Date: Mon, 6 Sep 1999 13:07:34 EDT
From: SSch191950@aol.com
Subject: The Knife That Twists Within

The following story involves vivid descriptions of men-sex.
If reading this offends you please go to another place.
This is my first attempt to write a gay-story, so I would
like to hear from all of you... please feel free to email
me under SSch191950@aol.com. I will answer every letter.


My very special thanks goes to Michael for helping me
setting and translating the story. You are a great friend,
a constant source of wonderful ideas and I love you
dearly ;-) Another thank you goes to Ernie for reading
and supporting and to Nacho for one of his wonderful
poems.

Stefan



THE KNIFE THAT TWISTS WITHIN
============================

by

Stefan

                          Faceless words
                          whispering softly in my ears.
                          A foreign skin
                          embracing me with its silence
                          the tender breath
                          of a voice I've never heard.
                          And the kisses of your absence
                          buried in my flesh
                                       mind
                                       soul.

                                      - Ignacio Rodriguez -




   "Damn! Think! Think!"

The pale light of day illuminated the world outside his
window and Nicholas knew that the dawning of another day
would pose yet further problems, further indecisions.

His penetrating blue eyes tried to pierce the haze outside
his window, that characteristic haze that always seemed to
lie over winterly Berlin and even here - a little
further from the centre - created a suffocating blanket
without noise and apparently without life.

Nicholas saw his mirrored image in the window and ran his
fingers fiercely through his thick, dark blond hair. Then
he held them in front of his face and stared at his
paint-soiled fingers.

Marcus and Sebastian loved those hands. Both had told
him so. They seemed to be so sensitive, long and slender,
the hands of an artist.

Nicholas lowered his gaze and observed them closely. Traces
of ultramarine paint stuck under his nails and on his right
middle finger where years of use with a paintbrush had left
a little dent  - the last remains of his try to express
the very Italian blue sky over Sebastian's house, the light
ocre walls and the bright red roof.

Slowly he turned.

His gaze took in Sebastians spacious, dishevelled double bed,
one side unused, the little table with the telephone, a pile
of books and a camera. It wandered over the photocopies strewn
on the light carpet and got caught by the painting standing on
an easel which Nicholas had dragged here to sleep close to.

But last night he had not been able to sleep, had wandered
restlessly from one room to another and had talked incessantly
to himself.

He observed the drawing as if it was hanging in an exhibition
room and he was one of many potential buyers. But this drawing
would never hang in an exhibition.

Two naked male bodies stood in a close, intense embrace,
their erect cocks pressed together, rubbing and exchanging
fluids; their tongues entwined.

It was painted on slightly toned paper with Conte crayon in
sepia colour with red and white highlights. White, where the
light fell upon a naked shoulder or a bare buttock. The
effect was as if the skin gleamed like polished bronze and
it reminded Nicholas of the nights he had spent with Marcus
while the light flooded through the open window and died as a
moonbeam on Marcus' velvet skin.

A half smile touched Nicholas' lips.

Marcus had not only been his teacher at loving, he had taught
him to use his eyes to see, to paint, to use his fingers in the
right way - and finally to relax.

His eyes were still focused on the drawing. He could almost see
tiny drops of sweat and the glossy surface of Marcus' black hair
in the image. But who was the other man?

Was it he himself?

This blond man who tried to absorb the scent of the other, to
drink him, to melt into him? Was it this that he wanted? Really
wanted? To again go through all this pain and loneliness?

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He could almost
see the painted bodies moving, breathing, heaving, pushing, tasting
and finally exploding.

Subconsciously his hand glided to the zip of his jeans, dived
into his pants and stroked his already hard erection.

Marcus... One of the men in the portrait was Marcus, his
beloved, dark-haired Marcus, his one and only lover...

Nicholas pulled out his hand as if was suddenly burned.
His penis protested. What are you doing, it screamed within
him. You don't have to jerk off in front of the picture of
Marcus. Go and call him! In less than an hour he would be
here and everything in the painting would be true again -
perhaps. He gazed at the bed ... Sebastian's bed and
blinked. He remembered another bed somewhere in a little
Italian village ... short flashbacks of shared passion and
guilt. Just for one night.

Nicholas' cock still screamed for attention. Slowly his hand
returned into his trousers and rubbed the hot, moist hard flesh
while he gazed at both the male bodies, who were absorbed with
each other.

Not thinking! Feeling! Feeling! Whom are your thoughts with
as you jerk off? Which man?

Rain drops spattered onto the window as, with a suppressed
cry, he came into his hand, then opening his eyes widely
again, he pulled out his hand and licked the white liquid.

Rain. . . On that special day, it had rained like this.
Suddenly and unexpectedly he had come, come like the man
who stood behind him out of the blue and watched how the
rain had melted the colours of his chalk painting into
nothing. . .




A trace of someone before
-------------------------


The world, watched from the view of a street painter, was
very strange to Nicholas. His knees hurt and the palms of
his hands were grazed and burnt. But every evening, after
his job as a sales clerk in a large shopping centre was
finished, he was drawn out onto the street, armed with his
box of chalks and with the little copies of the paintings
he so loved to draw.

It was the next-to-last Saturday before Christmas and the
streets were an anthill of jostling people, with heavy bags,
irritated faces, tugging kids and the wall-to-wall Musak
which tried to lift them into a pleasant and anticipatory
mood.

Nobody took any notice of the young man who, calmly and
undisturbed, drew with his chalks on the cold pavements of
the shopping arcade. The skies had been grey for the entire
day and a cutting wind blew, but Nicholas' cheeks glowed. As
always, he only had eyes for his chalk drawing. He closely
inspected the ring with the emerald stone that the young man
was wearing in the reproduction, lying on the ground in front
of him. Deliberately he selected the sea-green chalk and
sketched a perfect copy.

He sensed without looking up, that from time to time, a few
people stood and watched, making comments. He never listened
though, not minding anyway. He knew his painting were good.
He would much rather have drawn the lad the way he looked
beneath that expensive shirt, and coat hanging elegantly over
his shoulder - naked and in a provocative pose. He undressed
every handsome man in his mind in order to carry out with him
the most exciting things, although  . . .

Nicholas sat back on his heels. His knees hurt too much.
He looked at he coloured drawing in front of him. Some coins
jingled into the open box beside him. Startled, he looked up
into the friendly eyes of an old woman. But he wasn't begging.
Feeling slightly hurt, he bent down and smudged a too
sharp contour with his fingertip.

A rain drop splashed onto the face of the painted lad. More
followed.
Nicholas stared at the heavens and cursed. Quickly he gathered
up all his chalks, wiped his fingers and got up. The people
rushed for shelter into the entrances of the shops or struggled
with their umbrellas. Finally Nicholas was alone except for the
rain drops falling.


   "He is beautiful."

Nicholas jumped and turned. Behind him was a man. He stood so
close that he could feel his body heat. The man smiled and pointed
to the drawing. "Raphael." Again the man smiled and Nicholas could
not but respond. Then he looked at the ground and watched as the
image of the young Bindo Altoviti melted in the pouring rain, the
colours swirling and mixing to a mid of chalk. His heart bled.

He knew of course that what he painted on the streets was destined
to disappear, but he never had to see it going. He painted, went
away and never returned. He had created and it was his for ever in
his heart. But to see the destruction was hurtful. Nicholas closed
his box of chalks with a click.

   "Can I invite you to a drink? Coffee, tea? It's cold and you
are soaked."

Confused, Nicholas turned around. Oh yes, the man. He had almost
forgotten him. He was again smiling his disarming smile and
Nicholas nodded mechanically. The man touched him slightly on
the arm and guided him into the next coffeebar.

Lost in his thoughts, Nicholas stirred his coffee cup and
watched how the milk swirled  and disappeared - like his
painting.

   "You can talk, can you?"

   "Huh?"

Nicholas looked into the dark brown eyes of the man opposite.
Damn! He was already smiling again. How old did he seem to be?
Late twenties? About seven, eight years older than he. His hair
was wet from the rain and it had made it dark. He looked pretty
good and Nicholas himself thinking how he could pull off his
clothes to study what was under them. Blood flowed into
his groin. The man wore an expensive leather jacket, tight jeans
and Italian shoes. His light grey woollen pullover perfectly
suited his rather dark skin.

   "Sorry. I was thinking."

He tried to avoid looking into those dark brown eyes.

   "You do this painting for your private enjoyment? Or is this
your job?"

   "Private."

The eyes observed him more insistently.

   "My name is Marcus."

   "Nicholas."

   "Why are you doing this in the street? Why not on paper?
Canvas? You're very talented."

Nicholas looked up. The deep voice reverberated in his ears.

   "Can you tell from this?"

   "How old are you?

   "Twenty."

   "Academy of Arts?"

Nicholas shook his head. Academy of Arts! The name aroused
unpleasant memories. What did this Marcus want from him? He
darted a glance at the man opposite. His hair was almost dry
and revealed the actual colour: deep brown, almost black.
Nicholas felt uncomfortable under his gaze. Marcus wore
no ring on his finger, and gave no evidence that somebody
else would be waiting for him at home.

   "Would you like to come with me?"

Nicholas almost swallowed a mouthful of coffee the wrong way.

   "Pardon?"

Marcus didn't answer, Nicholas couldn't interpret the look
in his eyes, so he just returned the gaze. Marcus leaned back
and relaxed on his stool.

   "Suppose I have something you could be interested in."

Nicholas was still looking. Yet, what could it be? Interested
in? His cock? Does he want to show me that? Did he always
pick up his fuck mates this way? Nicholas found he was
shaking. What made him think this man was gay?

   "Gaydar."

   "Huh?"

Marcus tossed some bank notes onto the table, rose and
stretched out his hand.

   "Come."


To Nicholas' great surprise he drove, not to Marcus' flat
but to the centre of the city to a former factory building
now used as a loft. While he was still asking himself why
he had gone with a man he didn't know, Marcus opened the
iron door to a huge room with large windows. It seemed to
be an artist's workshop and instantly Nicholas forgot his
doubts and inhibitions.

The room was full to the brim with strange and wonderful
things.

Beautifully shaped legs, long and hairless, winged heels,
smooth, dark skin polished until it gleamed. He danced on
tiptoes upon the breath of the Wind God Zephyr and pointed
the way high up with his caduceus, held tightly.

Nicholas' fingertips outlined the muscular back down to
the tight buttocks. He sighed soundlessly. Lovingly he
looked at the bronze cast of Giambologna's "Flying Mercury".

There were glass and wooden shelves and cupboards with
dusted glass doors whose contents could only be seen
as vague shadows. Fingerprints in the dust: peepholes into
an unknown world. Between the cupboards and the shelves
were stacked broken spears with longtime rusted, perhaps
blood-encrusted, iron tips.

An old sword stuck into a rock. It had an odd resemblance
to King Arthur's sword. Nicholas stepped closer, grabbed
the hilt with one hand and pulled lightly. It did not move.

Another hand was placed tightly over his own and loose
his finger gently. He heard a deep voice in his ear:

   "You are not the chosen one, my dear. Me neither!"

Nicholas pulled his hand from the sword as if it were
red-hot. Embarrassed he stepped away and looked around.
The rubbish dump of history seemed to be gathered here,
broken pieces of an exhibition, blind busts of Roman
emperors, faces with chopped-off noses, maimed limbs
made of marble and gypsum, oxidised bronzes.

Nicholas looked up and noticed a framed copy of a
Michelangelo drawing hanging on one wall between others.
He thought the male head was beautiful and stepped closer
to get a better look. Again he sensed Marcus behind him,
the very presence of his physical body.

   "Is it a woman or a man, do you think?"

Nicholas was silent. The figure wore an earring and female
finery on its head, like a turban, but the expression on
this slightly austere face was androgynous enough for
Nicholas to see it was a beautiful young man with full,
soft, so kissable lips.

   "A man," he said huskily.

Marcus laughed quietly. "A man," he repeated and Nicholas
felt the warm breath on his neck.

   "Tommaso de Cavalieri, Michelangelo's young admirer and
friend. The old master was infatuated with him. I can
definitely understand it. He is beautiful, isn't he?"

Nicholas turned.

   "You too think it is a man? But all the experts say it
is a woman."

   "Well!" Marcus grinned. "Then we will have to ask
Michelangelo himself." He shrugged his shoulders.

   "Are you interested in all these things? Look here." He
took up a little alabaster copy of Donatello's David. One
arm was missing and lay on the table beside it. Suddenly
he took hold of one of Nicholas' hands and inspected it.
Nicholas flinched and tried to take his hand away but Marcus
held it tight.

   "Wonderful hands," he whispered and stroked it cautiously.
Nicholas felt his palm begin to sweat and finally was able
to pull away.

   "Would you enjoy working for me? Cataloguing all these
things, repairing, preparing for an exhibition? I'm planning
to make a second one as well as my picture exhibition."

He paused as he saw Nicholas' eyes widen. He laughed.

   "Think about it."

Nicholas was dumbfounded.

   "Hungry?"

   "Huh?"

Marcus screwed up his eyes, laughing. "Can't you answer
with something else than 'Huh'?" Nicholas was embarrassed
again. This man must think him a complete idiot. He looked
down at his worn out shoes.

   "Yes, I'm hungry. And..."

Marcus stared at him, relaxed as always.

   "And...?" he whispered encouragingly.

   "I wanted to thank you. And... I'm sorry for my stupid
thoughts back in the coffeebar."

   "Your thoughts?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Do you think
I can guess your thoughts?"

   "But you have..."

Marcus grinned. "Your face is an open book, my dear. I can
read everything that is in your mind." He lifted one hand
as if he wanted to stroke Nicholas' hair but let it fall
again.

   "I'm Marcus Weidenbruch."

Nicholas' jaw dropped.

   "THE Weidenbruch? The most famous Art promoter in town?"

Marcus didn't answer. He didn't need to. He read in the
lad's face that we wanted to run away from the place. He
certainly didn't like the thought of keeping company with
one of the richest men in town. But then was Marcus
responsible for his wealth? It was all inherited but he
was too tired to try to explain or make excuses.

   "What's wrong, Nicholas? Am I now a different person when
you know I am rich? It's always the same, whenever I mention
my name I sense a holding back, a dislike - or over excitement.
I hate this. It hurts me, you understand this? I'm never
sure what the reason is that people say they like me or want
my company. Do you understand? Is it because of my money or
because I'm a likeable man?"

Marcus stopped abruptly. This explosion of his own feelings
startled him. Now where was his self-control? Was it the
innocent face in front of him that confused him so much?
The violet-blue, sparkling eyes, in whose depths lay
something he couldn't interpret... the vulnerability of a
child. He felt an urge to comfort him. Then he shook off
the sentimental feelings.

   "What do you want to eat? There's no kitchen here and you
don't want to come with me to my home do you?" One look into
Nicholas' face told him that he didn't.

   "OK, I can order something. Hamburger? Fries? Pizza?"

   "Chinese."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Chinese." He took it as an
order, pulling out some loose notes from a drawer and
searching for an advertisement for a Chinese take-away.

   "Chicken, pork, roasted duck, fish?"

   "Duck with peanuts and rice, please."

Marcus grinned. "It's your favourite, isn't it?" He turned,
dialled a number and ordered. Then he clapped his hand
together and asked, good humoured, "Now tell me a little
about yourself. You are a pavement artist for your own
amusement. What else would you like to do?"

Undress you, was the immediate thought which came into
Nicholas' mind. To paint you naked. He assessed the tall
figure which was only a few centimeters taller than he was.
The strong thighs in the tight jeans. The obvious bulge in
the crotch. He looked for other signs as to how Marcus'
body would look in the nude. Such dark types with black hair
and dark eyes were usually covered in dark body hair but his
forearms, which were visible because Marcus had pulled up his
sleeves to his elbows, didn't reveal any body hair. This was
something Nicholas liked, how the light would have to
shine on bare, smooth skin. He knew exactly in his mind how
to draw a portrait of Marcus, sitting on a chair, legs spread
apart to reveal his balls and the dark trail which led to his
hole. He would need a spotlight to let the light fall from
one side and illuminate a glow on shoulders, chest, one
thigh and knee. It made Nicholas' fingers tingle and this
feeling continued until it met the tingling in his groin.

He saw Marcus' gaze and felt his own cheeks flush. Damn it!
The man must think he was really stupid. Pull yourself
together!

   "Pardon?" he said weakly.

   "What else do you like doing?" Marcus answered calmly.

   "Nothing other than painting."

   "What sort of paintings do you like? Modern Art?
Expressionism? Impressionism?  Oh I remember, you liked that
young lad of Raphael, right, the one you drew in chalk on the
pavement? Have you also painted on paper? I'm sure you have."

   "Yes, I have. Mostly portraits."

   "Would you let me see them sometime?"

   "Of course. If you are really interested."

   "I am, Nicholas. I watched you all the time this afternoon and
I like the way you drew the lines so confidentlyly and chose
the colours. You don't take long to make your choice for the
right colour. You have a natural talent for this. That's unusual.
Do you sketch with a pencil, too?"

Nicholas nodded.

   "Interested in sculpture?"

   "Oh yes. I like the things here. Where do you get all
these from? And why are they broken? Who repairs them?"

Marcus smiled his special, infectious grin.

   "First I'm glad you like them. Second, they come from all
over the world, especially Italy, Greece and Turkey. I've got
stocks in all these countries and freelance and employed
workers who buy up private collections whose owners for some
reason or other find they have to sell them. I attend all
auctions and public sales in Europe personally, sometimes in
New York, too. This - " he stepped up to the marble bust with
a chopped off nose and damaged eye  "- is about two hundred
years old. It's a copy of an old Roman piece and represents
the emperor Trajan. Do you know anything about Roman culture?"

Nicholas shook his head. "Only a bit."

   "It doesn't matter. I have graduates working for me from
the Academy of Arts, who have degrees in archaeology and
are proficient in sculpture and restoring. What you see
here is only a fraction of what I'm collecting to sell."

As Marcus spoke his eyes glistened with the light of a true
enthusiast. He pointed into the darkness of the room which
was shrouded in twilight and Nicholas could just make out
some larger object standing there.

   "What are they?"

   "Furniture, old paintings."

There was a knock at the door. "Ah. Our food has arrived!"



Later Nicholas lay in his small bed at home and pondered
on the events of the evening. What had happened to him?
Had he finally found someone who would care for him? If
yes, why was he doing this for him? What made Marcus think
he could be any good at restoring all those broken things
as well as his other employees? Why did Marcus think he was
good enough at painting to give him such a chance?

But you are good at it, answered his alter ego. You know that.
Don't be so self-effacing; there's no need for it.

He conjured up Marcus' face in his imagination. He was
incredibly handsome - at least he thought so. He had almost
the same austere beauty as that face in the drawing by
Michelangelo though without the female touch. Marcus must
have dozens of lovers who would cling to him like leeches.
Well, his love life had not been mentioned this evening and
Nicholas could scarcely ask him bluntly how many lovers
filled his bed - his doubtless spacious bed with perhaps
silk sheets and pillows.

Nicholas suddenly felt uncomfortable in his own cramped single
bed. What could he see in me? A 'pick-up' from the streets who
could satisfy Marcus' feelings of charity because it was
Christmas time...

Nicholas moaned and turned onto his stomach. The movement
caused pain to his erect penis. Pain and incredible pleasure...
Marcus had mentioned the graduates from the Academy of Arts.
Well, they were luckier than he was. He had never made the
final exam, although he had attended the course. But that
was something Nicholas didn't want to think about right now -
it was too painful.

He suddenly thought of his father who was a metal worker in
a factory and had to stand for hours on end in the suffocating
heat of a steel foundry. He had never understood his son's
ambitions. He was a simple man and knew exactly what cost per
unit his work would bring but nothing about Art and its
expression. There was no profit in Art and he prophesied
Nicholas would end his life on the streets. Nicholas smiled
a half grin. Well, to a certain extent that had turned out to
be right.

In his mind Nicholas checked his wardrobe. There was nothing
there which would make an impression on Marcus. Faded jeans,
worn-out shoes, old pullovers and shirts. He had never placed
much importance on his appearance.

His thick dark-blond hair desperately needed a trim. But he
suddenly felt the memory of the touch of Marcus' fingers on
his own palm which sent a warm feeling into Nicholas' stomach.
He strengthened the pressure on his penis and rubbed it gently
on the sheets.

He desperately wanted to see Marcus naked but was afraid of
what would happen later... the caresses so warm and soft at
the beginning would change into brutality, into pain and
hatred. He never wanted to feel this again. Was Marcus
different? Could he make love without hurting?

Nicholas fell abruptly asleep.


                                  ~~~

As always the shopping centre was in turmoil in these last few
days before Christmas. People rushed through the departments,
looking for this and asking impatiently for that, hardly waiting
for the answer. The incessant background music got on Nicholas'
nerves. It was repeated every two hours.
What a drag! Every year the same. Customers hurried through the
sections as if they were driven by Furies in that desperate
search for gifts, most of which would be unnecessary and would
soon vanish into dusty corners of the flats.

Nicholas watched middle-aged women looking for gifts for their
husbands or sons. Silently and carefully he folded a pair of
underpants into a small parcel and scanned the price. He himself
would never wear such grey-ribbed cotton underpants but looking
at the stale housewife of a woman he saw it was a practical gift
for her husband and she would never have the idea of slowly
pulling down these pants to reveal the hot, hard flesh and
to suck on it...

The woman saw his grin and mistook it for a kind gesture to
make the stressful atmosphere of the shop more tolerable. She
smiled back at him and paid.

Nicholas served the next woman standing in the queue. His
movements were mechanical and this gave him time to sort out
his thoughts. From the Christmas bonus that was already in his
account he had decided to buy a new black shirt, new trousers,
shoes, an outdoor jacket and some sexy underwear - just in case -
as he soothed his conscience. Although he wasn't sure what
this 'case' might be...

His last meeting with Marcus had taken his breath away. Marcus
had shown him all the other things in the loft, beautiful old
carved wardrobes and partly painted heavy chests with iron
fittings.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. "Coffee Break! I'm here now."
Nicholas looked and found Kurt, the senior salesman standing
beside him, ready for his shift.

Nicholas went upstairs to th canteen to have some coffee. Here
he always met Matthias, the salesman from the electricity
department and the only person in the store who knew anything
about Nicholas' life. Matthias was already waiting for him and
patted the red upholstered beside him. "And? Tell me everything.
How was it?"

He passed him the little plastic container with the milk.
Nicholas opened one and poured it into his coffee.

   "Good."

Matthias raised his eyes despairingly to the yellow painted
ceiling.

   "Good? Man! Why do I have to pull every word one by one out
of your mouth?"

Matthias grinned and revealed white, strong teeth. His grey-blue
eyes sparkled. Unfortunately Matthias was straight as a Christmas
tree and had a girlfriend, but he knew that Nicholas was gay.
Nicholas grinned back.

   "Fantastic, I should say. He offered me a job, every evening
after work in his loft. There's an old man - a restorer who
doesn't seem to have a home because he's always there till late
at night, but he can't do all the work before Marcus' next
exhibition. So he wants me to help him. It's fun, Matthias,
really. As well as that he explained the history of the piece
of Art he's working on."

He stared intensely into Matthias' blue eyes, his own sparkling
with enthusiasm.

   "Have you ever heard of Trajan?"

Matthias partly closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose in an
attempt to remember - an expression which always made Nicholas
want to kiss him.

   "No, I don't think so."

   "Anyway, he wants to see my paintings and drawings as soon
as possible."

   "Who? The old man or Trajan?"

   "No, stupid, Marcus."

Matthias gave his friend a long glance. "You like him, don't
you? Are you falling for him?"

   "Up to my ears," Nicholas snorted. He was thankful that he
could always make him laugh - he was such a nice guy.

   "Now seriously, Nick. Do you fancy him?"

Nicholas stuck a biscuit into his mouth and nodded slowly.

   "I guess so."

   "Great! And what about him?"

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders.

   "Don't think so."

   "No?" Matthias seemed to be disappointed. "But you said he's
gay."

   "So what? Just because he's gay he doesn't have to fancy
every other man. Do you think we fling ourselves on every man in
town just because he has a cock in his pants?"

Surprised at his outburst, he stopped and gave a long sideways
glance at his friend. "I'm sorry, mate." He sighed. "I only
wanted to say that we too have our preferences, like you with
your women. Where's the difference?"

Matthias nodded and smiled.

   "It's OK. I understand." Then he looked at his watch.

   "Shit. I have to go." He jumped up from his chair. "When do
you see him again?"

   "This evening."

   "Fine, I'll await a full report tomorrow, ok?"

Nicholas sighed again. "Ok."


                                ~~~

Nicholas didn't know how many times he had stood in front of the
Michelangelo drawing and looked at it closely. He liked the light
but sure control over the lines with the red conte chalk.

   "You like this drawing very much, eh, my boy?"

Johannes, the old restorer took off his glasses and rubbed his
eyes.

   "Yes," whispered Nicholas.

   "Did you bring your own drawings with you?"

Nicholas nodded. "But they are not half as good as this."

Johannes smiled at him and tiny, deep wrinkles appeared around
his pale eyes.

   "Marianne and Katja will not be coming today. Tomorrow is
Christmas Eve and Marcus has already let them go. What are you
going to do tomorrow?"

   "Go to my parents. What else?" He turned to face the old man
sitting next to him on a stool. In front of him were pieces of
an old clay vase, indian red, which he had sorted and was now
preparing to put together.

   "And you?"

   "Invited to my daughter's. The usual things: Potato salad
and frankfurters, then presents for the children. I guess it
will be a quiet evening. I'm looking forward to her punch." His
eyes twinkled.

   "Hello, my dears." They both turned round to see Marcus
coming through the door. Nicholas beamed.

   "Morning, Marcus." Whenever Nicholas saw that smile it gave
him what felt like a punch in the stomach. He was in love, surely,
and remembered briefly the talk he had yesterday with Matthias.
They had said goodbye till next year and Matthias had wished him
all the best and 'many hot nights with his chosen one'. Nicholas
grinned at the recollection.

   "Now, how's the vase, Johannes? Let me see. Ah, you have
managed to sort out all these tiny pieces? That's good. I'm
sorry for the mishap." He referred to the fact that he had
dropped the vase a few days ago. But this piece would only be for
his own house anyway so it wouldn't matter if some of the cement
traces showed or not.

   "I think that's enough for today. Everything's done. I'll see
you on the fourth of January, Johannes. Merry Christmas." He gave
him a medium-sized parcel, prettily wrapped in coloured paper.
Johannes' eyes smiled his thanks. "Thank you, my friend. You don't
have to do this, you know."

Marcus smiled. He watched him say goodbye to Nicholas and go out.
Then he returned to the young man.

   "Now you have something for me to look at?"

Nicholas got out a large portfolio. His heart seemed to stick
in his throat as Marcus opened it, pulled up a chair, sat
down and silently looked at one drawing after another. From
time to time he glanced at Nicholas.

   "Good. I like them, Nicholas. Where do you get all the
models? People you see in the street?"

   "Memory mostly or fantasy."

Marcus nodded. "And the watercolour paintings?"

Nicholas gave him a second case. Marcus leafed through the
paintings in the same attentive, slow, appreciative way.
"Pretty." He pointed to a scene of a lake whose shore was covered
with plants and trees. "You did this outdoors, didn't you? I'm
sure I know this place."

There was a sound at the door and Marcus turned round.

  "Oh, hey, Sebastian, come on in."

Nicholas tensed a bit. The man coming through the door exuded
sexual appeal so obviously that it filled the room - literally
but Marcus didn't seem to notice, beckoning him over to look at
the paintings.

   "Look here, Bastian, how do you like them?" He paused.
"Sorry, buddy. This is Nicholas. I guess the biggest talent I
have discovered for years."

Nicholas blushed slightly as he felt the green-grey eyes piercing
him. This was the first thing Nicholas noticed. This bright eyes
in a regular face which got it's interest by a stronge nose and
sharp outlined lips. His sandy hair hung in waves to his broad
shoulders and the grip of his hand was very firm.

  "I have heard about you, Nicholas. It's a pleasure to meet
you."

Nicholas had to clear his throat before he could speak.

   "Nice to meet you."

   "Sebastian is the oldest friend I have. We were together at
boarding school in Switzerland."

   "Oh," was all Nicholas could manage.

   "And," Sebastian grinned, "I was his first lover."

   "Come on, Bastian, stop it. It's a long time ago."

Sebastian smiled his very charming smile, blinked at Nicholas,
and peeled off his heavy woollen coat. He threw it carelessly
over a chair and bent over to look at the paintings.

Marcus turned back to the door because he had seen a movement out
of the corner of his eyes. He frowned instantly. Nicholas looked
in the direction and saw an older man standing uncertainly in the
doorway. His short, thin hair was grey at the temples and his lips
were twisted into an insecure smile. The lamp light reflected on
his glasses.

   "What do you want?" demanded Marcus.

Nicholas was startled by his cold voice. Marcus went up to the
older man and stood in front of him. "I have nothing more to offer
you, Alexander. And you know that. I've told you already. You had
your chance now now it's over. You'll never get another one. I'm
sorry."

   "But, Marcus, listen to me, please." The voice of the man was
harsh and despondent. "What shall I do? I'm too old to get
another job and you have made sure that what I did is known half
way around the city. Nobody now will give me a job!"

Marcus shook his head and sighed deeply.

Nicholas was embarrassed by the scene and he cast a questioning
glance at Sebastian who was standing calmly, following the
incident with little apparent interest.


Marcus stuck his hands firmly into the pockets of his trousers.
"Go now, I'm busy."

   "But what about the job in your workshop? I could make lists
of all the things and I still have some good connections."

   "The place is taken already." Marcus' angry eyes turned for
a second to Nicholas. "It's too late."

Alexander's head drooped. "Well then," he said - almost a
whisper. "Bye."

He turned and shuffled away.

Sebastian said nothing but he and Marcus exchanged glances.
Marcus turned to Nicholas who was looking at him curiously.
"This was nothing," he said reluctantly. "A dismissed employee,
that's all,"

Nicholas didn't know what to think. The charming and gentle
Marcus had changed before his eyes into a cold and hard
businessman. Why should the man have lost his job? But he
didn't dare to ask.

Sebastian bent down again over his paintings.

   "They're beautiful," he said after a while. "Have you any
more?"

   "Yes, but these are the best . . . in my opinion," he
added.

   "I'd like to see all of them. It would show how you
developed. Bring them next time, will you?" Nicholas nodded.
Marcus looked at his watch. "Time to go." He thought for a
moment.

   "Would you like to come with us?"

   "Where?" Nicholas' voice sounded a little startled.

   "To a restaurant. Where else did you think?"



Nicholas had never been in such a restaurant nor indeed in any
hotel resembling the 'Four Seasons'. It was in the Grunewald,
the most exclusive area to live. The 'Four Seasons' was a new
hotel and its interior had been designed by Karl Lagerfeld, one
of the best and most eccentric fashion designers Germany had ever
produced. According the prices were astronomically high and
Nicholas was glad that he had worn his new shirt and a pretty
expensive dark grey pullover.

As he opened the tastefully designed menu he was astounded by
the prices of the food and especially of the wines. He watched
how confident and self-assured his two companions behaved in
this select area and Nicholas felt insignificant and stupid. He
left it to Marcus to choose the dishes and drank the magenta-red
French wine which to him had a slightly woody taste. He couldn't
say he liked it specially.

Sebastian was wearing a silk, bluish-green shirt which
complemented perfectly the colour of his hair and gave his
grey-green eyes a deep emerald glimmer. Nicholas watched how the
dimmed light behind him painted his hair silver and created
something like a halo around his head. He regretted not having
his sketch book and a pencil with him. Nicholas thought his skin
was clear and the colour of marzipan . . .

   "How do you like your venison, Nicholas? You have eaten
almost nothing so far. Is anything wrong?"


Nicholas blushed. "No, no. it's all OK. It tastes . . .
wonderful."

He picked up a piece of rose-coloured meat on his form and put
it in his mouth. It was indeed like butter on his tongue. He
dipped a piece of the dumpling into te cranberry sauce and
tasted. His face lit up. He smiled at the two men who returned
his smile.

   "Now, Nicholas, when will you be having your first
exhibition?" asked Sebastian.

   "Exhibition? Me? You're joking, aren't you?"

Sebastian looked at Marcus. "Didn't you tell me he's the
biggest talent you had for years? What's stopping you exhibiting
his paintings along with your own in January?"

   "Nothing," answered Marcus simply.

   "What do you mean, Nothing?" Nicholas put down his knife and
fork and grabbed his glass of wine.

   "You don't like the idea?" Marcus' dark eyes reflected a
point of light, from the dim lamps beside him.

   "But of course I like the idea. You never told me you
intended to do it though."

   "The pictures you painted are very good."

   "But I have only painted one little thing in your workshop.
And the others I just showed you - are they good enough? How
can you judge from this to exhibit my paintings?"

Marcus smiled. "Experience, my dear. Just experience. This man
by my side knows me like the palm of his hand and could tell
that I was going to exhibit your paintings as soon as he say
your watercolours - and my expression."

   "Oh," Nicholas nodded. Sebastian filled his glass again.

   "Do you like the wine?"

   "Well . . . "

Sebastian laughed. "OK, you needn't answer. What do you
usually drink?"

   "Beer. Cola."

   "I like beer as well but not with this superb venison. Would
you like some desert? Omelette with egg-flip, vanilla ice-cream
and wild strawberries?" The emerald eyes seemed to gaze into his
very being.

   "Yes." Nicholas felt weak. What was this sexy man doing to
him?

After another glass of wine which tasted much more pleasant,
Nicholas gained the courage to ask Sebastian what he did for
a living.

Sebastian seemed slightly put out at the question. He wiped his
mouth with his napkin.

   "What do I do? Well actually nothing."

Nicholas stared at Marcus  and then looked back at Sebastian.
"Nothing! God. I wish I could do 'nothing' for a while."

Marcus looked at the rosy cheeks of the young lad. What a
wonderful boy, he thought. He wished he had been like him when
he was his age. Interested in all new things, shy yet knowing
exactly what he wanted to do. And determined to succeed. He had
fallen for those beautiful violet-blue eyes, the sensitive mouth,
the fresh complexion and the mature body. But most of all he had
fallen for Nicholas' charming personality. His thoughts were
intelligent although he was not always able to express them in
an intelligible way. But he was so young; he had all the time
to learn.

   "You'd be bored soon," he heard Sebastian's voice.

   "Are you bored?"

   "He works for me in Rome, Nicholas." Marcus said. "Did you
hear that the Galleria Borghese was re-opened recently?"

   "Yes I have. I've never been to Rome. It's the museum with
all the Bernini sculptures, isn't it?"

Sebastian nodded. "Why don't you come and visit me?"

Marcus shot a barbed glance at his friend. Sebastian caught it
and was a bit confused. Seconds later it dawned on him that Marcus
wanted the lad for himself. Bad luck, boy, he thought to himself,
but it never occurred to him to fight against his old friend. Well
there are other pretty Roman boys waiting for him though none with
this innocent look in his face and so much pain in his violet
eyes . . .  He looked at Marcus and gave him a silent sign.

Marcus understood. "I think we should go. Will you come back home
with me?"

Nicholas hadn't answered Sebastian's question or invitation, and
now the moment had gone. He got up. The waiter came to their
table, and Marcus signed the bill.

   "Will you?"  Marcus asked.

   "Yes."


To be continued...