonian refugee camps, she had been on the bus from Pec to Montenegro,
sitting with a friend across the aisle from Rifat.  They had struck up a
conversation.  He asked her what he should do to find out if his aunt and
uncle were in Macedonia.  She found out that the rest of his family had
been killed, but that a Yugoslav officer, a Montenegrin, had saved his
life.  When the bus crawled through the beautiful gorge past the great
monastery at Decani, Katja told him about King Stephen buried there for
nearly 700 years, a ruler blinded by his father, who had killed his brother
and been strangled by his son, but who was considered a saint by the Serbs
and worshipped by Muslims as a healer of sick children.

	"We talked about religion, about belief," Katja told me, "and
Dmitrij, he was so thoughtful, so grown-up for such a young boy.  He said
he thought there had to have been a force that created the universe and
that is responsible for our existence.  He told me that someone he loved
very much had told him always to act as if that deity might be paying
attention.  And that's the way he did act, Dmitrij.  It's why he was shot."

	"What do you mean?" I screeched.  "Shot?  By whom?  How?  Oh God,
Katja, what happened?"

	About 15 kilometers east of the Montenegrin border, she said, the
bus had been stopped, as it had been repeatedly that afternoon, in a snarl
of cars and trucks all trying to negotiate a narrow path between shell
craters on the battered road.  Partially uniformed men in masks, carrying
machine guns, had pushed their way onto the bus and forced two Yugoslav
Army soldiers seated toward the front to get off.  The leader had come
toward the rear and, though Rifat's sleeping seatmate was wearing a blue
athletic jacket, had spotted the uniform under it, shook him awake and
ordered him out of the bus.

	"Rifat tried to protect him, Dmitrij.  I was with another woman who
spoke Albanian, and she heard the boy say that the soldier had saved his
life, that he was a good man.  The man with the gun was big and brutal, and
he just pushed the boy out of the way.  He grabbed a gold chain that Rifat
was wearing, looked at the cross on it and spat in Rifat's face.  He called
him a Serb-lover and a traitor.  And he knocked him down and pushed the
soldier down the aisle to the door."

	She stopped.  "Is that all, Katja?  Tell me what happened," I
pleaded in despair.

	 "The boy got up and he reached into a shopping bag in the rack
over his seat and brought some kind of pistol out of it.  He took a letter
out of his pocket and asked me to deliver it if he didn't come back.  Then
he raced down the aisle to the front door, shouting."

	"Shouting what?"

	"It was very strange.  He was yelling at the man in the mask.  He
said, 'You mustn't hurt them.  You mustn't.  What if a god is watching
you?'

	"As he jumped off the bus, the man who had hit him turned around.
I guess he saw the pistol.  He fired his gun, and Rifat fell.  And our
driver panicked and closed the door and pulled the bus away.  My friend had
the window seat.  She said she was sure the boy was dead. That he had died
instantly."

       I could hear that Katja was in tears.  She paused.  I couldn't
speak.  After a few moments, she went on.  "I'm so sorry, Dmitrij.  He was
a fine young man.  He should have lived, but this is a crazy time.  So many
fine people have died.  So many.  I am planning to emigrate."

       I was still too shocked and despairing to say anything.  "Dmitrij?"
Katja asked.  "Are you still there?  Did you understand?"

       "Yes, I'm here," I was able to answer.  "Katja, please, please,
don't leave before I get back.  You're the only person I know who knew
him."  Now I was in tears.  "I need to talk to you about him.  Will you
stay?"

       "Of course," she said.  "Emigrating isn't something you can do
overnight.  Call me, Dmitrij, when you get home.  I'll be waiting.
Good-bye."

       "Thank you, thank you," I sobbed.  "Thank you, Katja.  Good-bye.
Good-bye."

       I hung up and put my head on the desk.  I had killed Rifat.  I had
given him the chain, the gun, the crazy idea that a god might see him and
that he should behave nobly.  No god watches us.  There is no god.

       I bawled like a baby.  I was still wailing minutes later when I felt
a pair of hands on my shoulders.  Herb had come looking for me.  He made me
stand up and walk upstairs to his room and there he poured Canadian whiskey
into me while I poured my story out to him.  He got me so drunk I couldn't
stand on my feet, and he undressed me and put me in his bed and held me,
still sobbing, till I feel asleep.

       Herb is the one who has made me write down what happened.  He said
it would be good therapy and the best way to keep Rifat's memory alive.  I
know Herb wants to have sex with me, but he is truly decent and he doesn't
push it.  Someday, maybe we will.  He's nice looking and very caring.  I'm
sure he would be a good lover.

       But more importantly, his father is dean of a medical school in
Montreal, and Herb thinks he could get me admitted to finish my studies.  I
want to go.  I want to go anywhere away from here.  And if I can go to
Canada, maybe I can find Ivo.  Maybe I can find a reason to live again.

					D.N.   Djakovica  June 20, 1999

[To repeat: because several readers in 1999 and since were unhappy about
the way "Divine Neglect" ended, the author had planned to post a sequel. It
appears, though, that there is next-to-no interest in the story.  When no
one claps for Tinkerbell, you know what happens. - Park517@aol.com]