The Repository

Mountain Azaleas, Iwatsutusji, on a Kyoto hillside

Gordon L. Christy-Stefanik

T he R e posi to r y
Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 Igor and Bozhena Arizona Vacation Chopin's Nocturne in F Transitions Gregg Really Butch Mist in the Cypress Gregg and the Dragon Twilight in Monterey Making it Official Hokkaido Lens Personal Files H.F. The Puppy Beyond the Surface Alex and Tatsuo Pilgrims in Kyoto Iwatsutsuji Blossoms that Fall Wandering Road to Eiheiji From Here to There

A train ride originating in Bratislava which eventually leads to California A boring 16th birthday present bares unexpected results Chopin, Mars, and discovery Growing up in Southern California and beyond A rite of passage and self acceptance Learning about the world and when masks are necessary Love and Language Bozhena adopts a new son The last days of a year long honeymoon The Blessing of the Dragon Lady Discovering, and rediscovering, Japan The Hedda Hopper of Japans far north Innocent and not so innocent Delving deeper into Japanese culture and traditions Turning left instead of turning right The stuff that dreams are made of Wild azalea blossoms, then and now Slowly learning acceptance An unusual escape mechanism

Reflection

Gregory T. Bartoni

1930 1955


The Repository a Prologue

Now, as the years continue to amass, there begs the question, Whats it all about? What are those unique elements of my particular journey that, as a part of the totality, seem to have contained the most significance? Seem is at once both a slippery word, as well as concept, and it would appear that much depends on the local point of view, in essence that of the individual.

Rambling already? Which is fairly indicative that I dont know where to start. However as my longtime idol, the Italian wordsmith Umberto Eco, has pointed out, The most important thing is to make a start. Now what? . . . . . Perhaps a means of continuing would be to consider those special elements that I have found to be of most importance during this personal journey.

Love, given and received, scattered about like special pebbles on an immense beach. Many brilliant and still shining after the years have come and gone. Others, perhaps not so shiny, but nonetheless still as durable as when first discovered. Yes, love is of utmost importance, and much like the comfort of a marvelous warm blanket on a chilly eve, love which is deep, heavy and passionate or as light and buoyant as a feather, is, and has been, a very necessary element.

Knowledge. Quantities of information, gleaned from every source imaginable and hoarded like a Midas treasure. Never enough. The discoveries, as well as intimate thoughts of humanity, from neighbors and friends to the collected insights of those long dead, continue to be vibrant by means of words recorded. The keyword being discrimination and constant vigilance, since jewels of thought, as well as banal trivialities, are both committed to words. A supreme example is constantly revealed in the missals of our beloved politicians and religious leaders. In addition to scattering pearls of wisdom, they can also become artists of word manipulation for their own ends. Hopefully this chronicler of a personal repository is more truthful to the craft of words.

Art in its many and diverse forms, has assisted in making this lifes passage an enjoyable trip. Removing the journey from the commonplace and ordinary to something extraordinary and special. Art as a means of sharing elevated moments with those who have managed to partake in the creative act; either in personally producing or merely sharing the creations of others.

Nature and the intimate, innate knowledge of that from which we spring as an integral part of the totality has become one of my sacred temples. Sort of a Mystical Scientific Paganism. And certainly far removed from the Christianity of the Reich which insists, in light of all reasonable evidence to the contrary, that Adam & Company were suddenly plunked down in a garden; not only that but Adam and his cohorts were given the right to do any thing they wanted with, and to,that garden. And have. Greenpeace take note: that long-flowing, white bearded God may well be the real culprit for much of the mess the planet is in. More about Him and his followers later.

The elements are countless, but none would be of value without having learned, at an early age, to appreciate each one separately, and to the fullest extent possible, but to also recognize the interconnectedness.

Now, on to the specifics. Who am I able to blame or commend for what has been gleaned thus far on the journey? Life certainly appears to be a matrix of intersecting paths and it would also appear that where those significant paths merge and intertwine, at least for a period of time, we can begin to assess meaning, significant meaning.

Must begin somewhere, so why not with dear old mom? For without mom where would we be or not be? Some mothers, it would appear, are not much more than birth vehicles, pumping out children like a machine and then turning them loose to fend for themselves. They offer the necessary maternal affection, which it would appear is little more than the result of eons of genetic conditioning. Love, to be sure, but does it go beyond the basics to include the necessary intellectual development of their offspring? And not just sufficient intelligence for survival, but something more a desire and yearning for stretching and attempting to attain the best possible during the trip.

Obviously time to admit that I was one of the fortunate ones, blessed with a mother who always attempted to go beyond the strands of genetic DNA. Sorry, cant talk much about dad, since he disappeared from my life early, much too early, and it certainly wasnt his fault. It was the result of one of those aggressive political shows perpetuated by the male of the species. War. Glorious war, complete with territorial banner flags, sprightly marching songs, political rhetoric deftly constructed so as to conceal its inherent nested lies and the marvelous union of military puppets and commercial interests. Money combined with the grasping for unlimited power has been, and continues to be, a deadly combination.

So mom was forced into accepting the dual maternal and paternal role, and did so in as outstanding a means as possible. Determined to succeed in the most trying of conditions, and that her offspring should learn to do the same. Life, according to mom and adding to her beloved husbands ideals, was much more than the mere satisfaction of basic needs and desires, it also involved neuronal connections. She managed to impart the absolute joy of discovery contained in thinking and in books and music; a gift for which I will forever be indebted to that marvelous creature who was my mother.

Then there was baba, the epitome of all loving grandmothers. It should be immediately pointed out that I shall discuss only my maternal grandmother. As a child I was convinced that she had undoubtedly authored the how-to book of being the worlds best grandmother. And it was from this marvelous creature that I learned, first hand, of my connection to the world of nature around me, and discovered the interdependence of everything that exists on our planet. The earth was our home, and also our daily classroom. Also a spinner of nightly stories, she had recognized that the sacred tome of the religious fanatics was in reality a collection of marvelous, well-constructed stories. To some myth become gospel fact. She never failed, with her characteristic, direct bluntness, to call a spade a spade.

I lied. I will devote a line or two to the other one, the mother of my father. Although as a child I was slightly dubious that the gentle, loving person who daily showered me with his boundless affection could have sprung from that zealous, hypocritical wench who was my paternal grandmother. She who gave a new, more ample meaning to the concept of religious bigotry, was not among my favorites to visit.

Both grandfathers disappeared before I had an opportunity to know them very well. Seems they often do that.

I was also gifted in the department of love outside of the family circle. My first, never to be forgotten, love was Gregg. Merely pronouncing his name, or seeing it in print, still conjures a vision of what love can be, and was. It never ceases to seem a bit odd that the US military, with its infinite homophobic venom, should have chosen to make us roommates, in order that we might more easily become lovers. Of course the military machine knew us only as numbers with names

attached, and had no idea it was involved in playing cupid. Recently discovered a new word in the most recent Websters - gaydar from gay and radar. Well, we certainly had it, even though we didnt know exactly what it was, nor that it would eventually have a name. It was love at first sight, followed by endless days and nights of passion. The memories of that joyful union continue, now countless years after his death.

Gregg, much like mom, was instrumental in both my internal and external development. He assisted in my learning to accept myself for who I truly was, and by extension, could be. Being gay was yet another expression of life, and rather than suppress this marvelous difference, he insisted that we should learn to express it joyfully. Given, of course, the limitations of acceptance within society at the time.

Gregg became my source of my limitless joy, and also of infinite sorrow. Why was he so suddenly snatched from my life to leave me forever longing for what could have been? The eternal lament of many who have been separated from that special person who has given their life meaning. Although perhaps it should be a cantata of joy for having, at least temporarily, encountered such beauty and completeness. For having known, in that brief period of a few years, an intense pleasure which is rarely encountered by mortals.

And he, of the golden Mediterranean skin and sparkling dark eyes, drawing on his ancient Greek ancestry, had also helped in the formulation of my mind by forever posing questions, and quests, to be examined, followed. And instead of bemoaning my grief, I should rather be eternally grateful for the opportunity of partaking in his gentle instruction and guidance. Yes, thank you my eternal friend and lover for having guided me, personally and then by memory of your wisdom, to a life richer and more fulfilling because you helped to form it.

Thus, from Gregg I learned of myself, giving and receiving boundless love, partaking of wisdom, ancient and modern. Art? This young man, mirroring his Italian-Greek heritage, was the embodiment of art, surpassing the marble David in physical dimensions, beauty being in the eye of the beholder, naturally. His velvet vocal tones deftly wove the magic of Verdi, Donizetti, Puccini, Bizet and Mozart to new heights. From his lips the lyrical stanzas of John Donne, Rimbaud, and Rilke flowed like honeyed water from deep artesian springs. I had decided that my life would be spent by his side, listening, and partaking of his sweetness, but the fates had obviously decided otherwise. After three years of knowing the joys of paradise, I was left with a grave to visit, and sufficient memories to last a lifetime. Although it may smack of the foxs sour grapes, my life would have been much poorer had it not been for that precious time with one of humanitys finest creations.

And wonderously Gregg made a second appearance in my life some thirty five years after his death. Unbeknownst to me he had been reborn in a small, sleepy village in the tropical Mexican state of Veracruz. Oh yes, indeed he was the same person and shared many of the same attributes and memories. And I loved them both as one. Yet both succumbed to early deaths. Their choice no doubt, but I was left wondering why.

Buddhism? Yes, even that chubby, serene fellow will receive his due. Although, in all fairness his weight seems to be dependent upon geographic location. In the southern part of Asia the representations of Buddha are of a svelte, smiling younger man, obviously hiding much the same secret as Leonardos Mona Lisa. By the time his figure reached China and Japan he had obviously put on considerable poundage. Rotund in fact, and only sort of smiling. At least Christianity was consistent. J.C. remains gaunt, bloody and morose from north to south and east to west.

So I am barely twenty years old, bouncing along a country road in a remote part of northern Japan. The village I have just left isnt even a wide spot in the road, when I see a small temple-like building and decide to investigate. Before long I am having tea and listening to one of the most erudite men I will ever have the opportunity to encounter, the abbot of the small Soto Zen temple, who it appeared, was awaiting my arrival. We talked for nearly three years and he never once attempted to convince me that he, or his band of merry monks, had the ultimate truth or all the answers. If only Christians could be so considerate of their fellow man. What he did tell me was that I would have to figure it out for myself. The Truth that is. I was actually encouraged to use my own thinking processes.

What a change from Saturday morning catechism where everything was rigorously delineated and there was absolutely no room for dissent or questioning. Unless of course you decided to become a Jesuit priest and then you could spend your life playing with angels twirling on pinheads. Within a strictly limited framework of course, wherein the pin was crafted by pious, unquestioning Catholic dunderheads and the angels were all virgin sopranos with carefully preened and waxed wings. Pax vobiscum, and no thank you.

Though I must admit I found the Catholic obsession with trivia and ritual somewhat superior to their Protestant brethrens preoccupation with the number of gloomy days until the Rapture. That most Glorious Time when they could laugh with glee at all the poor unfortunates who would eternally burn in hell, after Christ or God gave out the report cards and a goodly number would be found on the short end of the stick. Talk about sadistic perverseness both on the part of the Big Boy and his zombie adherents.

So instead of tribal gobbledygook I was told I could think for myself. Well, here goes. The big sell and even some quoted verses from the good book (at least the Buddhist version). In one of his first and undoubtedly most important, little speeches, the Enlightened One proclaimed:.

Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in traditions, because they have been handed down for many generations. Do not believe in anything because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all then accept it and live up to it.
But, as usual, I am racing ahead of myself in that ineffable effort to tell all at once. Better yet that it should gradually unfold, minute by minute, hour by hour. And so it is that you shall enter the sanctum sanctorum of my personal repository. We all have them you know. Bits and pieces collected along the way. Carefully guarded until the proper moment of revelation.

Oh, by the way, the Japanese characters which grace the first page of this prologue [ ] when translated from Japanese mean repository, but it is carries another, deeper significance, that of 'sanctuary'. And so in the following pages I offer the recounting of those many memories contained in this personal Hmotsuden, the repository of but one of natures many creatures.

1 Igor and Bozhena

eternity (n. singular); the totality of time without beginning or end, infinity The black figures on the digital watch continue with their unending rhythm; seconds into minutes into hours. The days and weeks, represented by the sequential MON to TUE to WED, suddenly became SUN, which in turn became MON and repeated the process, while 30 or 31 changed into a 1 and signify that yet another month of "The Journey" has elapsed. A journey which began many years ago, long before digital watches had come into fashion, or being, for that matter. An age when the information on watches, as well as clocks, was circular and time always reverted to the beginning before embarking on yet another round. I look at the physical indication of time on my wrist, and then feel myself being pulled into that vortex whose center lies in the past.

Although not exactly obsessed with the passage of time, nine-year old Igor had always been more aware than most children of his age of its imprint upon daily life. He thought back to that trip by train which, from his nine year old point of view, had lasted for at least several eternities. A timeless sequence of changing forms, colors and visions, now blurred by yet another passage of time. Eventually that particular part of the journey came to an end. Yes, eternities and passages of time were round like clocks and watches. They did have a beginning and an end with something in the middle. It was quite obviously the part in the middle that turned them into eternities. It seemed to be 'logical'. This was a word, and concept, that he had learned from Bozhena, his mother and the wisest person he had ever known. She had insisted that even children should learn to not only accept what was happening around them, but to examine and question it. To apply 'logical thinking' to every situation. He was doing the best he could with the information he had at his disposal. He had begun discussing 'eternities' with his mother and she had corrected him and explained that eternity was composed of everything, a passage of time with no beginning and no end, hence 'logically' there could be no such thing as 'eternities', it didn't make sense and hence was not logical. Then she corrected herself and mentioned that occasionally poets would use the term 'eternities', but what they really meant was eternity. Igor silently accepted this explanation, but at the same time he now, for the first time, was aware that even mothers can occasionally be slightly mistaken. He had personally experienced 'eternities' and knew for a fact that they existed. Igor, his mother Bozhena, and his younger sister Cristina, had at one point boarded the train; there had been a very long passage of time, a lot of 'middle', and then they got off. After several months of waiting, another eternity began. This time the forms viewed were somewhat monotonous since it was the vista of an endless sea that changed little from day to day. Had it not been for the changing patterns of the clouds, and the fact that the sun altered its position from one side of the ship to the other, he might have considered the possibility that time had come to a standstill. That would be an entirely different type of eternity and he didn't know if his young mind could deal with that particular

concept. His mother had carefully explained that logical thinking made things clearer, easier to understand than if you accepted only small parts of the whole. At this point he decided to temporarily suspend attempting to understand it. To his young mind the passage of time and 'thinking logically' almost seemed incompatible. The initial excitement, on boarding the train in Bratislava, the largest city in that part of Czechoslovakia, had abated and been replaced by impatience. An impatience triggered by a desire to get somewhere, anywhere. He remembered that they had passed through Vienna. That was when his mother had cried; she had tried to hide it, but he had seen her tears. In answer to his imploring look she had volunteered that there was nothing wrong, but this particular city was filled with memories, happy memories of when she and her husband, his father Ivan, had first been married and they had spent their honeymoon in this enchanting city. Without verbalizing it, he considered that if they were happy memories then she should be smiling or laughing, so why was she silently attempting to hide her tears. Logical thinking presented more questions than it resolved. After many train stations, stops and changes, the three passengers finally disembarked in the port city of Marseilles, in France. Eventually they had boarded a large ship with a foreign name. Igor did not understand to the name, but felt that it undoubtedly was a word which had something to do with eternity. It had initially been exciting, but had rapidly changed into tedious boredom as the large ship relentlessly continued on its passage across the Atlantic Ocean. He had been assured that they would eventually arrive in Venezuela, but he was beginning to doubt that this particular eternity would ever end. Not only did the days seem to repeat themselves, but the entire ocean trip seemed to be a repetition, like a nearly forgotten memory. The ship's motors seemed to be functioning, he heard them and felt them, so knew they were working, but there were no trees or other distinguishing landmarks to indicate passage. Some months before, Bozhena Stefanik had decided that it was time to leave her native Czechoslovakia and had bundled up her two children and valiantly set off across limitless distances to seek a different future. To not just willy-nilly accept destiny, but to change it. The second World War had finally ended and then came a time of reconstruction and adjustment. A national adjustment with a quirk which Bozhena found difficult to accept. The Nazis had fled with the liberation of their country by the Russians, but the Soviets had come and then decided to stay or at least offer yet another political ideology for popular consumption. For years Slovakia had been suffering one 'occupation' after another. With the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Czechs and Slovaks, in 1918, had joined to create an independent, cooperative nation. Unfortunately the Czechs were more numerous, as well as being more powerful, and had attempted to impose their language and culture upon the Slovaks almost from the very inception of their 'mutual' alliance. Then came the Nazi occupation followed by a Russian inspired communist system. Fiercely independent Bozhena decided that she had had enough and one morning during Mass she heard a voice telling her that it was time to leave. Now whether she actually heard that ethereal voice or merely invented it was pure speculation. Young Igor had often suspected that his mother was not beyond invention if it suited her purpose; he knew that she would never actually tell a lie, but just might elaborate a bit. 'Elaboration' was another of the many special words she had taught young Igor. She told her children marvelous stories every night. Her stories were far superior to anything in books since they

constantly changed. When questioned as to this ability to alter and transform what they had heard before until it was hardly recognizable, she had explained that this was 'elaboration'. So, Igor reasoned, she may have elaborated a bit about what had happened in church. They left Czechoslovakia with little more than what they could carry in their suitcases, but Bozhena carried something very special with her, a secret. It was a secret that she had carefully guarded for many years and now she would soon be able to share it her children, Igor and Cristina. There was one thing they carried in abundance, memories; so many memories. The memories which Igor had of his father were very special. In fact he even kept them in a specific part of his young mind. Nothing else was allowed entry into that designated area. At any time he could open that domain by just remembering his father's smile. It was like a key for a locked door. It was a handsome smile, not really big, but unlike any other. Not like cousin Pavel's smile which went from one ear to the other. Igor had often thought that 'bratranyets' Pavel had the biggest mouth in the entire world and obviously far more teeth than were necessary. Igor remembered again his father's smile. He retained a vision of his father also smiling with his eyes as they narrowed into dark, twinkling slits. Then there were memories of those long walks under the spreading trees by the Danube river there in Bratislava, just the two of them; crossing the stone bridge and looking down at the water as it flowed in relentless passage to somewhere. Igor remembered the comfort and security of knowing that his father was by his side. Although it was something he couldn't see or touch he could nonetheless feel his father's love as he looked down at Igor with his compassionate brown eyes. There were also memories of going fishing. The joy and excitement as a sharp jerk was felt on the line and his father helped Igor to pull in the first fish that he had ever caught. His father also liked to talk about what had happened in the past. About all the castles of their country, the rulers of the area where they lived, and about how everything was connected. It was interesting, but sometimes there were so many facts included that Igor got a little confused. But his father never tired of patiently explaining so his young son could understand how one part fit into another part. He could still hear his gentle, melodious voice. Igor loved to just listen to its soft, lyrical sound. Most of all Igor remembered him at his piano, an enormous old Bosendorfer. That was when his father entered his own special domain. He played the most beautiful music imaginable and while playing gazed off into space. Igor knew that he could see something that no one else in the entire world was capable of seeing or experiencing. Maybe he was communicating with Mozart. He talked about Mozart a lot. Igor looked up at the wispy white clouds, listened to the ship's churning sound as it pushed through the sea, and then closed that repository of memories and locked it securely with a single tear. Then one day that infinity of endless waves and the constant smell of salt laden air had come to an end. Igor's first impression of Venezuela was that this current eternity included living in paradise. They were staying with a Slovak family in the city of Caracas. It was warm, intensely green and the nights carried marvelous new fragrances and different sounds. The Masarik family had left Czechoslovakia just before the Nazi occupation. Sara Masarik was Jewish and unlike many others, she and her husband had heeded the dark rumblings. They had read about events in Germany and had anticipated the coming storm. They had found life in this new country to be both wonderful as well as

challenging. It involved learning a new language, customs and a very different way of life, but they were content and in only nine years had financially prospered. Igor soon made many new friends and was happy to think that this eternity might indeed last forever. But then his mother came up with another of her constant surprises. This was just a stopping point and hopefully in a short time they would once again be traveling. Suddenly Igor was not quite so happy. Bozhena was at last able to reveal her long held and closely guarded secret. The children knew that their father, Ivan, had been a professor of history at Comenius University in Bratislava. One afternoon he had not come home from his classes. Nor did he return during the following days. Igor demanded that they go to the university to look for his father, but Bozhena explained that the school had temporarily been closed by the occupying Nazis. Then suddenly one night they left their home in the city and went to live with their grandmother in Nove Zamky, in a remote, rural part of the country, near the Hungarian border. Their mother had never attempted to explain to them that their father's disappearance may well have been due to the fact that she and her husband had spent several years living in the United States, a country that was now at war with Germany. It might well have been that he openly protested the "protection" of Slovakia by the Nazi regime. She went on to inform her children that at one time their father had been a visiting professor at a university in California for three years and during that time both Igor and his younger sister had been born in that country. They were by birth United States citizens, a fact she had never been able to share with them before. Bozhena was in a curious position since her children were US citizens, yet she was not and would have to apply and wait for admittance. So, as soon as her papers were arranged, they would be heading for that fabled country. Igor was not impressed with his mother's revelation since he was living in the present, which meant Caracas, his new friends, especially Carlitos, and was perfectly content to continue doing so. Igor had met Carlitos on his second day at his new home and there had been an immediate problem, language. Not communication, just language. They could both point, and smile, and laugh and play. They just had a problem with specific words. It was at this point, on their first day of playing together that they invented their longest lasting game. Carlitos held up the ball in his hand and said, "pelota". Igor responded by calling it "gula". Carlitos handed the ball to Igor, who now called it 'pelota' and waited expectantly as Carlitos hesitantly called it 'gula'. A tree became an 'arbol' as well as 'strom', a flower immediately had two names, 'flor' and 'kvetina'. Occasionally they would encounter words that were almost exactly the same; sugar was 'azucar' and 'sukor'. From time to time there were minor differences they had trouble reconciling. Carlitos had pointed at a pair of shoes, certainly not his own since he resisted wearing them as much as possible, and said 'zapato' and that elicited a response from Igor of 'bota'. Carlitos looked a bit confused and attempted to explain that 'botas' (boots), though certainly something you put on your feet, were a quite different thing in Spanish. The two boys continued with this game for as long as they knew each other and before long Igor was speaking a rudimentary, though passable, Spanish and Carlitos was probably the only young Venezuelan boy spouting Slovak. For Igor the only thing amiss in this new life in Venezuela was the absence of his grandmother, her soft warmth and her delicious food. He enjoyed 'arepas', a type of Venezuelan bread, delicious black beans known as caraotas, and all the other savory flavors of this mild, tropical location, but

missed his daily kasha and the heavy dark bread, fresh from Baba's oven. Most of all he missed her stories. She was also very good at elaboration. He missed all the marvelous things she had shared with him about the world around them. She had taught him how to put his face to the wind and know if it carried rain. She had shown him how the formation of a butterfly's wings affected the very manner in which it flew from flower to flower, where it savored nectar and carried pollen. It was the pollen which helped to form the flower's seeds. Those seeds, when ripe fell to the ground and germinated. They grew and formed the flowers which would provide the nourishment for subsequent generations of butterflies. A process which was round, much like the hours on the clock. They explored a nearby forested area and she had explained how to find the best wild berries. Which mushrooms were edible; those same 'zhampioni' which gave the flavor and substance to delicious dishes such as 'svichkova pechenye', meat with mushrooms and sour creme and the various 'goulash', thick soups redolent with vegetables. Mushrooms which could be chopped finely and would fill those marvelous savories called 'piroshgi'. She taught him how to tend the plants which grew in their vegetable garden and provided much of their nourishment. She had also been very definite about how each and every single flower was different and individual, just like people. They might look the same from a distance, but upon close examination each was distinct, unique and precious. Lessons which were indelible, never to be forgotten, and would continue to influence his life for all of his many 'eternities'. Most of all he longed for her melodious voice, softly singing songs which were a part of, and as old as, the land which they considered their home. Many nights he had covered his head with his pillow, so no one could hear him, and cried because he missed his 'Baba' so much. Her absence in his life was a vacancy which no one else could fill. Inordinately proud at the age of 8 that he could identify a specific yellow flowered plant by its name in Slovak, Czech and even a complicated Latin binomial. His grandfather had died several years before, and having taught botany at the same university as his father, had left treasures for him to relish. Botanical books with exquisite line drawings and descriptions of countless plants of the region - and the world beyond. Time passed quicklyrelatively speaking, and considering Igor's penchant for dividing all periods up into greater and lesser eternities. Then nearly two years after leaving Czechoslovakia, Igor, his mother and sister arrived at the farm of Karel and Hana Bilak in southeastern Kansas. The Bilaks had immigrated to the US some twenty years before and had volunteered to sponsor Bozhena and her children until they were able to care for themselves in this new land. They arrived at the farm on a cool day in early spring and upon entering the warm kitchen, which smelled of freshly baked bread, Slovak sausage, cooked cabbage with caraway seeds and other familiar fragrances, Igor immediately felt at home. Yes, he was probably going to enjoy this current eternity. Igor's well being, and moods, had always been dictated by the status of his stomach. The farm consisted of slightly over 150 acres of land, much of which was planted in wheat, corn, soy beans and alfalfa. There was also a part which was reserved as pasture land for the small herd of milk cows. Unlike the flatness of much of Kansas this southeastern part of the state was

composed of rolling hills and numerous small streams and larger rivers. Igor adjusted quickly to life on the farm and took pride in accomplishing all of his many daily chores to the best of his ability. The family was up well before dawn to begin the process of milking the cows, feeding the chickens and various other animals, drawing water from the well, eating enormous breakfasts and then he and Cristina headed for school. They walked nearly a mile to the one room schoolhouse, which had a total of eight students, a bell tower, and the most dedicated and wonderful teacher that a student could ever hope to encounter. Miss Watkins took special pride in helping her two newest students to learn and deal with the complexities of the English language and, when necessary, she never tired of repeatedly explaining the same word or concept until they understood what she was attempting to convey. After school there were a number of chores which had to be completed before it got dark and the cows had to be milked again. Then after a large meal Igor and his sister did their homework to the light of a lantern and Bozhena and Hana helped them with their study of English and math and the various subjects they were studying in school. Igor had not known that his mother knew English so well, and though she spoke it with a decided accent, her knowledge of grammar was excellent and she was insistent that her children understand the intricacies of their new language. Very insistent. Karel had a special large chair which he occupied every evening, then after lighting one of his marvelous curved pipes with aromatic tobacco, he disappeared into his world of reading. When they first met at the railway station in Parsons, the nearest large town to the farm, Igor had immediately liked Karel. He was a big man and looked somewhat a large, gruff bear, but when he opened his mouth to speak, everything he said came out soft and gentle. Now Hana, on the other hand, was exactly the reverse. She was petite and looked like the epitome of sweetness, something straight from a candy store. But beneath that candy-coated exterior was the hardest, strictest and most demanding person young Igor had ever encountered. He made it a special point of never unnecessarily crossing her path. To incur the Wrath of God would have been a gentle reproach in comparison to incurring the Wrath of Hana. A specific reason for his not incurring her displeasure was that she controlled the kitchen and that might mean that there wouldn't be a second helping of dumplings, 'nedliki', or one of her rich desserts, primarily based on fresh fruits and thick rich cream. Some evenings the entire family would spend the time listening to programs on the radio. Since electricity had not yet arrived in this rural area, the radio was powered by several large batteries which were charged by a small windmill attached to the side of the house. Many evenings were spent with Hana or Bozhena playing the piano, primarily popular music or folk melodies from Czechoslovakia, with occasional impromptu performances of Chopin, Mozart or other classical works performed by Bozhena. She was also capable of getting that far away look in her eyes when she played the piano. Igor silently wondered if it was possible that both his parents were capable of communication with Mozart, even though he had been dead for such a long time. Spring turned into summer and the work on the farm increased. In fact the school terminated its classes in May so that the children could help their parents with the work on the farms. Early spring had been devoted to plowing and planting. By summer it was time for the harvest of the acres of golden wheat, accomplished with large machines which traveled from farm to farm and all the farmers cooperated in helping one another. The women worked together to provide enormous amounts of food to feed the hungry harvesters. Hana, Bozhena and Cristina were busy on a daily basis canning and

preserving the bounty of the large vegetable garden which would nourish them during the long midwestern winters. Their work was stored in a large 'storm cellar' made of stone and built into the side of the hill near the house. It served two purposes; as a storage facility and also as a place of protection during the passage of tornadoes which frequently crossed this section of the country during the summer months. Then came the cutting and baling of alfalfa which was stored in the upper portion of the large barn and served as feed for the cattle during the long, cold winter when the pasture land was buried deep in snow. Besides his daily chores and helping with the work of planting and harvesting, Igor had time to wander, alone, among the vast areas of the farm. One spot where he spent many hours was alongside the creek which passed through the cattle pasture. It was bordered by large trees and abounded with an infinite variety of wild life. He watched and partook of the complexity and beauty of nature. He spent untold hours in minute observation of small details of insects and plants. Also of observing how all was an integral part of the totality. It became a part of him and he a part of it. He discovered that the divine spirit, that 'God' which many found only within the confines of a church, was for him everywhere evident. And it was here in this special spot that he was closest to 'Baba'; he could almost hear her voice or see her beautiful, wrinkled fingers as she held up a flower for him to smell and examine. Soon it was winter and one of the most severe that the inhabitants of that area could remember. Snow covered the landscape and enveloped all with its imposing silence. Then one night it began to rain slightly, a rain which froze on the trees and covered everything with layer upon layer of glistening ice. As the smaller tree limbs became too heavy some of them would break off and fall, creating a magical twinkling sound. It was a special experience which Igor never forgot since it bordered on being magical. It seemed that nothing so exquisitely beautiful could possibly exist. Bozhena had decided to spend the winter with one of Karel and Hana's married daughters who lived in the nearby town of Parsons, some twenty miles from the farm. She had obtained a job working at a clothing store there and was finally able to help pay the Bilaks for their infinite kindness. She was also squirreling away a certain percentage in the local bank since she was hatching yet another of her plans for the future. Naturally it involved traveling. Nearly two years had passed and soon they were packing their bags once again. When Bozhena and her husband had lived in the US it had been in Southern California, near Los Angeles. Bozhena did not like cold weather and had been longing to return to the warmth and familiarity of the area where she had lived with Ivan. Perhaps she was trying to recapture those precious, lost moments. Life in Kansas seemed to exist between two extremes, very hot or very cold, Bozhena was looking for something a little more temperate. When they arrived at the train station in Parsons and were saying good-bye to the Bilaks, Igor momentarily began to wonder if his entire life was to be composed of traveling, punctuated by what seemed to be short stationary periods. Rationally he knew that it was the reverse, but in the world of larger and smaller eternities, Igors time was a little disjointed. However this new 'train eternity' was of a much shorter duration. He had discovered the incredible joy of becoming so immersed in reading that all else ceased to exist. Time no longer existed! It was a new

revelation and evidence to his young mind that even though 'eternities' can vary greatly in the amount of space they occupy, that he now had the facility of controlling time, those very eternities that had been plaguing him all his life. At least that's what he thought at the period of this discovery. Although it wasn't really a completely formulated scientific theory and a blackboard covered with marvelous numbers to substantiate his discovery. Nothing more than a passing thought as the train pulled into the Los Angeles station. For the last two years Bozhena had been corresponding with Ray and Martha Clark in Whittier, a suburb of Los Angeles, where she and Ivan had previously lived. Ray was a faculty member at Whittier College, where Igor's father had taught. The Clarks had offered to help Bozhena in any way possible if she decided to return to that area. Ray's mother had recently died and the Clarks volunteered to rent Bozhena the now vacant house, which was located in nearby Alhambra. Within days of having moved into their new home Bozhena had obtained a job working in a children's clothing store owned by Mr. Ankar, a Turkish immigrant to the US. Bozhena explained to Igor and Christina that she had probably gotten the job since her grandfather, their great grandfather, had been Turkish and she had of course mentioned this fact to Mr. Ankar in the course of her interview. Now Igor had never heard about this particular maternal great grandfather. That evening the children learned all about him. It seems that Turkish Gramps, Amir Nazim Kirmal by name, had arrived in Bratislava via the Danube River aboard a boat. He had chanced to see their great grandmother Hrushka, immediately fallen in love and decided to stay. Though he didn't verbally express his suspicions, Igor felt that perhaps his mother had invented yet another story to facilitate her present need, namely that of employment. However that might be, Amir, or Turkish Gramps, became a permanent part of the family history. Igor did know that one of his maternal great grandmothers, Kazinka, had been Ukrainian. In fact, Igor decided, adopting his mother's penchant for elaboration, Kazinka was undoubtedly a wandering Ukrainian gypsy with large flowing skirts, dangling golden earrings and her nomadic nature would genetically help to explain his mother's inclination for frequently packing their bags on those periodic changes of location. He was beginning to feel comfortable using the English language, though it still required a great deal of work, and he excelled in nearly all his courses. He was supremely content with this new eternity, one which he hoped would not include any new trips to faraway places. The children's clothing store where Bozhena worked was a great success and soon Mr. Ankar was opening other stores in nearby communities. Bozhena had a knack for anticipating the coming fashions, and fads, in children's wear and had been promoted to general manager and purchasing agent for the growing chain of stores. Eventually she was able to arrange for purchase of the house where they lived and even bought a car. For her two children a trip with their mother at the wheel was always one of the most frightening experiences of their life. They had endured arduous travel on three continents, but a trip to the nearby supermarket with mama driving was absolutely terrifying and caused panic in their young hearts. Bozhena frequently had accidents, though fortunately none of them were ever serious; she took them in her stride and may have even felt that they were an integral and necessary part of driving. How could you possibly get from Point 'A' to Point 'B' and not scratch up a couple of fenders or lose a tail light or two? Their car, which had been in a fairly decent condition when purchased, soon looked as if

it had barely survived several world wars. In the small community where they lived she soon became quite notorious and it was rumored that drivers would quite literally get off the street if they saw her coming in their direction. Among other qualities Bozhena also had a very strong constitution and was never ruffled by hysterical drivers who often felt that she had purposely set out to destroy their automobiles. Bozhena's second major investment was her piano and, unlike her vehicle, it received the utmost in lavish care and attention. Similar to a medical check-up, it received a tuning every six months, and the children couldn't get near it with a cookie or even slightly soiled hands. Igor and Christina had to practice daily, after thoroughly washing their hands several times in a near religious ritual. Bozhena's teaching method was simple; first a few scales to limber the fingers and the mind and then a little Bach or Mozart. The first pieces they learned weren't something simple like 'Twinkle twinkle little star". According to Bozhena it had to be 'MUSIC', and she had very definite ideas about what comprised music. She played almost daily and though she seemed to enjoy the music of Mozart best, it was those rare times that she played Chopin or Schumann that she seemed to enter another world. The children knew that she had transported herself into the land of memories and was thinking about their father. She rarely talked about him, it was as if the pain would have been too much for this incredibly strong woman to bear. Igor, an astrological Cancer and home loving youngster, lived in a state of near constant fear that his mother would one day suddenly announce that they had to pack their bags since they would be leaving for Madagascar or some other exotic place that he had perhaps never even heard of. But no, it would appear that Bozhena's one and only destination, when she had heard that legendary voice in Czechoslovakia, was the home which she purchased there in California. She never again changed residence, though she was in later years known to suddenly board a bus, train or airplane and zoom off for a few days. Only once did she return to her native Czechoslovakia and spent a month visiting with the family there. Upon returning to California one of her terse comments was, "They're never going to change." It was uttered with absolutely no emotion in her tone of voice and Igor never knew if that pronouncement was negative or positive. It was much like her having said, "The sun is in the sky." High school was filled with activity, likes and dislikes. Igor discovered that his interests were not those of the majority of the students and sports, school dances and parties were not a part of his preferred activities. He excelled in history, science, language and literature. Art was also of great interest but it had to take a back seat to more academic interests. He was president of the Science Club for two semesters and an active member throughout his high school days. More important than all school activities was curling up with a good book. That could mean anything from literature to his monthly purchases of Astounding Science Fiction and Galaxy. Although he worked at a local corner market for several hours every day after classes, he always found the time to study, and continued to be on the honor list throughout his four years of high school. Books, reading and discussion of material read were an integral part of their household. Bozhena had turned the large dining room into a combination mini-library and eating area. Whereas in

most homes it was considered bad manners to read while eating, in their home it was almost the rule. Bozhena had always considered nourishment for the body and food for the mind to be intimately related, hence the dining room contained shelves of books and books stacked on books. Cristina, whose job it was to set the table, never neglected to put the dictionary within her mother's reach Igor often occasionally ate at the homes of some of his friends from high school, but he never found anything to compare to the feasts which were daily prepared by his mother. And he remembered the delicious meals prepared by his grandmother, whom he still missed daily. It was at the end of his sophomore year in high school and Bozhena had been secretly planning a surprise for Igor. She had been corresponding with a distant 'cousin' who lived in Arizona. Igor had long ago discovered that nearly any Slovak or Czech in the United States was probably in some way related to his mother, though he was never sure of the exact genealogical ties. Bozhena had arranged for her son to spend a month in Arizona with 'Uncle Ivan', 'Aunt Meta' and his two 'cousins', George and Elizabeth. Igor adored his mother, but not necessarily her surprises. An eternity of sweltering heat, sand, rocks and cactus was not exactly his idea of a fun filled experience.

2 Arizona Vacation

The Greyhound bus continued in its monotonous voyage. The darkness was punctuated by the occasional headlights of oncoming vehicles, luminous streaks of light that almost immediately vanished. Passing through the emptiness of central Arizona only an occasional faint light in the distance gave any evidence of life. I alternately dozed and then would suddenly wake up, becoming aware of the discomfort of trying to sleep in a semi-upright position and the constant hum of the bus tires on the seemingly endless highway. It was the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school. Though I had, gypsy like, wandered over what seemed like half of the planet with my mother Bozhena, and my bothersome younger sister Christina, for the first time I was traveling alone. I closed my eyes again. For no seeming reason I remembered Susana. I was in the fourth grade, newly arrived in Caracas, Venezuela, and during class break Susana, a bold young lady, reached over and held my hand. Wow, she liked me. Or perhaps she just enjoyed hearing my strange accent as I attempted to navigate the intricacies of Spanish pronunciation. For a day or two I thought it was love, but the feeling soon disappeared to be replaced by another momentary infatuation. Perhaps it was Mara Carmen. Remembering the two years spent in Kansas after we finally arrived in the United States, it appeared to have held no twitters of the heart. Probably much too busy adapting to our new life to give it much consideration. When I arrived in California I was placed in the seventh grade at the local grammar school. During my two years at there I spent nearly all of my time with Kobuko, a young Japanese-Hawaiian boy who had just come to California from Oahu. Perhaps because we were both newly arrived, and both several days late in starting class, it seemed natural that we should become friends. It appeared that everyone else in our class had known each other the previous year, or perhaps much of their lives. We had no self-evident credentials upon which to base our worth, and hence were apart from the group. Then the significant thing that seemed to seal our friendship was when we discovered that our birthdays were only one day apart. Mine was on the 6th of July and Kobuko's was on the 7th. That, and the fact that we both had unusual first names. At one point we surmised that he was probably the only Kobuko and I was the only Igor in the entire California school system. We may have been correct in our assumption. I suddenly had no interest in having other friends and couldn't envision being with anyone else. I played with Kobuko, ate lunch with him, studied with him and my immediate vision included no one else. I couldn't possibly explain it to anyone, but this feeling of closeness with Kobuko was much the same as that which I'd felt before with the girls that I'd become infatuated with. We even invented special nicknames, used only when we were alone of course. Kobuko became 'Chip' since, to me he resembled one of my favorite creatures, the chipmunk. He had intense, piercing dark eyes which radiated intelligence, and a broad smile which allowed his brilliant teeth to shine. He claimed that my somewhat unruly hair resembled a squirrel's tail and I became 'Squirrley'.

I thought back to the day I'd found him crying. I could never forget that day since its impact had sealed our permanent bond. Kobuko's dad, Mr. Nakamura, always drove us to school in the morning, on his way to work, and then we walked home together. On that day I had to stay after class and talk to Mrs. Lindsey, 'the witch', because she had caught me passing notes during class. Not once, but twice in the same hour. When I finally escaped from the long winded reprimand by Mrs. Lindsey and rushed to the front of the school, Kobuko was nowhere to be found. I couldn't understand it since we always left and walked home together. As I walked home alone I felt dejected. It was the first seeming breach in our friendship. Then my despair changed to anger. I decided that I'd go by his house and let him know that his action was not consistent with the way friends treated each other. When I got to his house and rang the doorbell no one answered. Still mad, I rang it again and again. Finally decided to go around to the backyard. I felt that Kobuko might playing back there, but he was nowhere in sight. Perplexed, I started to leave when I heard muffled sobs coming from behind the garage. There, under the bench that his father used for potting plants and working on his bonsai, was Kobuko with his head against his knees. He had obviously been crying for some time since I could see that the front of his shirt was wet from his copious tears. He hid his face and continued to sob, his whole body shaking. I knelt down, put my hand on his shoulder and asked him to tell me what was wrong. At first he refused to talk and then finally blurted out that Mike, the class bully, had come up to him after class and for no apparent reason had called him a dirty Jap and told him to go back to Japan so he could be with the rest of the slant-eyed freaks. In muffled, sobbing words Kobuko reminded me that he was from Hawaii and had never even been to Japan. I sat down next to him and put my arm around his shoulder, then attempted to explain that it didn't matter what Mike said, that I was his friend and always would be. I told him about how I had gone through a similar situation of senseless prejudice in Kansas, so I knew and could feel his pain. That afternoon, sitting together under the bonsai bench, brought us as close together as two friends can ever be. I was there when he desperately needed someone, and he had provided a friendship that, in my adolescent mind, could never be equaled. Then I began to outline a plan to get back at Mike. Though not a particularly outstanding student, Mike was pretty good at spelling. Well, we could study our butts off and become better than him. It would humiliate him completely if the two 'foreigners' were able to spell better than the 'AllAmerican' stud. Kobuko finally raised his head and smiled. He felt that it was a great idea and insisted we start immediately. Actually our plan became even more successful that we had anticipated. Before long we were studying every subject with equal enthusiasm. Of course we continued to play, but now even our explorations to the nearby river, and other playtime activities, were tinged with spelling lists and history facts, learning to deal with arithmetic and doing fractions in our heads instead of on paper. The 'Jap' and the 'Slovak' soon became two of the outstanding pupils in the class and were looked upon with respect by most of the other students. With the exception of Mike, who had become more alienated than ever. But at least he left both of us alone.

At the end of our second school year Kobuko announced that he and his family were moving to San Francisco. I felt that my world was going to collapse. My only true friend was going off to the other side of the universe. He was also dejected by this unexpected turn of events and we made plans to try and visit each other during our summer vacations. We promised to write and did sporadically for almost a year. The bus suddenly slowed down. In the darkness I could see the many lights on the back of the large truck in front of us. The truck turned down a side road and the bus accelerated and resumed its normal hum. In the semi-darkness I squinted at my watch, a brand new birthday gift from my mother, and realized that the bus still had several hours of travel before reaching Winslow. I closed my eyes again. As a high school freshman in California I'd asked my very special friend Norma to go to a movie with me. I could still remember how my heart had fluttered when I'd asked her if she could go. At the time I felt she was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen. Finally, during the second feature, I grabbed her hand and held it. I wanted to kiss her but didn't know how to initiate the process. I couldn't just say, 'okay, pucker up'. I thought about how to do it with such intensity and for so long that my concentration became an impediment to understanding what the movie was all about. And suddenly the movie was over and the only thing my amorous intentions has accomplished was two very sweaty hands. In class she became the object of my constant attention. During recess, much to the displeasure of her girl friends, I tried to spend all my time being near her. I knew without doubt that it was love. Like many adolescent attractions, my love seemed to wither of its own accord within a couple of weeks. Later that same year I spent the night at the home of one of my high school freshman buddies, Stevie. Hum, now that was strange. Maybe it was only a dream but it seemed that Stevie had spent a great deal of time that night examining and touching my body. But did it really happen? In Saturday catechism Father Timothy once mentioned that it was sinful to touch each other. Obviously he didn't just mean touch since there was a definite emphasis on the word 'touch'. Well, sinful or not it was unmistakably exciting. I, as usual, had to go to confession on Saturday, but how could I explain that I enjoyed 'it' and would sort of like to feel that sensation again? Decided that omission would be the best policy. Conveniently forget the enjoyment part maybe it would just be best to not mention the entire incident. God would probably overlook the fact that my memory had definite periods of forgetfulness. Tenth grade. Girl friends and boy friends but certainly not much I had to omit from confession, well other than a few stray thoughts and the fact that I occasionally jerked off in the bathroom. That was an enjoyable little trick that Stevie had taught me the previous year during one of our occasional explorations in the night. Suddenly it was almost summer and my mother wanted to do something special for me and so had arranged for me to spend a few weeks visiting some 'relatives' in Arizona. Certainly a part of the growing up process since I had never made a trip all by myself. I didn't know this part of the family, never having met them. 'Aunt Meta' had been to our house the previous year and spent an evening visiting with my mother. I was out. Probably with one of my buddies from the Science Club, Norman or Bruce. My mother and her cousin Meta had planned the whole thing and even though I was sort of excited at the prospect, I was also a bit apprehensive about spending an entire month with unknown people.

With lots of anticipation and a bit of the fear of the unknown, I got on the Greyhound bus in Southern California and traveled all the way to the other side of the state of Arizona, to Winslow, a small town near the Painted Desert and close to the New Mexico border. It was well after midnight when the bus arrived in Winslow. Uncle Ivan had come to the bus station to meet me, alone. He explained that everyone else was at home in bed. That made me just a little agitated. Although I didn't express it I felt that they could have at least stayed up in order to say hello. Arriving at the house I discovered that Aunt Meta had left a large roast beef sandwich, glass of milk and a note which said, WELCOME VITAJTE for me on the kitchen table. That made me felt a little better; not much, but a little. Uncle Ivan chatted while I ate and then showed me into his son's room where I would be sleeping. I thought to myself, 'Oh great! Eat and then go directly to bed. I'll probably burp or fart all night long. Maybe both. ' As he turned on the overhead light the lump on one of the twin beds made a soft grunting noise and pulled the sheet over its head. Uncle Ivan found a place for my suitcase, showed me the adjoining bathroom, turned on the bedside light and then explained that due to the constant warmth I probably wouldn't need anything other than the sheet on the bed. After saying 'dobrou notz' he turned off the overhead light and closed the door. After rummaging through my suitcase for my toothbrush and pajamas I brushed my teeth and headed for bed. Looking around the room I glanced at the hulk under the sheet on the nearby bed and then examined the surroundings. 'Well, cousin George is certainly neat. Nothing seems to be out of place, but of course it's probably his mother who keeps everything so neatly arranged.' As I turned out the light I was already indulging in another of my continuous, internal conversations, 'Well thanks a lot Mom, so far this vacation has all the earmarks of being a great big nothing. Less than nothing, since I will probably be completely and utterly bored for an entire month. And in a frigging desert of all places.' Frigging had become one of my favorite adjectives, very descriptive and since I wasn't actually using the word 'fuck', I didn't have to include it in my increasingly infrequent visits to the confessional. As I drifted off to sleep I couldn't help but think about how I had envisioned my reception here with the entire family gathered around a table, everyone talking at the same time and asking me all kinds of questions about my mom and sister, about life in Southern California, had we heard from Baba Maia or anyone else in Czechoslovakia, what do.... The next morning I woke up late and in fact hadn't heard the others when they got up. After dressing I went into the kitchen and encountered Aunt Meta who gave me one of those smothering Slovakian hugs and launched into a million questions, never letting me finish answering one before a thousand more had been flung at me. And all the time she was busy fixing one of those humongous breakfasts that no one in their right mind could possibly eat. As I was attempting to do justice to the vast quantity of food in front of me, cousin George wandered in. I got up and we shook hands. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I thought to myself, he's as big and tall as the Incredible Hulk, one of my favorite comic book heroes! Well, not quite that big, but very tall and with a really muscular, well-developed body. Perfect tan too, but of course with this frigging desert sun he's probably one step away from being fried. Nice friendly smile with the most perfect teeth I've ever seen. Are they false? I've never heard of anyone with false teeth when they re only 17 years old, but I know that the world is filled with strange phenomena. His eyes are the softest brown I've ever seen and very large. Also sort of sad, much like the large, sad eyes that cows have. A cow-eyed cousin with shiny false choppers. Now I really have something to share with my friends when get back to Southern California. Who, among my friends, can boast of having a handsome young bull with false teeth as a cousin? Probably sound better if I left out the handsome part.

George sat down and Aunt Meta asked if he would like a cup of coffee. As he began to ask me a few questions, most of them sort of inane and hardly worth answering, I noticed that his voice was pleasantly soft and unlike other members of my family, whose speech was tinged with a slight middle European accent, his enunciation was perfect. I'd sort of expected him to sound like the Incredible Hulk. How in the frigging hell was I supposed to consume all that food and talk at the same time? Cousin Elizabeth made a brief appearance and excusing herself rushed off to visit some friends. She was 18 years old and absolutely beautiful. God, she's incredible. More nice choppers. Maybe there's a dentist in town who gives special rates if everyone in the family gets false teeth. At least she didn't stay long enough to ask any dumb questions. As I finally finished eating breakfast cousin George asked if I would like to help him work on his car. Naturally I answered in the affirmative and attempted to sound enthusiastic, knowing all the while that it was absolutely impossible for me to become enraptured about traveling hundreds of miles so that I could work on a car. I hardly knew the difference between a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, nor was I really very interested. So the two of us then spent almost the entire day on our backs peering at the underside of his recently purchased car, enveloped in oil and grease; taking unknown parts off and then replacing some of them. Others evidently needed to be purchased. My prior mechanical knowledge had been limited to knowing how to put water in the radiator of my moms car, that was if I could get the frigging radiator cap off. And this first day seemed to go on forever. About the only pleasant part of the process was sneaking peeks at George's well-developed body since he was wearing only a pair of Levi cut-offs. I was now 16 years old, definitely interested in bodies and this one was certainly one to admire. I didn't see anything wrong with admiring; after all Michelangelo admired them and look at what he produced. In my humble opinion, there was undoubtedly nothing in the entire world to equal Michelangelo's statue of David. I had spent considerable time looking at it; and then usually wound up in the bathroom jerking off while examining photos of it in minute detail. The day got a little more exciting when, at one point George put his muscular leg right on top of my crotch while he maneuvered to remove a particularly stubborn bolt. I was a bit apprehensive since I seemed get erections at any time of the day or night and for no reason whatsoever. That thing between my legs, Mr. You-Know-Who, seemed to have a mind of his own, although this time he had behaved himself. But could he be trusted? During the dismantling of various parts of the car, George had talked about his high school, mentioned a few of his friends and talked a lot about football. He was on the football team and this seemed to be one of his major interests. It would have been rude of me to tell him that I thought football was, for the most part, a pastime of morons, cretins and misguided jocks. I feigned interest. I also learned the names of a number of the car parts that we were dealing with and he enthusiastically and patiently explained the function of each. Before I knew what was happening I found myself actually becoming interested. It was incredibly complex with each part designed for a specific purpose and all working together with a precision that was difficult for me to imagine. Almost against my will I had become fascinated and was flooding poor George with a million questions. Occasionally he would have to explain a concept or process, or the function of a particular part, a couple of times before I understood it completely. But he seemed to enjoy being able to share this knowledge. With the passage of time he seemed less like a jerk than when we first began. George shifted position and brushed his short trimmed hair against my shoulder. Tickled, but really felt nice. Looks like this

vacation might be a little more enjoyable than I had imagined. I had expected boiling hot temperatures, however the day had been quite pleasant, a little warm but not uncomfortable. Meta was calling and said it was time to come in for dinner. First a quick shower. George's bedroom was at the back of the house and had its own bathroom. He suggested that I shower first and while I was drying off he entered the bathroom, began chatting and then unconsciously stripped and got in the shower. He didn't even bother to completely close the shower curtain and continued to jabber away. Obviously another jock trait was to not be aware of being nude. I was surprised and sort of shocked when George asked if I could soap down his back since he felt that there was probably still some grease on it. He handed me the soap and washcloth and as I was gently, and very self consciously, lathering his back, Mr. You-Know-Who awakened from his slumber, suddenly came to life and a full upright position. God, my towel was sticking out like I had a flagpole between my legs. A quick, "I think that's got it George" and then an about face to hastily retreat and make a dash for my clothes which were lying on the bed, all the time hoping that George hadn't been witness to Mr. You-Know-Who's recent performance. George came into the bedroom draped in his towel and then proceeded to take it off and dry his hair. What in the frigging hell was he trying to prove? That he had a good body? That was more than evident and even Michelangelo might have been interested in using him for a model. Well, if George had been alive a few hundred years ago that is. It was undoubtedly just another of those quirks that jocks indulge in what was it called, exhibitionism? He then noticed the copies of Galaxy and Astounding Science Fiction magazines that I was removing from my suitcase. He let out an enthusiastic yelp and while he was pulling on a pair of Bermudas he went over to a closet that he opened and proudly showed me stacks of science fiction magazines and a considerable collection of paperbacks. I had read about compulsively neat people, and it appeared that Cousin George was a compulsive jock. He probably had an entire drawer full of neatly folded and arranged jock straps with little name tags: one for Monday, one for Tuesday, one for Wednesday..... He rapidly explained that his passion in life was reading, but he especially loved science fiction. Needless to say I was nearly speechless at this little confession since it mirrored exactly the most important thing in my life, reading. I read as much as possible and for that matter just about anything available. I had even read so many cereal boxes that I knew the all manufacturers addresses by heart. But I especially enjoyed science fiction. No, I didn't just enjoy science fiction, it was a consuming passion. When I had first entered George's room last night I had immediately noticed an absence of any books or bookshelves. My God that entire large closet was filled with books and magazines. It looked like a mini library. All neatly arranged. Too neat, which means that he probably doesn't read them, or at least not all of them. Is it possible that he might have read all of them? He seems to be pretty bright. Dinner was delicious and the conversation centered around answering questions about me, my mother and sister. Uncle Ivan apologized for not being able to spend time with me during the day, but explained that his work at the Bureau of Indian Affairs kept him quite busy. I learned that he was the government supervisor for the nearby Hopi reservation and he promised to take me out to the Mishognavi mesas at the first opportunity. In two weeks the Mishongnavi Hopi would be presenting their annual rain dance and I had just received an invitation to attend.

George kept trying to intersperse questions about various science fiction stories or specific authors and eventually the two of us were deep into discussions about our favorite authors. After a magnificent apple pie, George asked his dad if he could borrow the car so he could show me a bit of the town. Big deal, he'll probably take me to visit the local Dairy Queen. Maybe there are even two of them in town and we could visit both! The rest of the family retired to the living room to spend some time watching TV. Wow, they even have TV out here in the frigging desert. I wondered how many channels they received; probably two with hourly repeats of old Howdy Doody or ancient Ed Sullivan shows. It came as somewhat a shock when I passed through the living room and discovered that they were watching an educational documentary about animal life of central Africa. Driving around town in uncle Ivan's big Chrysler was enjoyable and George played tour guide by pointing out some of the notable features. A drive by the high school and then out beyond town. Soon we were far from town and out in the desert. George stopped and suggested we get out. There beyond the lights of civilization the stars were the brightest and closest that I had ever seen. It seemed possible to reach out and touch them, one by one. It was still very warm and we sat down on a large rock. This area was called Three Rock because of the large stone outcroppings that overlooked the valley below. George was trying to point out the Cassiopeia star cluster near the big dipper and in order to direct my vision to the proper point in the sky he put his right hand on my shoulder, placed his face next to mine and pointed with his other hand. Was he pulling me closer? It certainly seemed that way, but then I'd always had an overactive imagination. At that specific moment I got hold of myself and had another of my notable, and constant internal conversations. "Now look, he appears to be super friendly, but that's all there is to it. Don't get all excited and start planning any midnight hanky-panky like with Stevie. He's just a friendly jock and they're all that way. Remember the football players and other jocks at your own high school? True, in the gym or locker room they seem to enjoy swatting each other on the butt with a towel or even their hand, but the words they most often use for anyone they disapprove of someone is fag or fairy. 'Hey, Homo you want a little of this', as they grab at their crotch. It's the way they're made." He's your cousin and just trying to be friendly." I was really impressed by George's knowledge of astronomy and he mentioned stars and constellations that I'd never even heard of. Where'd he get all that information? Maybe he was just making it up. Sort of on-the-spot invention. No, it was obvious that he knew what he was talking about, and I was just momentarily jealous that I hadn't devoted as much time to studying the astronomy as he had. But of course I did have a good excuse since the Southern California sky was so smoggy that most of the time people didn't even know if the stars still existed. I had recently read that the big telescope on Mt. Wilson, overlooking the L.A. basin, was now often useless because of the smoggy, overcast sky. The more I looked at the crystalline Arizona nighttime sky the more I realized that this was a very special area and the people here were very fortunate. Later, as we got up to go back to the car, I thanked George for this very special experience. I even complimented him and added that I'd like to know as much about astronomy as he did. He mentioned that sometime in the next few days he'd like to take me out to a meteor crater, explaining that hundreds of thousands of years ago a meteor had impacted and left an enormous crater and it was only about 10 miles from town. As a matter of fact he had some meteor fragments at the house that I could have if I wanted. And then there was also the nearby Petrified Forest and Painted Desert that he wanted to show me. I realized then that maybe this vacation was going to be enjoyable after all; well, as long as I didn't have to spend the entire time looking at the underside of his car.

When we got back to the house the family was still watching TV and I excused myself, explaining that I was tired and was going to go to bed. I also mentioned that I might do a little reading before going to sleep. George said goodnight to his family and said that he was going to take advantage of this time to do a little reading as well, especially since I had arrived with the most recent issues of two of his favorite science fiction magazines. George turned on the lamp between the twin beds, turned off the overhead light and asked to borrow the Galaxy magazine. By this time he had already removed his clothes and neatly hung them up in the closet. Yes, obviously a compulsive neatnik. Clad only in his shorts he lay down on his bed and began leafing through the magazine. I was still dressed and debated about whether or not to put on my PJ's, but opted to sleep in just my shorts like George since it was still quite warm. But how was I going to go about getting my clothes off? Perhaps deepen my voice a bit and in imitation of 'jock-talk' sort of casually say, "Well guess it's time to strip down". Instead I just silently got up and took off my clothes, carefully folding them and hanging them over the back of the chair so that George wouldn't think that I was a complete slob. Ho, ho, ho. I knew I was a slob and my mother regularly confirmed it. In fact she had commented that my room looked like a tornado dropped down regularly once a week to rearrange the contents. Well, that wasn't exactly true since I vacillated between being very neat and incredibly sloppy, though a bit more of the latter. George suddenly let out another of his now familiar yelps of pleasure. He exclaimed that this issue had some pictures by his favorite illustrator, Brad Williams. Yes, I knew the artist well since his futuristic drawings featured handsome, muscular men clad in tight fitting clothes and most of them had a sizable crotch to go with their sizable muscles. More jerk-off material. I'd done enough reading to know it wasn't true, but some of the guys in high school contended that 'choking the chicken' too frequently would cause you to go blind. Well, if that were the case I should have been saving up to get a seeing-eye dog. George asked if I had read that issue's continuation of the story by Isaac Asimov. I hesitated and almost told him that I had, but for some reason decided to pretend that I hadn't. It had already been established that we had both read the preceding part and I didn't want to appear to be a complete smart ass. I often felt like one, but there was no reason to broadcast it. He got up, came over to my bed and sat down on the edge and began to read out loud. I had been lying on my back and then shifted to my side so that he would have a little more room. He continued to read in a firm yet soft, melodious voice. He obviously was pleased to have someone that he could share this special pleasure with, since he had mentioned earlier that none of his friends were at all interested in science fiction. He then laid down, asked to share my pillow and continued to read. I was sort of listening to the story and his pleasant voice, but at the same time I was aware of the fact that his leg was gently pressing up against mine. I was also aware of the fact that Mr. YouKnow-Who was up to one of his usual tricks. I raised my other leg up slightly so that hopefully it wouldn't be obvious that I had a gigantic hard on. George stopped reading and began talking about an event that happened in the previous part of the story in the preceding issue of the magazine. He then asked if I would mind if he turned off the light. He raised up to turn off the light and when he laid back down he ever so gently put his leg on top of my shorts. He whispered, "Do you mind?, and began to explore my body. Then after a few minutes he reached down, found my hand and gently laid it on top of his hard, firm stomach with my fingers touching the upper edge of his shorts. At this point conversation became unnecessary as our two young bodies found each other and responded to the moment.

3 Chopin Nocturne in F

During that night, at the tender age of 16 years, two weeks and four days, I was positive that I had been presented with the answer to who I was. A physical, as well as emotional, human being who responded to a particular type of love and affection. Fortunately it had been coupled with the most incredible tenderness imaginable. It might not have been the prototype of sexual love adopted by most people but it was exactly what I had always wanted and seemed to need, even if I hadn't been able to express that need verbally or even mentally. It was a night of growth and maturing. I woke up sometime in the middle of the night. George had returned to his own bed and was gently snoring. I realized that I had been dreaming about Kobuko, whom I had not seen in years, but though I tried, I couldn't remember the details of the dream. The next day I actually looked forward to helping George work on his car. He gratefully accepted my renewed offer of assistance. As we began, he explained that his mom and dad would be going into Flagstaff, the nearest large city some 150 miles away, that coming weekend and his dad could pick up any auto parts that he needed. Most would have been available in Winslow, but Uncle Ivan could get them at a reduced price at the auto parts store of a friend in Flagstaff. Hence George wouldn't have to spend as much of his hard earned savings. Nothing had been said about what happened last night, other than when I was showering in the morning George reached in, gently pinched me on the arm, then stuck his head around the shower curtain and smiled. Nothing more was necessary. I knew that this had already been, and would continue to be, the most incredible vacation of my life. Suddenly I was dealing with eternities again. The passage of time, especially the elusive concept of 'eternity', had been a preoccupation since early childhood. Now the day was only a prelude to the night. A time when I could bask in the magnificence of being truly alive. A time for whispers and secrets, of sharing and intimacy. But the day never seemed to end. As early as noon I began praying for sunset, "Oh God, let it get dark right now, couldn't You arrange for a nonscheduled eclipse or something? Maybe You could find a nice dense plague of locusts and they could blacken the sky". During the day he was 'George The Mechanic', 'George the Jock', 'George the Dutiful Son', but in the darkness and closeness of those wonderful nighttime hours he miraculously changed into another person, one I had quickly come to adore and worship. Actually it seemed to be sort of mutual and he appeared to be impressed with the things I was able to share with him. George mentioned that even before I arrived he had decided I'd probably be a real nerd. He also confessed that when his mother had told him that I was coming to visit he'd protested vehemently. He didn't want to interrupt his life by having to play baby sitter to some unknown creepy cousin from California. He even admitted that on my first day there he had purposely enlisted my aid

to work on his car hoping that I would become bored or discouraged and go back to California as soon as possible. But then when I had been so helpful, attentive and had evidenced real interest in learning something that I didn't know, he had begun to change his mind. Of course the real clincher in changing his opinion was when I had unpacked my science fiction magazines. In his mind anyone who had read as much science fiction as I had, and was able to get so enthused about Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov and other authors that I almost slobbered, well they had to be a worthwhile person. I reached over, pinched him on his arm and denied that I slobbered; drooled a bit perhaps, but definitely didn't slobber. Those conversations and late night confessions were some of the most important of my life. I had thought that he was little more than a dumb jock and he had labeled me a nerd. It became evident that everyone, at some time, can be guilty of prejudices, preconceived ideas and erroneous opinions. Generalities based on inadequate information. Unfortunately it was sort of a human weakness. Then, as we began to discuss other things, besides how this or that automotive part functioned, even the days were something to be savored. I discovered that in addition to sports George was interested in history, literature, art, mythology and a million other things. With the exception of sports, our interests were nearly mirror images of each other. George told me that he had decided he would like to become an architect and was planning to go the University of Arizona after graduation from high school. I explained that I too had once sort of considered architecture as a career, but like my father, I would probably become a teacher. Maybe a teacher of English literature in a University since I loved to read. But then again I was also very interested in botany and plants. George asked if I knew anything about desert plants and I immediately launched into one of my mini-lectures about the ecological features of desert flora and fauna. He commented that he had lived here all his life and didn't know half as much as I did. I explained that much of the information came from books, but recently I'd spent a week in the Mojave Desert, close to Los Angeles, with my high school's Science Club. Then added that, as president of the club, I had to go on all their outings. He seemed suitably impressed, as I had hoped he would. I began talking about another trip the club had made to the tide pools on the coast and jabbered about sea anemones, starfish, hermit crabs and all the other sea creatures the group had seen. George was completely entranced and it was the first time I had seen him with his mouth sort of hanging open. He confessed that he'd never seen the ocean, but it was one of his dreams to do so. At that point I enthusiastically invited him to come to California as soon as possible. I'd only been with him for a few days, but suddenly it seemed that we'd known each other all our lives. Early on Saturday morning Uncle Ivan, Aunt Meta and Elizabeth left for Flagstaff. They explained that they probably wouldn't be back until late on Tuesday since Ivan had to attend several meetings connected with his Indian Bureau job. Elizabeth had an appointment to see the Orthodontist about her teeth. 'Now at last I knew the secret of those straight pearly whites braces.' They were going to be staying with friends there and on the previous evening had asked me to come along, extolling the virtues of Flagstaff. High in the mountains, covered with pines and always somewhat cooler. George had come to my rescue and explained that we'd been asked to a party on Saturday night and he wanted to introduce me to all his friends. As we entered the house, after waving good-by, George put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I lied about the party, and I hope you don't mind, but it

didn't seem like you really wanted to go." Mind? Did I mind? It was exactly what I had been hoping and praying for. At last I knew that there was a God, and not only that, but he did indeed have time to listen to adolescent prayers. Since there was nothing more to be done on George's car until Uncle Ivan returned, it seemed like a perfect time to do what we both loved most, read. We curled up on our separate beds with science fiction books. Between the beds, on a TV tray was a large platter of fruit and cookies, even a pitcher of lemonade which George had made. This was the beginning of a most magical period. Gradually it became evident that the sky was becoming overcast. Yesterday it had become unbearably hot, bright squinting hot, and remained that way through the night. I asked George if it might rain and he explained that it hardly ever rained at this time of the year. It remained overcast and the temperature dropped a few degrees. We had been reading for perhaps a couple of hours with nothing more than an occasion comment or question when George raised up, looked at the darkening sky and silently left the room. Then I heard the most exquisite sound coming from the living room. George was playing the piano. No, he wasn't just playing the piano, that was performing. It was one of the Chopin Nocturnes. On my first day here I'd seen the closed piano and wondered if anyone actually played it, but felt it would be impolite to ask. George had decided to play the Nocturne in F minor, technically not a particularly difficult piece, but its brilliance and beauty lay in the timing and pauses between the notes. In fact much of the music was in the silent intervals between the notes. Bozhena had played it upon occasion but I'd never completely experienced its exquisite, melancholy beauty until that moment. I waited until he had finished and then walked over and put my hand on his bare shoulder. It could easily have been a concert performance except that he was, as usual, clad in only his Levi cut-offs. I realized that George was much like this Nocturne; simple, unaffected, not pretentious and yet infinitely complex, soft, and melancholy. I'd seen that pensiveness and deep melancholy in his eyes on the first day. His ever present and abundant smile helped to hide the somber expression in his eyes, but I knew it was there, could feel as much as see it. He turned his head, smiled slightly, and said, "That was especially for my favorite cousin.". I asked him if he would play it again. The handsome bronze hulk sat up straight, took a breath, gently lifted his hand over the keyboard and entered into another world. With that first note, which magically wavered in the air, I knew that I wanted this very minute, this experience, to last forever. If I'd ever wished for an eternity it was at this moment. I also realized that he wasn't just playing the music, he was the music. There was no separation and I too entered into that special world. When he finished, the diminishing reverberations, and then the silence that followed, were a part of the totality. It had become a part of my being, my very internal structure and I knew that it would remain with me forever. He then asked if I played and that began yet another part of our afternoon. I attempted to play the andante from Mozart's F major Sonata, but couldn't remember it in its entirety, in fact I really screwed it up. Then changed to the adagio from Mozart's C minor Sonata, which I'd practiced at least a zillion times, and actually got all the way through it. Beethoven's sonata, Claire de Lune, was George's next choice but he had to get out the sheet music since he didn't know it by heart. I marveled at the way his long, bronze fingers magically traveled over and sought out the keys with no seeming effort. How was it that until today I hadn't noticed his elegant hands? Graceful fingers, strong yet lean,

nimble and with a reach that any concert pianist would love to have. I also noticed that there wasn't even the slightest speck of grease under his shiny, well-trimmed fingernails. I wanted to say, "Okay, George, fastidiously clean as well as fastidiously neat, now that's really a compulsive combination," but respecting this special moment I remained quiet. We took turns playing, everything from Bach to current rock and roll, with lots of music from Broadway in the middle. There were tons of musical scores and sheet music in a nearby cabinet. It turned out that everyone in the family played the piano, even Uncle Ivan liked to play, his favorite being Scott Joplin and other ragtime composers. My playing with George wasn't playing with perfection as the ultimate goal; like my piano lessons with Bozhena, but just for the sheer joy of the moment. It was more than magical. Meanwhile, the sky had gotten even darker and there was rumbling and lightning far off in the distance, but George still contended that it probably wouldn't rain. The normally dry air had become slightly humid and soft. It was at this point that George finally confided that there had been a specific reason that he hoped I wouldn't go with the family to Flagstaff. There was going to be something very special on TV, and it was being broadcast especially for the two of us at nine o'clock that evening. It was now about seven thirty and he said we had to hurry with dinner so we wouldn't miss any of the program, but he still refused to say exactly what it was. I was expecting a couple of quick sandwiches, but instead George was suddenly in the kitchen and rapidly chopping a clove of garlic to be mixed with some butter, rosemary and mushrooms, which he then began to saut. I asked to help and was put to work peeling potatoes. He mentioned that he'd noted that all like Slovaks we had a mutual fondness for mashed potatoes. In the meantime George had rapidly put together a magnificent green salad and had taken two large steaks out of the refrigerator, explaining that the steaks were to be broiled with the sauted mixture when everything else was ready. There was no way for me to verbalize the feeling of contentment which enveloped me as I watched my new found idol very efficiently prepare an entire meal. He neither looked or acted the least bit effeminate and he was just himself. As we shared a cold beer the rumbling outside became more intense. It was the first time I'd ever drunk a beer and not been afraid that Bozhena would smell it on my breath or somehow just sniff my clothes and know that I'd been drinking. The steaks were impeccably broiled and the garlic/rosemary addition was perfection, as was the entire meal. It was at this point, right in the middle of our second beer, when George smilingly revealed was going to be on TV. It was the first part of a four-hour dramatization of Ray Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles; two hours on Saturday and second two hours on Sunday. I got so excited that I thought I was going to pee in my pants or maybe even cry. The Martian Chronicles had to be the most incredible, most fantastic, most sensitively beautiful novel I'd ever read. In fact I had mentioned it to George just day before yesterday and although he had agreed that it was also one of his favorites, he hadn't said a thing about the TV program. When questioned he remarked that he had wanted it to be a surprise. At that moment there was a tremendous thunderclap and the first drops of rain were heard pattering on the roof. George rushed out babbling something about his car and we rapidly got a large tarp out of the garage to put on his partially dismantled auto. By that time it was pouring, a drenching thunderstorm and we stood there soaking wet, he clad only in his cut-offs and I was in Bermudas,

laughing and enjoying the warm rain. More enchantment for this magical night. It was almost nine o'clock. George went in a got a large bath towel and some shorts for each of us. We stood there at the back door of the house in the gathering darkness, clad momentarily only in our birthday suits in order to dry off. There was no shame or embarrassment; it was as natural as the moment in which it occurred. After putting on our BVDs we both sat down on the sofa just as the program began. The first dramatization was about a Martian couple, Ylla and her husband who lived in a house of crystal pillars on the edge of the dead Martian sea. It seemed that both of us had read this book so many times that we could anticipate the lines before the actors spoke them. But they weren't actors; for the fantasy had become reality. We sat there spellbound, hardly breathing for fear that it would break the spell. The Martian windships sailed across the silent dead seas and we could feel the wind on our faces, smell the rare fragrance of unique Martian scents. George and I were actually in those vessels and traveling with the inhabitants of Mars. As the first commercial began George asked what I was doing over there on the other side of the universe and pulled me over closer to him. I was beginning to believe that he always knew exactly what to do at the proper moment. I stretched out and put my head down on his firm, bronzed leg. The second segment, about the first expedition of Earthmen to Mars, began. Once again we were transported to another space and another time. Later that night as I was contentedly lying next to George I finally asked him something that I'd wanted to ask for several days now, but had been reluctant. Did he, had he, was he, doing 'this' with anyone else. I prefaced my question by saying that I knew it really wasn't any of my business, but was just curious. Without hesitation be began talking about Mark. He and Mark had evidently gone to the same schools for many years but had never been close friends. When Mark entered high school, George was already a sophomore. One day in the cafeteria Mark was at the same table and complained to a friend that he was having trouble with an algebra problem. George helped Mark solve that particular problem and then offered to help him whenever he needed assistance. During the following weeks they discovered that they had a number of mutual interests. They started spending a lot of time together and became inseparable friends. Not only friends, but as George disclosed to me, eventually young lovers. Mark and his mother were presently spending the summer on the east coast and they wouldn't be back for a couple of weeks. It was the first time they had been apart in two years. George explained that at the beginning it had been very difficult for both of them to accept their sexual inclinations, but their deep friendship and emotional involvement had begun long before the time they discovered that they were also physically attracted to each other. He also mentioned that it was difficult living in a small community where gossip was rampant and in order for everything to appear normal they both had girl friends. In fact they usually went out on double dates, but then after taking their 'girl friends' home then they would have the time to drive out to Three Rocks or some other secluded spot to be together. Evidently this was also part of the reason that George had become a member of the football team. It was a good cover, and furthermore he really liked it as a sport. Mark's mother, who was a widow, often went to Phoenix for the weekends to visit with friends. George had been accepted as a member of the family and would often spend the weekend with Mark while his mother was away. I discovered, as George continued to talk, he and Mark had planned their entire future lives together. Both had decided to go to the University of Arizona where George would

major in Architecture and Mark planned to major in Psychology. Later they planned to get jobs in some large city so that they could live together in the comfortable anonymity that all large cities offer. I momentarily felt a bit strange, as if my hero had toppled from his pedestal. Then I asked, "And will you tell Mark about me, I mean what has happened?" Once again George replied without hesitation and with complete candor, "Of course. You know how much affection I have for you. That will never change. I know that you and I have a bond that will never be broken, but Mark is my lover and I could never keep a secret from him. I couldn't and retain my own self respect." And with that last statement my hero immediately regained his stature. I loved him even more not because of what he had said, but because I knew it to be true. I loved him because he was George. All too soon the vacation was over and I waved goodbye to my now cherished aunt, uncle and cousins as the bus began its journey in the direction of California. Then it was in early June of the following year when George had called and asked if he could come out to Southern California and spend a couple of weeks. Since he was graduating from high school his dad had offered to pay all his expenses as a graduation gift. I was ecstatic and immediately said yes, at the same time thinking, 'oh shit, that means I have to clean up my room.' I was no longer going to mass or confession and now felt that I could use obscenities whenever I pleased. Well mentally, but certainly not verbally or Bozhena would have bopped me on the head. Then George asked if it would be okay for Mark to come along with him. I hesitated, but for less than a second. If Mark was very special to George, and George was certainly one of the most special people in my life, it had to be okay. "Sure George, bring him along." He insisted that he talk to my mother first. I knew that it was a good idea since everything had to be cleared with the 'chief', or as I had recently begun to call her, 'the Dragon'. She too agreed and plans were made for them to arrive the second week in July. Then it was the last week in June, a rare night since there was no smog and I had been outside looking at the stars. I was wishing that George were there right then to share the experience with me, and also to point out Cassiopeia since I couldn't find it. But then I saw that special cluster of stars, and I could almost feel George's hand on my shoulder and his face next to mine as he pointed it out. As I walked inside the house, the phone rang. I answered and it was Aunt Meta calling from Arizona. I recognized her voice even though it was a bit different, but instead of chatting with me she immediately asked to speak to my mother. Mom began to talk, fell silent and then suddenly began to cry. A few more words and then she hung up. She slumped down in the chair and sobbed. I was perplexed and then finally she hesitatingly said, "Your cousin George committed suicide." I stood there trying to comprehend what she had said. Then I ran upstairs to my room. I knew that it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. He'd been with me just a few moments ago outside in the yard. Gods, heroes, and special people whom we love with all our being just can't die. It wasnt possible. I kept up with my denial for as long as possible and then when the pain became unbearable I began to cry. I cried until there were no tears left. Had I been crying for George whom I would never see again, or for myself because I knew that a vital part of my being had suddenly been removed, and could never be replaced. I realized that now George would never get to see the ocean, never become a famous architect or do all the things that he

had planned on accomplishing. I began to sob, again, quietly. And then I heard it. Soft, almost inaudible. That first wavering, resonant note of the Chopin Nocturne in F minor which was George's favorite. The music continued and I knew that it wasn't only in my head; it permeated the very air around me. Yes, George had been with me all evening, first sharing the stars and now sharing his music. I loved him for that special gift, unfortunately I also knew he had come to say good-bye. No one in his family knew why George had taken a length of garden hose and inserting it in the tail pipe of his car, decided to take his own life only two days after his high school graduation. There was no message, only silence. Some weeks later I called Aunt Meta and got Mark's telephone number. Mark and his mother had left Winslow and were now living in Phoenix. The conversation with Mark was difficult but I finally gained his confidence and discovered exactly what had happened. It was not something he had been able to share with anyone else. He and George had been parked one evening out at Three Rock, the same place where George had given me my astronomy lesson. They were in George's car, talking about the future and just 'cuddling' when suddenly everything was illuminated by bright lights. Bill, one of the town policemen, and a fanatical Bible-thumping Christian, was at the window of the car and recognizing them both began ranting and raving that there was no place in their town for fucking queers and fags and that he was going to make sure that their families and everyone else in town knew exactly what they were, 'homos' and perverts. Then in order to further convince them of his selfrighteous indignation, he said that he ought to shoot them on the spot in order to rid the earth of such scum so that they could start burning in hell. Even though George seemed to be exceedingly strong, evidently the one thing he couldn't permit was the possible humiliation of his family. Apparently he felt that he had to protect them with the only device at his disposal, which was his life. I admired and loved him because he was a very special person. And I love him still, because more than any label which people or society may have attempted to place on him, the most important thing is that he was a magnificent human being. I loved him because he was George.

4 Transitions

Though known for many years as Igor, I now wanted to be known only by the name of Gordon. Bozhena, in her infinite wisdom, utilizing 'logic', and with a penchant for the bizarre, had named me, her first child, "Igordon". To her way of thinking it was perfectly and infallibly logical; in Czechoslovakia I could be known as Igor, a common and respected name and as a member of US society I would be known as Gordon. She obviously had already planned for me, her first-born, to spend my life in that country of limitless opportunity, which was by birth also my nationality. I had decided to dispense with the name of Igor for an immanently practical reason. It was definitely not a common name in California and only connection most adolescents had with the my name was the hunchbacked Igor of literature. Hence a lot of ridicule from my classmates. Best to just forget it. For many years, my mother was sort of schizophrenic about her invention, my two-in-one first name. For endearment she called me Igor, for emphasis or admonition it was Gordon. Normally she just used the common Slovak term 'moi syn', my son; often 'moi krasivi syn', my handsome son; especially when she requested something like taking out the garbage, mowing the lawn, washing the car, cleaning up my room or a thousand other necessary tasks. I was also stuck with an unusual middle name. Lev. I had never met anyone else in the entire world named Lev. In fact I was positive that the only other person in the history of mankind named Lev was now dead. Mr. Tolstoy of course, and one of my mother's idols. Then too I had a confirmation name, Michael. Saint Michael, archangel and defender of the 'Faith'. That name would certainly prove to be a misnomer. Then to further complicate matters my family retained a custom in their part of Slovakia of using both family names. My maternal surname of Christy, which in English was fairly common and originally had something to do with early Christians, had nothing whatsoever to do with that name in Slovak. The problem arose with pronunciation and transliteration from one language to another. English has never been known for being consistent in the sound of its letters. In Slovak the 'ch' was a 'c' with a small inverted 'v' on top of it and was pronounced with the sound of 'ch' as in cheese. About the closest pronunciation in English would have been "Churrsti", and something no one in the US could deal with. The original Slovak meaning had to do with a small pastry, much like a cookie. I never forgave my sister for having explained this to some of my high school friends and for the remainder of my high school days I was called 'Cookie' Then of course there was Stefanik, in Slovak, son of Stefan or Stephen. That same Saint Stephen who was the very first Christian martyr. But even before Saint Stephen got around to becoming a religious casualty the name had been common in ancient Greece where it was known as Stephanos and came from the Greek word which meant circle. Many years later, Igordon Lev Michael Christy-Stefanik would discover another word for circle, the Sanskrit word 'mandala', which not only meant 'circle', but also 'universe', the totality of all things. I would also have other names, lots of them.

In fact I sort of collected them over the years, much as some people collect stamps, coins or seashells. However, as the time passed I came to realize that my rather elaborate name had become somewhat of a pain in the ass. Every time I had to fill out an official school document it would ask for 'complete name'. In the first place there was never enough space to write it all down. And when I attempted to sort of cram it all in, people looked askance. Their usual comment was that it was an awful lot of names for one person. Well, changing Igordon to a simple Gordon was at least a start. Not only had I changed my name, but I also went through a period in which I decided to change my national origins as well. I'd noticed that nearly all my classmates were distantly related. At least they were generally of the same Anglo-Saxon roots. "Oh, you're English, well, I'm half English too"; or Irish, or Scotch, Welsh or whatever. I never encountered anyone claiming that they were also 67 percent Slovak. In fact, when I stated that I was 'Slovak' I then had to launch into the same, now well rehearsed, monologue about the general area in Europe where the Slovaks camped out. Becoming too specific just confused the issue. Sometimes it was just easier to say that I was Czech. No one could spell it, but at least they had a general, albeit usually fuzzy, idea who that particular group of people were. It was a day or so after a friend had given me some delicious, richly butter flavored Danish cookies that I decided to become Danish. I'd read some of the stores by the famous Danish author, Hans Christian Anderson. The name Christian was similar to my maternal last name anglicized to Christy. I'd also eaten Danish rolls for breakfast at the home of another classmate. I'd even partaken of Anderson's Famous Split Pea Soup. At the time it seemed like sufficient data. A few weeks later I was attending a Science Fair with representatives from the various high schools of the area. In talking to a student from a nearby school, he commented on the fact that I had a slight accent and then asked where I was from. It was my golden opportunity and I beamingly replied, "Oh Denmark, yes, I'm Danish." It was momentarily pleasant since he didn't immediately ask where that was located. Instead he launched into a language I didn't understand at all, but surmised that it must be Danish. I blushed a bit and hesitantly replied that I no longer spoke Danish; adding, "We left there when I was quite young". Then, in English, he explained that he was also Danish and in fact he and his family had just visited there last summer. He went on to ask what part of the country we were from. I blurted out that it was a really small place, located in the mountains. High up in the mountains. His quizzical and somewhat odd expression seemed to abruptly end our conversation. That night I got out my mother's trusty encyclopedia and looked up Denmark, something I obviously should have done much earlier. Much to my chagrin, I discovered that the highest 'mountain' in that entire flat, flat country was a small hill less than 350 feet high. That was my last day of being Danish. Then sometime later I became Irish. I was introduced to the new box-boy at the small market where I worked part time after school. When he heard my last name he commented that I must be Irish also, since his last name was Christy. I replied in the negative, but it had given me an idea. I discovered that a number of people from Britain and Ireland were named either Christy or Christie. Well, I decided, adopting my mother's penchant for elaboration, I could be part Irish and that would help relieve the burden of always having to be Slovak. And if you were Irish no one ever asked where

you were from since most of the towns there had completely unpronounceable names. At last I had become an Anglo-Saxon and was finally, albeit somewhat tenuously, related to the rest of the kids in school. After high school I spent a year at a small college located in the foothills of the Pomona valley, about 15 miles from where we lived in the San Gabriel valley. Mount San Antonio provided a marvelous introduction to university life. It was a modest, unpretentious and intimate campus. The classes were small, the professors friendly. Most preferred to be called by their first names. With the exception of the Doctors. I discovered that many doctors, be it of philosophy or medicine, were very impressed with their own importance, and titles. All 'doctors' seemed to be intent on saving the world, be it from ignorance or disease. Dr. Landry, the French professor was a case in point. 'Doctor' Landry, who it would appear didn't even have a first name, found it difficult to understand how anyone in the world could consider themselves educated and not speak French. It was evident from the first day of class that though millions had tried, few, if any, really spoke French. Parisian French. In fact Dr. Landry let it be known that very few Frenchmen spoke Parisian French. The rest of country, outside of Paris, understood, read and spoke a version of that language, but it really wasn't French. It appeared that ethnocentricity was a nice sociological term but barely began to explain the version of cultural egotism and self importance adopted by the Parisians. Despite his eccentricities, Dr. Landry was a favorite all nearly all students, specifically for his raucous laugher. "Ah, mon cheri, that wahs a verry nice sound, but eet iz not the corrrect souund and zounded, a beet, a beet sauvage!" Followed by raucous laughter from the dear Doctor as the young student turned a 'beet' red. Eddy, who taught English Literature was at the opposite end of the spectrum and was offended if anyone called him Professor Berkell, Edward or even Ed. He was Eddy. Young, handsome, personable and passionate about the written word. Literature, according to Eddy, was the binding element of all human society and had raised man from the muck to his present position as the dominant creature on Earth. Without the written word man would be nothing; and as he pointed out, monkeys jabbered to each other, but were still swinging around in the trees. Eddy could become passionate about something written four hundred years ago or the scribblings of his students composed that very hour in class. He often pulled out certain phrases or combinations of words from his student's papers, which he felt had gone way beyond the 'mucky' stage and were worthy of recognition as having been produced by a human being. Not only were the students expected to digest what seemed to be the entirety of all English literature ever written, he wanted them to also produce the written word and frequently were given assignments in which they had to "write a page about a nine car freeway crash in the style of Shakespeare or some other author. An assignment might be, "If Mr. Shakespeare were here today how would he describe the fog induced pandemonium that took place on the San Bernadino Freeway yesterday morning at 7:30 am?" I had fallen under the spell of this teacher's contagious enthusiasm. I too would someday teach English literature and assist humanity in the process. I could help to keep my fellow man from wallowing in the muck. Miss Bowden, who taught various Math classes was equally zealous about her subject. From the very first session I was scared shitless of Miss Bowden. Evidently she began each Beginning Math class, a required subject for those, who like me had not scored well on the math placement exam, with

the same information, as well as advice; in a loud, deep, rumbling voice. "Hi, I'm Bowden. During this semester we're going to be dealing with numbers and how you put'um together. And I wanna tell you that in the contemporary world, if you don't know Math, you're SCREWED." Long pause, and so quiet in the room that each student could hear his, or her, breath as it entered their lungs and, oh so silently, and slowly, was exhaled. This was the 1950's and that particular word was somewhat taboo since we all knew that what she really meant was 'FUCKED'. Her hair was shorter than that of any of the male students, and she was a hell of a lot meaner too. She never wore any makeup and about the only feminine thing about Bowden were her pierced ears, but then since she rarely wore earrings that didn't really count. No one, but no one, messed around with Bowden. Professor Percival Thaddeus Nimwitz lived in an exacting world of Botany, and its attendant Latin terminology. We never knew exactly how to address him since he had never evidenced any preference. Percival was obviously out, Percy was equally unacceptable, no one even considered his bizarre middle name and Nimwitz was too close to 'Dim Wits', and not very complimentary. Usually it was just plain Prof. Rather strange since, from the first day, the professor had explained that only way people could communicate in this world, and especially the scientific world of botany, was to call everything by its proper name. As we soon discovered a plant's proper name had nothing whatsoever to do with anything we had ever heard before. The large tree with the gnarled trunk near our classroom, that everyone in the English speaking world had always known was an oak, had magically changed into a Quercus. It might be a Quercus lobata or a Quercus robur or maybe a Quercus robur fastigiata, depending on various mysterious factors. At that beginning point in the semester it seemed that only the Prof. knew exactly what those qualifying factors were. Even Shakespeare had called it an oak, for God's sake. But a Quercus it had become. I somewhat smugly excelled in the class since my dear baba had many years before introduced me to Latin binomials, but more importantly, with a love of nature and our interdependence. Professor Nimwitz may have been a bit odd, but I loved the subject. "Good morning, I am James Sacchetti, your history professor. This is a survey course in World History. We will begin at the beginning and eventually arrive at the present day. We will be dealing with dates, the specific and exact time that a particular event occurred." Nearly every student in the room gasped a deep sigh and was absolutely positive this was going to be the driest, dullest class they had every been subjected to. Quite the contrary, since Professor Sacchetti had that rare gift of making history a living part of every human being, the past constantly forming the present. He told countless stories and anecdotes, quoted historic personages and made endless connections. Dates were merely the binding element. He was an actor, an orator, a computer in those days before computers really existed. He expected quality in the work of his students, and most produced and lived up to his expectations. Professor Sacchetti's classes were some of the most popular on the campus. I knew, and was proud to be aware of the fact, that my father and Professor Sacchetti had come from the same mold. It was a wonderful year with marvelous teachers and most important I had enjoyed the endless hours of reading and learning; new ideas, concepts, ways of dealing with the world and knowing that I, for one, wasn't going to go through life "being screwed'. So for me, the first item on every night's studying agenda was math. Endless nights of last minute review to be assured that I hadn't overlooked even the slightest detail that might be included on an exam. In order to pay for tuition, books, travel expenses and all the other expenses, I had been working part time at a large supermarket. But with the

amount of homework required for each course it was increasingly difficult to maintain what I considered an acceptable grade point average. The Korean war was in progress and it was not exactly the best time to enter the military service. But that was exactly what I decided to do; enlist in the Army. But I had a plan. Bozhena had always insisted that even before getting out of bed in the morning everyone should have a plan. Some might have considered my decision unwise, but after a review of my high school and college records the Army promised to send me to a Military Intelligence School and since my tests had shown an aptitude for languages I would also spend a year studying a foreign language at the well known National Defense Language School. Then they would provide me with a challenging and 'enjoyable job' for the next three years. Equally important, the US government would then pay for my university education once I was discharged from the military service. The government money would be sufficient to guarantee time for study, which I considered paramount. That was the plan. I was also astute enough to not sign a single document until I had seen all of their lavish promises in writing. Bozhena also insisted on reading every single word several times before she gave her consent, and somewhat reluctant blessing, to my decision. After induction processing in Los Angeles, I began my Basic Training. It was an eight week process that everyone had to go through; of learning to be a soldier, playing with rifles, listening to boring lectures and generally being humiliated as a human being. It really seemed like a gigantic waste of time. If, as the Army had promised in writing, I would be working at a nice desk and dealing with documents and intelligence material, what was the use of wasting countless hours on boring material that I would never use. As I gradually learned, logical thinking and adequate planning has never been a large priority of the US government, and the military in particular. They talked a lot about future planning and being logical, but never actually got around to implementing either. As long as the money was flowing in from the taxpayer in limitless quantities, why bother? I had anticipated the worst during basic training, and wasn't disappointed. This, the first part of my military training, also became one of the most important experiences of my life. I saw how much of mankind, when granted a certain amount of power, seemed to thirst after more and could actually be sadistic in implementing this power over others. It seemed to attract those who wanted to have control, control over people and situations. I understood the necessity for instruction and discipline, but when combined with appeared to sadistic, inhumane treatment it no longer seemed to serve its original purpose. As I later came to realize, it included not only many in the military, but also and most notably the police, politicians and even, unfortunately, the clergy. After finishing Basic Training, my next assignment was to be at the Army Security Agency (ASA) training School at Fort Devins, Massachusetts. It would be a six month training for "analysis of security information", then I would go on the US language school. At least I knew something specific about what I would be doing during my time in the military. I would be working at one of the many secret military facilities which intercepted radio transmissions, as well as other sources of information, from one of the 'unfriendly' nationsRussian, Chinese, North Korean or countless others.

As I later discovered, evidently everyone, in eyes of the US government, was suspect and spying was done on even their closest allies. My job would be to translate, analyze and determine the immediate importance of the information prior to its being sent to the National Security Agency in Washington, where it was analyzed in even greater depth. This was at the height of the 'Cold War' and the communist menace was seen as a real threat to democracy and the stability of the world. I would be given a Top Secret clearance and spend months learning about visible as well as hidden information within all communications. Even something as seemingly innocuous as a birthday telegram might hold useful information. Upon arriving at Fort Devins in Massachusetts, and being assigned to my room, I met the person who was to be my roommate for the time there, Gregory Bartoni. A native of nearby Boston and of Greek/Italian descent. Throughout the entirety of my life I would never forget the impact of that individual on my existence.

5 Gregg

It is through the eyes love attains the heart For the eyes are the scouts of the heart, And the eyes go reconnoitering For what it would please the heart to possess. And when they are in full accord And firm, all three, in the one resolve, At that time, perfect love is born. . . . . Guiraut de Bornelh (ca. 1138-1200 AD) [ from the unpublished manuscript, Singing Messengers of Love, The Troubadours of the 12th Century, by Gregory T. Bartoni ] Having finished basic training and after a two week leave at home in Southern California my orders were to report to Fort Devins, Massachusetts, the headquarters of the ASA. The Army Security Agency, a super secret branch of the military and part of the National Security Agency, whose appointed task was to gather communications information from around the world. All foreign governments, even the staunchest allies, were suspect or at least were being constantly monitored. After six months of rigorous study at Fort Devins, there would be a further year's training at the National Defense Language School in Monterey, California. I arrived at Fort Devins, some sixty miles from Boston, late on Friday afternoon. Reported to Headquarters and began explaining my situation of delayed commercial air flights, due to the severe snowstorms, to the hulking Sergeant behind the desk. Instead of roaring or barking, he smiled, assured me that there was no problem, asked for my papers and then called for a corporal to take me to Building 14-B, where I would be staying. The sergeant explained, "Your group is scheduled to begin their classes in three days; and since you'll be starting the second week in March you should finish this phase of your training sometime in early August. Your barracks Sergeant's name is Angelo Castorini and he'll be able to assist you in becoming adjusted to your new surroundings. You'll be assigned to Room 22 and will meet your roommate there. Now let me see....." After consulting another paper, "Yes, Specialist Bartoni has already arrived. Are there any questions?" Without vocalizing it I wanted to ask what the hell this friendliness was all about. This certainly wasn't the way the Army had operated in Basic Training, although it was pleasant being treated like a human being.

The corporal told me to hop in the Jeep and he would take me over to my living quarters. 'Living quarters', God, they even spoke strangely here. There were magnificent large trees and lawns in front of the buildings. Partially covered by remaining traces of a previous snow, but grass nonetheless. Most of the buildings were made of brick and it looked more like a university campus than a military post. The corporal kept up a friendly patter of conversation and naturally talked about the weather. He mentioned it had been spring-like until a few days ago when it had turned cool again and snowed a bit. After he stopped the jeep he even grabbed my two handbags so that I could more easily deal with the unwieldy Duffel Bag. "Right inside and the Sergeant's quarters will be the first door on the right." Since the Sergeant wasn't there the corporal tucked a paper, which was obviously my assignment sheet, in his mail slot and then he told me to go up the stairs and my room would be the second on the left. I had noticed that this was certainly not a barracks in the traditional sense since the central hallway had numbered doors leading, obviously, to separate rooms. When the corporal realized he still had my handbags he offered to carry them up and show me exactly where the room was located. At the top of the stairs he sat my bags down, pointed out the room and with a cheery 'so long' disappeared down the stairs. I was standing in front of the door of room #22 and didn't know whether to knock or just go in. Play it safe and knock. "Yes, the door's open, come on in replied a deep, well modulated voice from inside. As I opened the door I heard the strains of Vivaldi's Mandolin Concerto and saw a body, clad only in BVD briefs not those usual baggy, olive drab, military issue boxer shortson the bed located on the left side of the ample room. He put down his book, jumped up, reached out his hand and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Gregg Bartoni. Looks like we're going to be roommates." I stood there with his hand in mine attempting to access the situation. I was quite obviously dreaming and had been since I began this particular fantasy a few minutes before at the headquarters building. It had little relationship to reality. It just didn't seem like the military. He was a clean-cut young man with a decidedly athletic body. Masculine in appearance and even in the way he moved; yet there was also a softness that belied the traditional athletic jock. His voice was strong with perfect enunciation and just a slight east coast accent, though I couldn't exactly place it. That was the inconsistency, his voice. Even though his physical appearance was that of the typical locker room athlete, his voice was somehow too refined, too mellow it lacked the necessary brusqueness. The room was spacious with a large window; a bookcase partially filled with bookseven a couple of pictures hanging on the wall over this other person's bed. There was a desk next to each of the beds, with desk lamps. So, my new roommate's name was Gregg Bartoni. He had a nice pnonograph and a number of LP's were on his desk. Everything was very neat and well ordered. I sort of mumbled my name and that I was from California. Then Gregg asked me if I minded the music. I explained that I liked this particular Vivaldi Mandolin concerto and he seemed to be relieved; and from the look on his face it was evident that he had also mentally taken note that I even knew the specific composition. I sat down on what was obviously my bed and surreptitiously pinched myself as means of making a reality check. I had been here less than an hour and had met a Sergeant who didn't bark and spoke in modulated tones, a friendly, chatty corporal and now this; my roommate

for the next six months. He had obviously arrived with a large number of books and was listening to classical music. Incongruous. Yes, that pinch hurt a little so this must be the real thing. In the distance I heard Gregg asking how my trip from California had been. He was once again on his bed and seemed to be staring at me over the top of his book. I replied that it was just fine, though I was a bit tired after two long days of delayed flights trying to get here. He explained that most of the guys still hadn't arrived due to the inclement weather. I was immediately aware that he hadn't said "bad" weather, "shitty" weather, "piss-poor" weather or any of the other phenomenally descriptive adjectives that I'd been subjected to since I enlisted in the military. Inclement weather it was. He added that although there were several guys downstairs, so far we were the only ones on this upper level. I asked if it was permissible to smoke inside and he replied in the affirmative and indicated an ashtray on the lower shelf of the bookstand. I noticed that the ashtray was clean which gave rise to two possibilities. Either he didn't smoke or he fastidiously cleaned it after each cigarette. No, that latter supposition didn't seem too reasonable. Decided that I didn't really need a cigarette. I began to unpack a few items and put them in the closet. It wasn't one of the usual metal lockers but an actual wooden closet and one side had drawers and additional space for storage. Although he didnt comment, my new roommate seemed to take note when I began to unload my supply of necessary books. At the same time I began to evaluate the individual on the opposite bed. He was reading a thin, hard cover book of poetry by John Donne. I remembered from my college English Lit course that Donne had been a 17th century poet, contemporary of Shakespeare, relatively unknown outside of English literature classes. An excellent poet and essayist; my 'Lit.' college professor felt he was one of the best of his period. Donne primarily wrote exquisite love poems. My new roommate's last name was Bartoni, which meant that he was undoubtedly Italian. Yes, his skin had that distinguishing bronze Mediterranean color and there was a definite lack of body hair. Muscular, strong body but not overly developed. Wavy dark hair, aristocratic face and intense dark eyes. Nice voice. Super pleasant voice. I considered asking him questions just so I could listen to his voice.

That was it. That was it!. Poor mortal fool, you didn't know that you had just accepted the lure that was to seal your fate. The trap had been carefully baited with his voice. Oh, there were other items in reserve just in case......even the book of a somewhat obscure English poet was carefully selected. It was the timing of his words and even the length of the vowels, but especially the perfect enunciation and modulation that hypnotized and caught you. You know that it will be forever don't you?

The Vivaldi was also a nice touch, don't you think? And if you consider the complete picture, the casual pose on the bed with super white BVD's contrasted with his smooth, bronze skin, yes, this completed the whole. Don't forget the slightly shy smile. And those eyes. Intense, deep round pools of mystery, filled with twinkling secrets, alternately joyful and melancholy. Most important were your eyes, for it was through your vision that you perceived and came to know this fascinating creature. You might take note that 'it is through the eyes that love attains the heart'. And when you are dealing with Destiny not even the slightest detail is left to chance. Oh yes, was it mentioned that the time length is forever? Remember your eternities Gordon? Well this is it. Now you will know what an eternity really consists of.

I was aware of the fact that my new roommate was talking, and had been speaking for some time, but there was something else. Almost as if someone or something else had been intruding upon my consciousness at the same time. What was it? I knew it was there but couldn't determine what it was, like trying to locate a specific word, and not being able to find it. It also seemed to be of the utmost importancesomething to do with eternity? As I focused in on his voice again, and what he was saying, I discovered that Gregg was from nearby Boston, actually a suburb of the city, and had lived there for most of his life, other than for vacation periods in various parts of the East coast and Italy. He mentioned that he had also lived in Greece, although he didnt elaborate. He had been studying English literature at Boston University before entering the military. Prior to that he had been living with his grandmother and an uncle. He, like myself, had decided on joining the Army Security Agency because he didn't relish being shot at, or for that matter shooting at anyone else. He liked all types of music, but mentioned that opera and classical were his favorites. He loved to read and casually mentioned that he probably went through several books a week. He enjoyed writing and even occasionally indulged in writing poetry, though he

felt that it his meager efforts was still inferior to true poetry. But, as he explained, sometimes the process was as important as the product. Just tapping into that creative muse and letting the words flow from mind to paper was a pleasure. At about this point I began to wonder if he had written this all down, point by point, since it seemed to be so, so well organized. Almost as if he had prepared for an exam. It was also obvious that once his "ON" button had been pressed the information flowed freely; non-stop it would appear. I realized that I had been staring at him in utter fascination, hanging on every one of his words as if they were new revelations, direct from some celestial source. Oh God, had my mouth been hanging open? He probably thought I was the village idiot's younger brother. He then asked if I was hungry and would like to go out for a hamburger or something. "Hamburger here on the base?" I inquired. No, it seemed that even though I hadn't yet received a pass for traveling off base, he knew the evening guard at the gate and we could go in his car to the nearby town of Ayer. He suggested that we both wear 'civvies', regular street clothes, since they were more comfortable and he didn't like to be reminded that he was in the Army. I liked this guy's way of thinking immediately. He suggested going to a newly discovered tavern that had very good food and great draft beer, assuming that I did like beer. He dressed, I changed, and soon we were on our way. Taverns were a new experience for me since they didn't exist as such on the west coast. Nice comfortable atmosphere. The food at Tommy's Tavern was exceptionally good and so was the beer. And the beer. And more beer. I lost count but continued to listen to that incredible, enchanting voice and several times had to forcibly bring myself back to reality after becoming lost within his shining, intensely dark eyes. Within that period of a few hours we had both briefly outlined our lives and discovered a multitude of mutual interests for later conversation. Perhaps most important was that he had been majoring in English literature, and I had, just a few months before, decided that it would be my chosen field of study. We began discussing favorite authors and specific books. Though there were many vying for the the number one position, Herman Hesse was right there on top. And of his many excellent novels, we both agreed that "Siddhartha" was one of the most beautiful. Gregg added that for him it embraced an entire philosophy of life. In fact he had reread it at least twice a year since first encountering it several years ago. I made a mental note to read it again since, although I had enjoyed it, it certainly hadn't made that profound an impression. Obviously I had missed something. Gregg reached down to do something; I though he might be tying a shoelace, then he reached up and playfully touched my forehead. At the same time he brought his face closer, he very seriously looked at me, at a point above my eyes and said, "I knew it. Yes, I knew it when you walked in the room this evening. You have the mark on your forehead", referring to Hesse's novel Damian. Then he dabbed the shoe polish, or maybe it was just dirt, on his own forehead with his thumb and giggled, "I've got it too, and I'm not talking about Ash Wednesday." At the moment in which it occurred, and assisted by the effects of the beer, it seemed to be the wittiest, cleverest thing that I'd ever heard.

By this time I was having a bit of trouble focusing visually, but I could still beam in on that hypnotic voice. The music in the tavern was jukebox-popular and sounded great. Unrequited love and love tragedy and pangs of love. But then suddenly, and for no seeming reason, I thought of my cousin George and I wanted more than anything to hear some Chopin. "Gregg, do you have any Chopin records at the base?" "Yes, I have two, one of the Waltzes and I made of special point of bringing the Nocturnes with me too." He seemed to be having a little trouble focusing as well and I wondered if he would be able to drive back. By this time we were began laughing hilariously about something, though neither of us could remember just exactly what, and began heading towards his car. Once he got behind the wheel he seemed have no difficulty maintaining perfect control. As we neared the base he told me to take out my Army ID and a driver's license or something to show the guard. My inebriated and befuddled condition momentarily abated and was replaced by sheer panic. "I thought you said you knew the guard", my speech sounded, even to me, slightly slurred. "Well, he replied with an enormous grin, "sometimes I do and sometimes I don't. After all I've only been here two days." Although that seemed to explain everything, I was still dealing with my momentary panic. As we stopped at the guard house, Gregg flashed a big smile, and said, Hi George. We both flashed our Army ID cards, though they certainly weren't passes for going off the base, but it worked. Evidently when he had first brought his car on base he had been given a Fort Devins window sticker and that was no doubt the most important identifying feature for entry. The barracks was quiet, though I could hear several muted conversations on the lower level. It looked like the Sergeant might be gone for the weekend since he still hadn't returned. We finally reached the room and when I turned on the overhead light Gregg immediately turned it off and walked over to turn on one of the desk lamps, explaining that his eyes were sensitive to light after midnight. Somehow, at the time and in my slightly groggy condition, it seemed to make perfect sense. Even before I had completely closed the door Gregg had begun to remove his clothes so he could paddle around in his BVDs. It appeared he was most comfortable when he had the least on. Gregg immediately found the recording of Chopin's Nocturnes. I wanted to hear the entire record but asked if he could first put on the Nocturne in F minor. He remarked that the F minor was also his one of his favorites and without looking at the label knew that it was on the second side and was band number 7. With that first familiar note my mood changed; I was transported back in time and once again I was with my cousin George. I could see his hands on the keyboard and his tall lean body sitting at the piano. It was more than two years ago that one of the most magical moments of my life had occurred. It had continued to imprint my life. Unplanned and unbidden though it was, and though I valiantly tried not to, my eyes began to well with tears. Then, seeking liberation, they flowed. I began to silently sob and then weep. Gregg came over, sat down next to me on my bed, and then put his arm around my shoulder. "Bad memories?" he sympathetically inquired. I replied that my cousin, who was now dead, used to play this particular Nocturne. "You must have been very close," he remarked. I replied that George had been one of the the most important people in my life.

Gregg's hand squeezed my shoulder and said that it was good to cry and release the pain, that I shouldn't be ashamed of doing so. As the Nocturne ended he got up and put on a record of music in French. Soft ballads sung by a woman with an incredible, soothing voice who was singing Parlez vouz d'emour' Speak to me of Love. He continued talking softly, "Release it, let it go, but also know that love offered or accepted can never die, it will always be a part of you." He suggested I go to bed and even helped to initiate the process by gently pulling off my shoes. As I crawled into bed he said that if I wanted he could sit next to me for a bit. Receiving no reply he sat down on the edge of my bed, leaned over and gently squeezed my shoulder. He obviously understood my need for comfort, something to help fill the void, which had enveloped my being for so long. He tenderly stroked my hand and assured me that everything would be better tomorrow. "Things are always better after we have learned to release them even love." I heard his voice as if it were coming from another dimension. With his nearness and his comforting words I began to drift off to sleep. I felt a pat on my forehead, on that invisible mark which he alone had seen and made visible, then he got up and went over to his own bed. Although I consciously didn't know it then, his tenderness and compassion and that deep embracing love of friendship, had captured me completely at that particular moment in time and it would continue to be with me for the rest of my life. When I woke up I remembered the previous night and, staring fixedly at the ceiling, began to wait for the first stabbing pain of a hangover to assault my head, my body. Nothing. I felt great and surprisingly remembered with near perfect detail the entire eveningwell, almost everything. I turned over and looked at my new roommate, whose face was illuminated by the first rays of daylight streaming in the window. Last night I thought that his hair was black, but now I could see that it was a deep, rich brown, lavishly tinged with a mellow auburn. It really was a most handsome face and was graced with a perfect, gentle smile. Was he awake? No, evidently he smiled even in his sleep. I remembered his tenderness from the previous night and comforted, drifted once again into the waiting embrace of Morpheus. When I awoke for the second time I saw that Gregg, clad in his ever-present BVD's, was bustling around the room. I noticed, for the first time, that there was a clock on his desk and it was nearing ten o'clock in the morning. Obviously he had seen my eyes open and after a lyrical "Buon giorno" he added, Kalimera and asked how I was feeling. Without waiting for a response he came over, gently patted me on the head, like someone would caress a small puppy, and said, "I know exactly what you need, some nice, fresh coffee. Everyone needs coffee in the morning." From somewhere he had magically produced a small electric pot which contained hot water, which he poured into a cup and then added some instant expresso. 'Expresso first thing in the morning, he's got to be kidding,' I thought to myself. But then as I took my first few sips I didn't know how I had gone through life thus far without expresso in the morning. It was perfect. Then he motioned for the cup, since there was obviously only one, and took a drink, his dark eyes sparkling. Gregg had gone to the bathroom and it gave me an opportunity to look at the books that he had

brought with him. I remembered that my mother had mentioned that much could be known about a person by the books that surrounded them. Thoreau, Whitman, Robert Frost, Steinbeck, Hesse... Collected Poems by Emily Dickinson, with a cover that was well worn from frequent use. A book in Greek it appeared to be poetry. Several books of French poetry by Baudelaire, Rimbaud and Verlaine. Many had copious notes and annotations so they obviously weren't just for the sake of appearance. He used them. A very thick bookA Guide To Opera. Several books by authors I had never heard of. Psychology and Religion by Carl Jung. Then the most curious of all, Why I Am Not A Christian by Bertrand Russell. Two thick folders of monographs by a Professor Campbell. About the only thing I could gather from looking at his books was that number one, he was obviously very literate and number two, more enigmatic than I had previously supposed. Gregg returned and with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes said that what this place needed was a little culture and turning on the phongraph he proceeded to look for a particular L.P.. Suddenly the entire barracks was filled with Puccini. It was a record of selections from the opera Tosca and as Mario began to sing his aria Recondita armonia Gregg burst forth in the most beautiful tenor voice I had ever heard. The singer on the record, Giuseppi di Stefano was world renown and had an incredible voice, but in my opinion it couldn't compare to the sounds and emotional phrasing that were coming out this young man's voice. It was confusing and a bit incongruous. Here was an individual who looked like he should be outside swinging a baseball bat or playing football, but instead was inside an Army barracks singing opera. When the aria finished he picked up the arm of the phonograph and put on another record. The lilting sounds of a magnificent soprano voice began singing Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore. Gregg sat on his bunk, suddenly having been transported into yet another world. He wasn't listening to the music, he was absorbing it with his entire being. The near constant smile on his face had changed into one of reflection and passion; he stared off into the distance, not focusing, but feeling and devouring each musical note. Since I had upon occasion had somewhat this same experience I knew what was happening. It certainly wasn't anything that I could verbalize or explain to someone else, it had to be personally encountered. What I heard was not the technically pure vocalization of a soprano, but the emotion of the music made substantial and real. When the aria finished, I asked who that incredible creature was. She had a voice like velvet; yet filled with such emotion that I could hardly believe what I had heard. Gregg explained that she was a relatively new soprano by the name of Maria Callas, born in New York of Greek immigrant parents. He mentioned that her family's name had originally been Kalogeropoulous, the sound of which flowed from his tongue with an obvious pride of his own Greek heritage. He explained that for professional reasons she had changed it to Callas. Two years previously he had visited Italy with his uncle Paolo and they had gone to the San Carlos Opera House in Naples when she was performing in Verdi's Il Trovatore. Although she hadn't recorded a large number of records, evidently Gregg had obtained all that were currently available. Then he jumped up and said, "It's time for us to start moving. What we both need is take a shower and then I think that...... LET'S GO TO BOSTON!" It was pronounced like a proper Bostonian and came sounding Bahston. I asked if he thought that it would be possible to get passes and he responded that there wouldn't be any problem. I thought back to last night's 'Oh, I know the guard' and

wondered what I was getting myself into with this wild, effervescent creature. Since we were still the only ones on the upstairs level we had the entire bathroom to ourselves. We turned on adjoining showers. I had my eyes closed and was completely absorbed in the cascading warm water. I finished showering and as I was stepping out I became aware that he had turned off his hot water and was now being engulfed in icy cold water and had begun to sing. It was lyrical, in Italian and undoubtedly an Italian folk song, one which I had never heard. As I began to dry off I saw that his skin was covered with goose bumps from the cold water, but, eyes closed, he continued singing. I presumed that the water didn't go off until the song was over. Was it possible I had become involved with a raving maniac? We dressed, once again in 'civies' and went downstairs. The barracks sergeant opened his door and in greeting said, "Oh, Specialist Bartoni. What do you need?" Gregg responded with, "Hi Angelo" (not Sergeant or Sergeant Castorini, but just "Angelo" like he was greeting an old friend, cousin or next door neighbor), "what are the chances of getting us a two day pass so we can go into Boston?" Without waiting for a response, he continued, "My cousin's getting married today and well, you know how Italian weddings are...." Sergeant Castorini frowned slightly, and wrinkled his brow. He appeared to be quite young, probably no more than 25 or 26 years old and handsome in a rugged sort of way. The seconds passed and he seemed to be internally debating the request. Evidently Gregg had hit a tender spot, probably with the words 'Italian wedding'. Then Sergeant Castorini explained that no one was supposed to have a pass until the following week, after the entire group had arrived a long pause "but since you guys have arrived early and since most of the others probably won't arrive until the last thing tomorrow night I don't see any reason why you shouldn't have some fun and go to the wedding. But you gotta be back by 6:00 pm on Sunday. 'Capice'?" Then I introduced myself, since up to that point I hadn't spoken a single word. The sergeant inquired about where I was from, where I'd taken Basic Training, a couple of other questions and then went back into his room. He filled out the passes and said they would also have to be signed by the desk clerk at headquarters. Then the Sergeant added, "Oh, Bartoni maybe in the future you should keep the volume on your phonograph down a bit. Probably some of the guys don't like opera as much as we wops do. By the way, it was a great way to wake up!" As he entered his room he was singing, softly, 'Vesti la giubba'......" He also had a beautiful tenor voice and I was beginning to wonder if perhaps it was a genetic trait. A friendly, understanding, smiling, opera-singing barracks sergeant; I was having trouble with reality again. As we left the barracks I could hear Sergeant Castorini launch into another lyrical song. Gregg explained that it was 'E lucevan le stelle', another exquisite aria from Tosca. We had both noticed that the passes were valid until 21:00 Sunday night [9:00 pm ]. I was impressed by my new-found friend's ability to seemingly construct reality around his personal needs and desires. He was as extroverted as I was introverted and I was beginning to weigh the advantages of perhaps adopting a bit more extroversion. As we were leaving the Headquarters building, having received the necessary signature, I asked about the wedding. "Wedding, what wedding.? You don't think I'd subject to that crowd of clowns do you?" It appeared his story to the

Sergeant, was only partially true; it wasn't his cousin, but a friend, actually not even a close friend, that was getting married, but he had no intention of our attending. He had decided to show me around Boston during the day and then, eyes twinkling, promised that he had planned something very special for the evening. First he wanted to go by his house and decided to call and advise his grandmother. After a short phone conversation which was primarily in Italian with, it seemed, English used for emphasis, he hung up with that same mischievous grin that I had seen several times in the last few hours. "Fantastic," he beamed, "we've got the house to ourselves since my grandmother and uncle were just going out the door and are going to spend the weekend with my aunt Francesca, who lives down in Connecticut. Now we can really listen to some music!" It was now mid afternoon and driving into Boston we stopped at a small Italian restaurant and had some magnificent Zuppa de vongole (clam chowder) and shared a large mixed green salad with some robust Chianti wine. At first I thought that he had chosen the restaurant at random, but as we entered the owner came over, threw her abundant arms around him and cried, "Gregori, com' sta?" With the passage of time I came to believe that he probably knew at least half of the people in the state of Massachusetts. The rest of the afternoon was spent becoming accustomed to experiencing the history of the Unites States first hand. At times I was speechless, though my friend Gregg certainly wasn't. Here in front of me were the countless elements and components of many of the historical events I had read about in my high school history classes. Gregg was enthusiastic about explaining and sharing his city with me and I was lost in a cloud of admiration for my new friend. He never faltered in giving names, dates and specific information. I knew that my father, who had taught history, would have enjoyed knowing this fascinating, brilliant young man. The sun was bright but there was still a slight chill in the air, though the hint of the coming spring could be seen as well as felt. Then as the sun began to sink on the horizon we headed to another section of the city, toward that special something that Gregg wanted to share with me. My curiosity was gnawing in anticipation and I wondered if it would be a person, a place or perhaps even a thing. It never once crossed my mind that it might be an entire culture. When he finally parked and we started walking I suddenly realized that the language which I heard from the doorways and passing people had changed. The fragrance in the air was different. There was music everywhere and the signs were advertising unknown things all in Greek. I had been briefly introduced to his paternal heritage and now it was time for the maternal side. We passed open front stores with enormous black olives, wrinkled olives, brown olives, green olives, and not in little jars but large open tubs. Boxes and packages that contained mysterious, unknown substances, even vegetables I'd never seen before. Bakeriesfrom which wafted such incredible fragrances that they almost forcefully beckoned the passerby to enter. Several times he greeted people in passing. Then after several blocks of walking we finally arrived at the destination. Upon entering I didn't know if it was a restaurant, night club or just what, but it was an enormously large area. There were countless tables with a number of people either eating or just chatting and

drinking. In the center there was what appeared to be a dance floor and then an area behind it with a slightly raised stage. He was immediately greeted by name by at least half of the employees as well as the owner. I also noticed, at least when he was speaking English and I understood the conversation, that I was always introduced as 'a buddy from California' or as 'a friend visiting from California'. Military buddy, or friend from the military was never mentioned. When questioned he explained that he didn't especially mind being in the army, but at heart he was a normal human being and once outside the precincts of the military's domain he sort of forgot that they existed. I remembered that he had made a similar comment the night before. Maybe it was another key to the way he individually constructed reality. I'd already begun to assign almost magical, superhuman powers to this incredible young man. He ordered some Spanakopita and bottle of Metaxa with coke on the side. I had often used the expression "it's all Greek to me", and in this particular instance it really was. The waiter with the Metaxa, a Greek brandy, arrived and asked me if I had some identification. Gregg started to say something to the him, but I responded in the affirmative and whipped out my California Driver's license. According to my fake ID I was already 22 years old. Gregg was suitably impressed since I had previously told him that I was only 19. He then explained that it would be a sin to mix the Metaxa with anything, but sometimes he enjoyed drinking the coke between sips of the brandy. At nineteen years of age I certainly was no connoisseur of fine liquors but first my nose and then my taste buds confirmed that this was probably the finest beverage ever conceived by man. Evidently the brandy was cured in casks which had the inside covered with conifer resin, which gave it a delicious earthy taste. An enormous platter of the Spanakopita arrived, which he had ordered as an hors d'oeuvre. "A little snack while we work up an appetite and we can eat later" was the way he explained it. Exquisite! Thin layers of flaky pastry dough with a filling of spinach, onions, feta cheese and spices baked to perfection. I would have been quite content to have expired and gone to the great hereafter at that moment since I had just sampled two of the most perfect savory delights in the entire world. Or so I thought, but that was just the beginning! Then a friend of Gregg's, by the name of Alekos, showed up carrying what appeared to be a pregnant guitar, which I learned was a bouzukii. He sat down to chat and I noted that he was as effervescent as Gregg. Probably out of deference to me they conversed primarily in English with only an occasional phrase or word in Greek. Gregg asked Alekos something in Greek and he began to play a beautiful ballad on that unique instrument. At that moment Alekos' sister, Elena, arrived and after giving Gregg an embrace, sat down Alekos continued to play and Elena began to sing one of the most lyrical and beautiful songs I had ever heard, and although I couldn't understand a word it wasn't necessary. Her voice was crystalline in its purity. Gradually other people began to sing, Gregg of course had been one of the first, and before long nearly everyone in the large room had joined in. With each passing moment the evening seemed to become more enchanting and magically beautiful. As the hours progressed more and more people arrived as well as a small group of musicians of which Alekos was a part. People were dancing, singing, eating, drinking, visiting and it was difficult for me to believe that I hadn't actually been transported to Greece. Gregg spent a lot of time dancing

and I was entranced by his graceful, liquid movements. At one point he returned to the table and began to take off his shoes "so I can feel the music". I momentarily flinched, wondering if he was about to do another of his BVD numbers, but he stopped at his shoes and socks. I asked him about his having lived in Greece and learned that when he was fourteen he, his aunt and uncle had gone there to spend the summer visiting relatives. Evidently when it was time to return he had decided to stay for an additional year. We ate, drank a lot, ate some more, laughed, sang, drank some more and I completely lost track of time. I met and talked with countless beautiful women and handsome men, young and old, all of them incredibly friendly. We could have been there for a few hours or it could have been an entire lifetime. The passage of time had ceased to have any meaningful significance. I knew that I could mark this as one of those milestones which had occurred in my life. My world had expanded and enveloped something, which though new, seemed so very familiar and comfortable. In just a little more than twenty-four hours my previously limited world had increased to include marvels and joys I'd never before known. Little did I know, as these thoughts swirled through my head, that this was just the tip of the iceberg. Gregg was driving through the maze of streets that led to the suburbs of Boston and the community of Quincy where his grandmothers house was located. He seemed to be in perfect control, though I found that difficult to believe taking into consideration the amount of Metaxa the two of us had consumed. But then we had also consumed a mountain of food, and he had been in near constant movement, which I knew helped to mitigate the effects of the alcohol. Naturally he was still singing, though now more softly, and primarily soothing ballads. Occasionally he would reach over to gently touch my shoulder and ask how I was doingalmost as if to assure himself that I was still there. At some point I began to drift off to sleep, with sights and sounds spinning in my head. Just before I became unconscious I knew that I wanted to tell Gregg how much his friendship meant to me, but it seemed incongruous and unnecessary. Instead I settled for mumbling about how much I had enjoyed the evening. But it also seemed like I had known, and loved, him forever. It was confusing to say the very least and before I could logically examine everything that was rushing through my head I was fast asleep. Gregg was gently shaking my shoulder. We had reached the house; he was physically helping me out of the car. As we walked to the house, the crisp night air assisted in clearing my slightly fuzzy head. Once inside he quickly showed me around the downstairs and then we went upstairs where three bedrooms were located, at the same time he explained that nonna, his grandmother had a downstairs bedroom, "Since she's not as agile as she used to be, though her mouth is just as mobile". There was a guest room, his uncle's room and then Gregg's room. Each had a large double bed and beautiful, tasteful furniture, all of which appeared to be antique. The bathroom was located between his room and that of his uncle. Gregg's room was an immediate reflection of his characterlots of books, a large number of records, and the walls was covered with pleasant paintings which appeared to be originals. And of course a large, framed poster with Maria Callas in the role of Norma, from La Scala in Rome. Gregg said that I could sleep in the guest room, and then hesitantly added that if I wanted I could sleep with him. It would be nice to have me close so we could talk, and probably a little warmer since his grandmother had turned off the heat before leaving and it would take a while for the house to

warm up. At that point he was standing slightly behind me and probably for the first time in my life I summoned up a bit of extrovert courage and said, "Well, it really is cool in here, and if you want to have me close why don't you do it right now." There was no hesitation and suddenly the two of us had become one as our lips met for the first time. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was in love with this magnificent person, who within a period of twenty-four hours had completely changed my life. It was nothing less than a complete psychological explosion. It was a night of joy, of passion and release, of driftings and awakenings, tender words, of gentleness. There are experiences which all the vocabularies of all the languages of the world cannot adequately describe. Profound and based on that which comes from the realm of the spiritual, they resist all attempts at verbalization. This, for me, was that unique experience. It was one of complete and unconditional love. Love mutually offered and accepted. A bond which would defy the inexorable passage of time. At one point during the night, I was in that marvelous state between drifting and sleep when I felt, rather than heard, something softly tweak at my mind:

Oh yes, you do remember that the time length on this relationship is forever. Not a few weeks, several years, or even a single lifetime. It is an eternity of mutual love and all that implies . . .

6 Really Butch

I heard the sound before I opened my eyes. In that brief moment between awakening and becoming completely conscious to the world around me, I could feel my heart within and sensed its having been filled to overflowing. Then, soft crystalline notes from a stringed instrument filled the air. Upon first slowly opening one eye, and then the other, I saw Gregg seated on a chest by his bedroom window, softly strumming on what appeared to be a lute. A lute? Although I had never, other than in pictures, seen a lute, it certainly appeared to be one. Yes, that strange curved neck meant that it was indeed a lute. He then began to sing softly in an unfamiliar language, though it sounded somewhat like French. On a nearby table I saw a tray. It contained two exquisite squat cups and a shiny metal coffee pot, which, without questioning, I knew contained Expresso. For the second night in a row I had consumed what, for me, was an inordinate amount of alcohol and yet there was not even a trace of what should have been, under normal circumstances, a horrendous hangover. The music, which Gregg was playing, as well as his voice, was ethereal and though I certainly didn't understand the words I seemed to understand that it was a ballad of love. As he finished, he paused briefly and without saying a word, though his sparking eyes spoke tomes, he began singing another ballad. Though this time it was in English, I recognized that it was obviously an English ballad from the past in that many of the words were odd and some of the sentence structure archaic sounding. As I was sipping that robust coffee, and this time it was no pale 'instant' imitation of the real thing, he explained that some years ago he had become interested in medieval literature and then the music of that period. He, as he put it, 'had lusted after having a lute' and eventually found one. Since he had earlier learned to play the guitar and bouzouki, learning to play the lute was no particular problem. The larger problem lay in searching out the music of the period, that of the wandering minstrels of love, the troubadours. But that too was eventually resolved. He then confided that when I had first entered the room on Friday evening, looking slightly bewildered and confused, that he had looked into my innocent green eyes and he had become completely entranced. At that very moment he had longed to sing me a medieval love ballad, but hadn't, "for fear of scaring the living shit out of you and there's probably nothing more distasteful, as well as downright disgusting, than a member of the military with shit running down his leg". This last statement reflected yet another facet of Gregg's personality that I was beginning to cherish. His ability to speak the most impeccable English and then intersperse phrases or vocabulary that normally only a sailor would use. He continued, "Instead of singing to you I began talking about myself and although I knew that I was babbling, I couldn't stop. This nonsensethis idiotic drivel, just kept tumbling out of my mouth.. I couldn't stop it. I've had several infatuations and minor affairs of the heart, but obviously I had really never before fallen in love. At first I thought that perhaps I'd quite

literally gone fucking bonkers." "By the way, the ballad I was singing as you woke up is one of my favorites. It's in old French, of the twelfth century, and begins: 'It is through the eyes that love attains the heart...' Well, obviously what my eyes experienced was enough to send one of those hot-line messages to my heart, 'This is It, buddy' There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that it was, ......that it is!. I know it seems like we hardly know each other, but two nights ago I discovered what 'love at first sight' means. Before that night the phrase was nothing more than a group of words, cleverly put together, but they had no profound significance for me. Now they do." Before he had finished I motioned for him to come over to the bed. I took his hand as he sat down and explained that exactly the same had happened to me. It was as instantaneous as a thunderbolt from heaven and infinitely more powerful. It wasn't anything I could explain to anyone, least of all to myself. But that was of little importance. The most significant thing was that it existed that he existed and was at that very moment next to me. With that now familiar twinkle in his flashing eyes he began, "Do you know the Greek myth as told by Aristophanes and recounted by Plato in the Symposium about 'our other half'? It's charming and like all myths I somehow believe that it points to a truth beyond its surface appearance. Anyway Aristophanes tells that in the very beginning there were creatures that were composed of what are now two human beings. And they were of three sorts: male/female, male/male, and female/female. Then the gods, in one of their capricious moods, split them all in two. But after they had been split apart, all they could think of was to embrace each other again in order to reconstitute their original units. So, according to the myth, we spend our physical lives trying to find and re-embrace our other halves." He paused, smiled that knowing smile, and we both knew that we had finally encountered that missing part. "Do you want to hear it in Greek? It is incredibly beautiful in the original." I sat there fascinated as he recounted it once again, in what had to be one of the most beautiful languages I had ever heard. Gregg then asked, "Are you hungry? I think it's about time for some food, but then for Italians, and especially Greek-Italians it's always time for food! Let's shower and then go downstairs." The remainder of the day was to be enveloped in a mantel of enchanting magic with non-stop opera at a volume which would have indeed probably irritated his "dear grandmother", whom he claimed was the epitome of all iron-fisted Italian matriarchs, attempting to manipulate and rule everyone and everything she encountered. Some weeks later I met this grandmother; a charming, sweet little old lady. Though apparently charming and sweet, I had been warned that 'nonna Bela' was not someone to tangle with. He told me about the time she had slammed the refrigerator door shut on his arm and nearly broken it, because he was spending all his time with his friends, obviously didn't love her any more and only came home to rummage through the refrigerator and eat her manicotti. Evidently Paolo, Gregg's uncle who still lived at home, wasn't quite so lucky. Gregg still didn't know exactly what had happened, since neither Bela

nor Paolo would discuss it, but she had managed to break his leg. Bela's only comment was, "I closed the door. His leg was in the door. So?" Must have been a transgression of a major type. After the first time I met Bela I had told Gregg that I thought she was really sweet and had wanted to hug her. Gregg's face was suddenly covered with a horrified expression and he exclaimed, "Oh Bleedin' Jesus, don't ever, EVER, do that! She's quite capable of jamming her knee in your crotch, screaming rape and then calling the copsall before you even know what's happened. Now if she hugs YOU, immediately get down on your knees, and give thanks to the Blessed Virgin, because for whatever reason she has decided you are one of the Chosen." Evidently everyone in the neighborhood knew exactly what side of Bela's fence they were on: The Chosen or The Rejected. And evidently there were a considerable number of those unworthy of her attention. Imagine my surprise when one day a few weeks later, she reached over and grabbed me. Remembering Gregg's comments, my heart immediately started skipping a few terrified beats, and then, as she was giving me a resounding hug, she gently kissed me on the cheek. Since Gregg was standing slightly behind her I could see the bewilderment and utter shock on his face. I was sure he was going to pass out. It was one of the few times I had seen him completely speechless; his mouth was hanging open but not a sound was coming out of it. After showering, and another cup of expresso, we went downstairs. Gregg effortlessly prepared a magnificent brunch. While we were eating, it was about the middle of La Bohme when Rodolfo and Mimi realize that they are in love, that Gregg asked I how long I had known that I was gay. Not certain I understood the question I asked, "Gay, you mean like happy?" He chuckled, shook his head and smilingly replied that I was much more innocent that he had realized. Then came his explanation of society and homosexualitypeople who are 'gay'. I'd read enough to know that homosexuals existed and I felt that I was undoubtedly one of them, but until Gregg's revelations I had no idea that within society there existed a shadow world which was much, much larger than I'd realized. "In fact, he continued, if current psychological research is accurate more than five percent, maybe much more, of the entire human race is, by genetic coding, homosexual; though most, because of social and cultural prejudice, don't openly admit it. We don't consciously decide to be gay, we come this way my friend,it's in the genes, the same as being born with brown eyes or black hair. I'm certainly not ashamed of it, it's just who I am. And I'm glad that I know who I am. I also know that I, we, have to be careful because of the society in which we live. Our relationship with the people around us depends on our being discreet and hiding who we really are; concealing the feelings and emotions that are inside and an integral part of our being." "It's sort of the shits at times to live in such a fucked up world that still insists on maintaining prejudicial attitudes about so many different things. Can you imagine how depressing it must be to be a Negro and know that probably half of the white people in this country feel that you are inferior only, ONLY, because your skin color is different? So we, who are born homosexual also know some of that prejudice, but fortunately we can hide behind a mask and keep our little secret to ourselves."

Thus began my education under the tutelage of one of the most erudite teachers I would ever encounter. His knowledge seemed limitless, but unlike many teachers it was not composed of isolated facts since Gregg had that rare gift of being able to see, sense and feel the connections which exist between all facets of the individual and the society in which he livednot just blindly focus in on their separate components. Like all true teachers he was insistent that the pupil learn to inquire and then make his own connections. In time I noted that 'the teacher' was also very much involved in the learning process and that even those areas in which he felt he was well versed, no idea or concept was so sacred that it could not be examined or questioned; again and again if necessary. After brunch I introduced what for me was one of the most touchy of all subjects and one which had caused no end of conflict; namely 'The Church'. It had been established that both of us came from Catholic families so I felt, hoped, that he might have an "instant enlightenment kit" and solve all my difficulties with a few magic words. I explained about my sexual contact with my cousin George and then the two years of remorse and personal struggle knowing that it had been about the biggest of the Church's long list of sins. At that moment the phone rang. After a short greeting in English, Gregg immediately began speaking in beautiful, fluid French. Not just French but perfect, liquid Parisian French with that gorgeous soft guttural 'rrrrr'. I remembered that when I first began taking French in college I had spent hours attempting to duplicate that difficult sound. After several weeks of constant practice, my mother's patience had evidently reached the breaking point. One morning, after I had spent an inordinate time practicing, she informed me that if I didn't immediately stop that 'odporn' noise' that she was personally going to rip out my tonsils. 'Odporn in Slovak meant repulsive or ugly and was about the closest Bozhena ever came to cursing. Rip out my tonsils? In the first place I didn't think my tonsils had a lot to do with the sound I was attempting to master. But I thereafter confined my practice to the privacy of my bedroom. When Gregg hung up I immediately began to question him about how, when and where he had learned to speak such perfect French. He explained that it was difficult to pinpoint how it began, but as a teenager he had heard recordings of Edith Piaf which had made a lasting impression. When he first started at Boston University he overheard two French exchange students talking among themselves. He explained that suddenly he felt that he was overhearing two people 'sing' to each other in place of way in which most people speak. "It was lyrical, it was musical though not in the traditional sense. Later I began a study of the medieval troubadours as a project for a literature class and of course most of them were French. I decided that I wanted to study their language so that I could sing medieval songs in the original. Well, the language they spoke was a forerunner of modern French and so an oblique way of doing it was to study Modern French first. Had a couple of excellent French teachers at Boston U. and at the same time I attempted to meet and talk to every French person I could find." He also commented that it had been phenomenally easy for him almost as if he already knew it but just hadn't used it for a while. "And did you know that it was because of the Troubadours that..... Oh, yes, you wanted to talk about the Churchactually the Church all but wiped out the Troubadours

because the Church got really pissed off at them. Did you know that? But, as I said, another time. Now back to your problem with the Church. Yes, I had to deal with it too." Gregg began, "But first of all, I want to preface what I'm going to say with something important. I love you. 'S agapo'. I love you because you are you, and I don't want to change you. If we agree on things, great, if we don't agree, well, we'll find some way of working around it. Okay? I believe wholeheartedly in the integrity of the individual to be whoever it is that they are. My mind was in perfect agreement and my heart continued to swell with admiration for this incredible individual. In the first place he was so physically handsome that even looking at him sent shivers throughout my body. I was in awe of nearly everything he said and had felt giddy since I opened my eyes that morning and heard him singing. Now, even his speech seemed to be a song. He continued speaking softly, yet firmly, It's also natural to become enthused about an idea or concept and want to share it. But when anyone, or any one group decides that they have the only available truth and it's their dutyand it's even worse when it's a Divinely Directed Duty',to force it on someone else then I get upset, and a little sad. For as long as I can remember I have been interested in learning, knowing as much as is humanly possible. In my short twenty three years of life I have also learned that it is almost impossible to talk to certain individuals and groups. For example the Jesuits and Jehovah Witnessesand believe it or not they seem to come from the same mold. fanatics, fanatics with blinders." "So the only thing I will ever suggest is to always keep a constant vigilance that while you weren't aware of it the 'blinders' have somehow slipped into place. And I think this is important also. There isn't some invincible outside source that fits us with those blinders, like with horses, where man is the agent. No, we do it to ourselves!" He smiled and rolled his mirthful eyes from side to side, as if checking for some invisible self-blinding device. Gregg jumped up and went over to the phonograph. "Well Verdi is certainly not adequate for this particular discussion." Some arias from La Traviata was just finishing. "What we need is something a little heavier, and believe me there's nothing heavier or more ponderous than Wagner. I think this calls for Gtterdmmerung, The Twilight of the Gods. Just some of the highlights." My ears were about to be assaulted by German sopranos, weighty baritones and music that could indeed be called 'ponderous', though in time I learned to appreciate its supremely unique beauty. Gregg explained that he was actually the product of two branches of Christianity, for though his father was Catholic, his mother was Greek Orthodox. From early childhood he had heard parental discussions about which was the 'true church' and had attended services in both. He admitted that he also loved both, though probably for reasons that many would not consider to be the most spiritual. For him the importance lay in the magnificent show that they put on: incense, beautiful robes, candles, flowers, more incense, lots of shiny gold but most of all the music; in fact while still quite young he voiced the opinion to his folks that there wasn't nearly enough music.

Once as an adolescent he had gone with a friend to a Protestant service and immediately decided that it "must really be boring to have to go that place every Sunday. The 'show' was almost non-existent, the music was less than mediocre and in general the whole thing was about as dull as dishwater". Another foray into the vast unknown world of those 'other' Christians was when he, on his own, attended a Four Square Pentecostal church. One Sunday morning, in passing he had been intrigued by their blinking neon sign and had entered, "just as the band struck up. Now that was fucking pandemonium! Someone was banging on a piano to the raucous accompaniment of trombones, a really loud trumpet and lots of shaking tambourines. Just as I sat down someone in front of me leaped up and began jabbering, almost screaming, in an unknown language or maybe they was just animallike sounds and began gyrating around like he was either possessed or was celebrating having recently escaped from a mental institution. That person was soon joined by others with the same glazed eyes and equally psychotic behavior. I got the hell out there as fast as my legs would move for fear that whatever it was that they were afflicted with might be catching." And in the background Wagner continued with his mighty themes that were leading to the demise of the Gods. It was at about this point in his life that Gregg had begun to question the validity of all the Christian churches. Confession had never made much sense in that its only purpose seemed to be a preoccupation with all the 'bad' things he'd done during the week and he was never once asked about all the beautiful thoughts or nice things he'd done. The Catholics had the 'truth', and their butchers known as the Inquisition had murdered countless thousands to prove it. The Protestants obviously didn't have this same 'truth' since they wouldn't even accept the Pope, and everyone, at least every Catholic, knew that the Pope was the one infallible human being alive. In addition none of the Protestants could agree with each other since each of the thousands of differing groups had been given some type of divine revelation which the others had missed out on. The Greeks were occupied with ways in which to slit the throats of all the Turkswith God's help of course. And the Turks knew that Allah, who by the way had originally been the same Hebrew God they were now bent on destroying, was on their side in their attempt to slit the throats of all the Greeks. During World War II the Allies were calling on God to help defeat their enemy, the Germans, who in turn were appealing to the very same God to help wipe out their enemies, the Allies. Not only were they all attempting to enlist this God's aid, but they all knew that he was there to assist them. According to Gregg, God would have to be completely schizophrenic to even get mixed up in any of humanity's vicious games. "So one day, I think I was about 16 or 17, I just said 'fuck it'. I have experienced God in a sunrise and a sunset, I have heard Him in the music of Verdi, Puccini, Mozart, Bach, and the cricket outside my window, I have seen Him in the eyes of an innocent young child, I have intimately known God in a thousand ways, and my experiences have nothing to do with 'theology' or 'dogma'. I decided organized religion, that whole multitude of churches with its hordes of backbiting fanatics, was all bullshit and geared at nothing more than a desire to control, a lust for power. Did I believe in God? You bet your sweet ass I did, and still do, but I didn't think he lived in any specific church, no matter how grandiose, or deliberately humble, it might be. But of course that was just a personal assumption, the ideas of an adolescent. As a human being everyone was free to believe anything they wanted and I

had decided to form my own opinions." He explained that he would not attempt to convince anyone of what they should believe, but that it really helped to read history, compare everything which one read with something else and then attempt to come to discriminating, logical conclusion. He felt that in separating myth and religious stories from actual documented fact one could then begin to form a rational opinion.. "Unfortunately the way most 'religious' people think runs something like this: 'If I believe it then it's 'history' THE TRUTH but if it's different and someone else believes it then it's undoubtedly a myth.' All too often people put on their ethnocentric blinders and well, its basically downhill from there." In the background, Wagner's massed French horns, clashing cymbals and thunderous kettledrums announced the twilight of the Gods, the end of their time on the earth and a return to Valhalla, their eternal resting place. During those final passages of Wagner's epic, Gregg had closed his eyes, listening with rapture to the musical rendition of the Nordic myth of the separation of man and the Gods. The final notes died away. Gregg got up, put on some soft harp music and continued, "It didn't take long for me to realize that my adolescent rebellion at the Church, and in fact religion in general, was more than a bit juvenile and simplistic. However anyone who becomes aware of his interior, has listened carefully during moments of meditation or during that quietness, when the priest or his equivalent isn't babbling, is aware of his connection to the divine. We do know of our connection to the Divine Spirit and each knows of that potential for personal realization. We intimately know that we are much deeper than our surface appearance." "What I am living is but a fractional inkling of what is really within mewhat gives me life, breadth and depth. And when that moment of realization occurs we know what all the religions of the world have been attempting to convey. God doesn't care if my skin is black or if I'm an oriental or if I am a male who loves other males. I think whatever that spirit or god might be glories in my uniqueness!" From the intense expression on his face, and the certainty in his voice I knew that he wasn't just mouthing words, he was relating personal conviction. Gregg went on to explain that there is a marvelous illustration, which is often used, in oriental literature of the person who, traveling with a companion, suddenly becomes enraptured with the ethereal beauty of the rising moon and points to it with his finger. The companion sees the pointing finger but becomes so fixed on the image of the finger that he completely misses the object that the finger is pointing at. Gregg felt that all the world's religions were pointing to the Infinite, the Divine Spirit, but man in his preoccupation with his daily problems was usually never able to see beyond the pointing and hence had little or no idea of what was beyond. Then Gregg began chuckling, "And you know, it is so fucking bizarre, but even the clergy, who are doing the pointing get so caught up in looking at their dainty, pointing fingers that most of the time they never see what they're pointing at." By this time he was softly laughing.

"Now this is just a brief outline of some of the things I discovered for myself. If I can offer any advice it is to question everything, including what I've just said. Remember it came from a person who has viewed and interpreted things according to his own personal perspective. Read as much as you can get your hands on, then search and look some more, then armed with that information come to your own conclusions. I've often thought that humanity's biggest problem is that of being lazy. It's easier for most people to accept someone else's ideas or opinions rather than think for themselves." Gregg also mentioned that one of the most enlightening experiences of his life was a series of lectures he attended at the University of Boston, which were given by Dr. Joseph Campbell, the author of several books and well known authority on mythology. For many years Dr. Campbell had been teaching at Sarah Lawrence College in New York and had become somewhat of a legend with the East Coast university students. Not only did Dr. Campbell substantiate Gregg's personal discoveries and decisions about organized religion but added a wealth of new information and insights about how 'myths', in the broadest sense, continue to shape human institutions and actions and motivate human behavior. According to Gregg, Dr. Campbell was the most stimulating speaker, and writer, that he had ever encountered. In the months, which followed, Gregg and I read his newest book entitled The Hero With A Thousand Faces as well as several monographs and other papers, which Gregg had obtained. I was in complete agreement with my new mentor's opinion. Gregg paused, and at that moment, my admiration for this incredible creature increased to the point that I felt my heart would burst. Within the period of an hour or so he had magically helped me to resolve internal conflicts that had been the bane of my existence for years. While he had been talking I suddenly realized that the Church was not the Absolute Authority and I could indeed question it. Somehow, of everything he had said, that was the message that had come through and was of most importance to me. The word 'brainwashing' had just recently entered the English language due to some unsavory practices on prisoners in North Korea and I made a connection. That was how organized religion operated; probably how they had to operate if they were going to stay in business. When I mentioned this mental association that I had just made, Gregg smiled his very special smile. He reached over and patted me on the hand, obviously pleased to see that I was beginning to make my own connections. It was also at that moment I realized that as humans we are capable, and often do, question just about anything. The one thing we usually neglect to question are those beliefs that are closest to us. We never seem to touch those most important, though usually invisible, ones. And he had claimed that he didn't have an 'instant enlightenment kit'! Now I knew otherwise. Later that afternoon he took me to visit a couple of nearby friends and even his favorite aunt, GiovannaGina. I felt an immediate attraction to Gina; she and Gregg were very much alike. Alive and vivacious, she was beautiful and charming, friendly and once again it seemed like I had known her forever. At one point Gregg went to the supermarket and I stayed to chat with Gina. She mentioned that after the death of her brother and sister-in-law, Gregg's parents, she had sort of served as a surrogate parent. Gregg had been fourteen years old when his parents had both died in an automobile accident. Now I knew why he lived with his grandmother. He'd never mentioned the death of his parents. Gina's love and affection for him was more than evident. She went on to tell me about her work as an executive with a large insurance firm in Boston; the difficulties of being a professional

woman in what was basically a masculine dominated culture. More prejudiceand I made the mental connection that it was undoubtedly based on the Hebraic-Christian concept of God being male. Though my heart might be pounding with love and making me somewhat giddy, my mind was abuzz with new ideas and connections that I had never before considered. Gregg returned from the store and related that he had encountered a friend that he hadn't seen for several months. His bubbling enthusiasm, about everything, never abated and I began to understand how it was that he was able to consume such vast quantities of rich Mediterranean food and not swell up like an over inflated balloon. Maybe he used up all those extra calories in his ever constant talking and the copious amounts of Italian gestures, which accompanied his discourses about anything and everything. All too soon it was time to return to Fort Devins. Tomorrow would be our first day of classes. When we got back to the barracks that night it was ablaze with lights and chattering voices, evidence that the rest of our group had arrived. Gregg also stopped by Sergeant Castorini's room to drop off a small package. Before leaving home Gregg had gone into an Italian bakery and picked up a couple of pieces of an incredibly rich, white cake. Well, it sort of looked like wedding cake. This young man was exceedingly clever and was already preparing for future favors, in case the need arose. Gregg had almost immediately fallen asleep, but my head, and heart, were still aflutter. I got up without turning on the lights, grabbed a piece of paper from my desk, and went to the bathroom. There I wrote him a small note, just a couple of lines. It seemed important to put in writing this momentous occurrence in my life. "On Friday, March 6, at 5:30 pm. Gordon fell in love with the most incredible person in the entire universe!" It was the singularly most important event of my life and I hadn't been completely aware of it when it happened. Guess I'd been expecting flashing lights and the heralding of blaring trumpets. I folded the paper, went back to our room and put it on Gregg's desk, then softly kissed him on his forehead.

On Monday, after an orientation session, we began our classes. I was disappointed to discover that the group had been divided into two sections, A and B. Gregg was in Section A and I was in Section B. It was the same for everyone in the barracks; each two-man room had individuals from different sections. Although both sections studied the same materials they were given by different instructors. As we later discovered, while doing our nightly homework, the instructors often had different ways of imparting the material. It was a very intelligent and progressively educational means

of organization for optimum learning. The evenings also us allowed time for discussions of a more personal nature, that is when "Mr. Greggarious", as he came to be known, wasn't off visiting with anyone in the barracks willing to listen to his near constant barrage of opinions. And at the same time he baited nearly everyone with questions so that he could partake of their ideas. I learned to love him for his very gregariousness and became aware that human interaction is a very necessary part of the process of discovery. We became friends with nearly all the other guys in the barracks and spent a lot of time chatting with them. Though many nights were for just the two of us, alone with each other and the ever-constant music. He had brought a large number of records from home during our visit there and music became an integral part of our existence together; a binding element since it was something that both of us not only enjoyed, but also actually needed. It was a time of growth and each day seemed to herald the joy of discovery. Bruce and Tom were the guys in the next room. As different as night and day and though fairly good friends they also seemed to spend a great deal of time arguing and bickering. Bruce was from Wyoming and had spent his life on the family cattle ranch there. Blond, blue eyed, tall, chunky and muscular. During the second week at Fort Devins he had received a 'dear John' letter from his girl friend and seemed to have a rather low opinion of women thereafter. Tom was short, rather thin and with dark hair and beady black eyes. He was from the Los Angeles area and his family owned several small grocery stores. He wrote to his girlfriend every day. Sometimes he managed to write her two or three times within a twenty-four hour period. Bruce contended it was a waste of time and she'd probably dump him before he got out of the service. That was the most minor of the things they found to daily, sometimes hourly, disagree about. Bruce liked country western music and Tom preferred schmaltzy romantic ballads. Fortunately they both liked to read. Bruce preferred western novels and adventure or spy stories. Tom occasionally read historical dramas, but also spent a lot of time pouring over business manuals such as Cost Accounting. Since they couldn't even talk about what they were currently reading, much of their six months in each other's company was spent in a sulking silence. Gerald was one of the few black guys at Fort Devins and the only one in our group. He had an incredible sense of humor and had been a pre-med student before enlisting. His father was a wellknown surgeon in Cleveland. Gerald loved classical music and spent a lot of time in our room listening to Gregg's records. I had noted that for all his laughter that he seemed a bit melancholy. One evening Gregg was stretched out on his bunk reading while I was doing my homework and I suddenly thought about Gerald and mentioned my observation of his somewhat hidden, but intrinsic sobriety and sadness. To me he was like the clown Pagliacci. Gregg replied, "Well of course. How would you feel if you were a black and gay and had to live in a white dominated heterosexual society? That would be enough to make anyone depressed." I'd never thought of the possibility that Gerald might be gay and questioned Gregg. He responded that his 'antenna' had picked it up the first time he'd met him. I wanted to know more about this imaginary antenna that Gregg claimed he had, and which gave him access to this type of information. He smiled and his dimples were more pronounced than usual. "Well now we're delving into the

realm of the mysterious, but I honestly believe that we all have telepathic contact or something of the sort. It's like in a large room full of people at party, the two people who are accountants or actors or whatever almost seem magnetically attracted to each other and begin talking." "It's the same with being gay. When I'm introduced to someone for the first time I usually know in an instant if they're gay or not. And if the feeling isn't definite there are always certain telltale signs, things that probably no one else but another gay person would notice. They're definitely there if you are observant. Oh, occasionally I'm fooled, but not often." I couldn't resist the temptation and immediately asked, "And did you know about me at the very beginning, I mean, like when I walked in the room?" He smiled an even broader grin and at the same time put his index fingers over his head and began to wave them around in small circles, "Sweets, I knew about you before you had even knocked on the door! There was this electric charge in the air that said 'Here I come, innocent and eager.' ...." Before he could finish I was on top of him and knowing how ticklish he was I quickly put a stop to his nonsense.

Then one evening I got him to talk about the troubadours again. He began by explaining that due to several factors it was rather complicated. At first the troubadours were the Nobility of Province in France, but then later they were not solely those of noble birth and were prevalent throughout France and Germany. In Germany for instance they were known as the Minnesingers, 'the singers of love'. Minne was the old German word for love. They were also the poets of their age. "As you undoubtedly know the medieval church was very powerful and its clergy was also very corrupt. There was one group that began to protest the blatant corruption and since the troubadours also had a beef with the church, Pope Innocent III instituted the Albigensian Crusade to get rid of both groups of troublemakers at the same time. The Albigensian Crusade, by the way, is considered one of the bloodiest and most monstrous crusades in the history of Europe. The troubadours really instituted the transformation of love and were slaughtered because of it." As usual I was fascinated when Gregg began another of his explanations and with all of the connections which that entailed. I asked what he meant by the 'transformation of love'. "The troubadours were the first ones in the Europe who really thought of love the way we do nowas an individual person-to-person relationship. Before that it was your family, or the royal court, or the Church who decided who would marry whom. Love? Well love was purely physical, a crotch thing. Impersonal. It was the troubadours who introduced the term 'amour', love. And with 'amour' it turns into a personal affair. A gentle glance, a meeting of the eyes and cupid's arrow hits the spot. Remember that troubadour poem that begins, "So through the eyes love attains the heart...." That poem is in the manuscript that I've been writing,putting together, for a couple of years now. If you want, you can read it next weekend when we go to the house. Anyway, this was completely contrary to everything the Church stood for. The troubadours were proposing love as a personal, individual experience. The church as a monolithic system is a machine system, every machine works

like every other machine that comes from the same shop. Good little Christian soldiers. And never forget buddy, that there are a lot of them right here in this barracks. The Church did not want to lose their control. Amour was a heresy, it was dangerous." He stared off into space for a few moments, lost in thought and began again. "God, I wish I had the recording of Wagner's 'Tristan und Isolde' here. Do you know that story. It was written during this medieval time and was complete heresy. It seems that Isolde is engaged to marry King Mark, though they have never seen each other. King Mark sends his aide, Tristan, to fetch Isolde and bring her back to the castle. Isolde's mother prepares a love potion so that King Mark and Isolde, who are to be married, will have real love for each other. This love potion is given to a nurse who is to go with Isolde. The love potion is left unguarded and Tristan and Isolde, thinking it to be wine, drink it. Actually they had already fallen in love, but didn't completely realize it. The love potion just touched it off. Gregg continued, "The problem, from the troubadour point of view is that King Mark and Isolde are not really qualified for love, since they haven't even seen each other. The true relationship is the union that springs from the recognition of identity in the other, and the physical union is simply the sacrament in which that is confirmed. It doesn't start the other way around, with the physical interest that with time then becomes spiritualized. It starts with the spiritual impact of love Amour. This idea was what was upsetting the Church's apple cart for they were justifying marriages that were simply political and social in character. And then along comes this movement validating individual choice. The Church was about to lose its control, its power. " "Now when the young couple had drunk the love potion and the nurse realizes what has happened she goes to Tristan and says, 'You have drunk your death.' And Tristan replies, 'By my death do you mean this pain of love? If by my death, you mean this agony of love, well that is my life. If by my death, you mean the punishment that I am to suffer if discovered, I accept that. And if by my death, you mean eternal punishment and the fires of hell, I accept that too.' "Now considering the time in which that was written it was big stuff, because Tristan was saying that love is bigger even than death and pain, than anything. This is an affirmation of the pain of life when smitten by love. He was also saying that the realization of love is nature's noblest work, and that he, and others of his time, were going to take their wisdom from their own experience and not from any dogma, politics, or any current concepts of social good." He then concluded, "Well, I think that's enough for an introduction, though it is but a small part of all of the intrigue and self discovery that led up to a massive retribution by the church in an effort to stamp out this dangerous threat to their power structure. But then the Church, Christians in general, as well as other religions, but especially the monotheistic groups originating in the middle east, have been attempting to obliterate each other since time immemorial. All done in the name of God. Poor God, he's had to take the rap for an awful lot of bad shit." As usual I sat there in awe and amazement at his knowledge and enthusiasm in sharing it. His

eyes began to twinkle and a sly smile graced his face. "If you want you can read the research that I've been working on and I also have a number of books which relate to that period of history. I've got a great idea! You can spend next weekend reading and I'll spend the time playing the lute and singing love songs to a very special person in my life. No, not in my life, who is my life!" One evening I was doing my homework for our current phase of study, cryptography. The first few days had been quite easy with simple letter or number substitution. This evening problem was more difficult since in involved using prearranged words and phrases that carried specific encrypted information. Gregg had done his homework earlier while I was finishing a science fiction novel that had been loaned to me by one of the guys downstairs. While I was still reading Gregg had gone out. In finally getting around to my homework, somehow I just couldn't arrive at a solution to the problem that had been assigned. Gregg wasn't around to help me. It seemed that he had recently been spending a great deal of his free time visiting with the other guys in the barracks. As the hours passed I became more frustrated with the seeming impossibility of the homework and I began to get angry. When Gregg finally showed up I vented all of my pent-up hostility and frustration at him. My previously hidden possessiveness also made its first appearance. In a particularly ugly scene I accused him of having lost interest in me, of not wanting to help me, of being off looking for a new conquest and a number of other unsavory accusations. He had quietly let me rant and rave and when at last I fell silent he finally responded. "We have many things in common, not the least of which is our mutual love. But we are also very different. I enjoy talking to other people, interacting with them. It's a part of my personality. I know that you don't have this same necessity, nor have I ever insisted that you adopt that form of behavior. I love you for who you are, not who I want you to be. If you need assistance or comfort or anything that I can do to help you, just let me know. But please don't accuse me of being responsible for your imaginary hurts. Talk and communicate your needs. I will always be by your side for anything you need. Now do you need some help with the homework?" Everything he had said was so logical and reasonable. It sounded just like Bozhena, my mother, giving me one of her frequent lectures. At that moment I wasn't ready for, nor did I need, anyone's advice. Nor help. Retreating even more, I declined his assistance. Bozhena had often commented on my stubborn streak. Well, it had just blossomed anew. Taking note of my pouting silence and without another word, Gregg went to bed and within a few minutes was making his soft little cat-like snoring sounds. I was really pissed, most of all at myself since I knew he was right. I worked until sometime around midnight, but I finally made sense of the homework and completed it to my satisfaction. Just before I crawled into bed I went over and kissed him every so gently on his forehead. He immediately reached out, grabbed me and whispered, "Don't ever doubt that I love you more than life itself." He hadn't been asleep at all and had been waiting all that time for me to finish my work. It was the first time we had actually had an argument. Although it was risky because of the occasional 'bedcheck', and something we had made a point of not doing, that night we slept together. The next afternoon when we returned from classes I proudly showed Gregg that I had gotten all of my 'crypto' problems correct. In fact I was the only one in my group to have done so. There were a

couple of variables called 'false assumptions' which most of the guys had not recognized and accepted as being valid, but which, had in fact invalidated all their work. Gregg got sort of squinty eyed and showed me his paper, at the same time saying, "You really are a stubborn little shit; and also a smart ass. Nearly everyone in my group, including me, got them wrong!" Needless to say, I felt very proud of myself, but after the previous night's dramatic little performance, I didn't dare say a word. The months passed and spring was now in full, magnificent bloom. Every weekend was spent in exploration. The mountains of nearby New Hampshire and Vermont offered opportunities for weekend trips and a chance for me to share some of my interests and botanical knowledge. Gregg had, like most people appreciated nature from a distance, and I helped him to discover, at times with our noses pressed to the ground, the joy and excitement of examining a minute flower with a hand lens. I pointed out the relationships between plants; how some, though related, had taken on surprisingly different forms during their evolutionary changes. We spent hours on our backs looking up at the complex ecosystems that existed in the tree branches above. Most important were the connections between all the differing species of plants, insects and animals. They existed together in an environmental wholeness. Man, unfortunately, seemed to be the only creature, within that totality, bent upon its destruction. Once again, due to man's blinders, he couldn't see that it would also mean his own destruction. Gregg was ever so quick to point out that once again it was related to western religion. In the Bible God created everything and then as his crowning glory he created man and 'put him in charge' of the things on the earth. According to the creation story in the Bible, man, unlike the other species, wasn't a part of the totality and dependent upon the delicate interlocking balance, but rather stood apart in the role of conqueror. I could tell that Gregg was both concerned and saddened to realize that few people, because of their blinders, could see and comprehend this fact. Just then a large deep blue butterfly fluttered by and decided to land on his forearm. As it opened it wings completely we both gloried in its magnificent markings. It was so still and stayed there for such a long time that I mentioned that it looked like he had a tattoo. Abruptly it decided to investigate the nearby picnic basket loaded with delectable morsels and a couple of bottles of wine. Our trips were as gastronomic as they were exploratory. Each day was more magical than the one preceding and it seemed that our mutual admiration and love increased proportionally to the amount of time spent together. How was it possible for something that was absolutely perfect to become more perfect? Neither of us questioned this seeming contradiction, but rather basked in the ever-present joy, beauty and completeness of the moment.

Then it was July, and we had a three-day holiday weekend for the Fourth of July. Gregg made arrangements for us to spend it with some friends of his who had a home on Cape Cod. Before we arrived at their home, Gregg explained that George and Bob had lived together for over ten years. Both had highly successful careers and had learned to completely accept their homosexuality, that is after George divorced his wife of several years. Their magnificent home was on a slight bluff overlooking the ocean and reflected the owners' magnificent taste in everything from the furniture and art to the smallest detail. I had sort of expected to be introduced to two campy fairies and instead was pleased to discover two fine, sensitive and intelligent gentlemen, who, to all but the most discerning, would never

have been suspected of being gay. George was a well-known writer and I had read several of his articles in Harper's and the Atlantic Monthly. Bob was the president of an international corporation whose offices were located in Boston. I was impressed by their qualifications, though they never once gave the impression that they were anything other than two individuals who, after many years of living together, were still very much in love. It was a very special three days filled with excellent food, stimulating conversation, wonderful music and I became even more comfortable with my sexual orientation. In fact I was becoming proud of it, however as George pointed out, we were part of a very small minority and prejudice against homosexuals was of the most vehement and unreasonable type. His advice was "to know who you are, to be inwardly satisfied with your being and outwardly to be constantly vigilant, and always wear a mask". He also noted that obviously both Gregg and I had been discriminate in the past or we certainly wouldn't be in the Intelligence Service, since the screening process for our security clearance was done by the FBI, and they were known to be quite thorough. It was evident that both George and Bob adored Gregg and seemed especially pleased that Gregg had finally found "his other half." That Sunday evening, as we were driving back to Fort Devins, Gregg explained that he had admired his two friends since first meeting them, and had hoped and dreamed that someday he too might find someone to share the rest of his life with. As he squeezed my hand, his beaming face was evidence that he believed his dream had come true. We began to talk about our lives together when we finished our time in the military. Gregg wanted to live on the East coast and I opted for Southern California. He mentioned that he had visited southern California once several years ago. "One week was all I could stand and I can't envision anyone actually living there in that cultural desert. Nice climate, and pleasant people, but they don't even have an opera house," was his means of explaining that the people there were just one step away from being savages. Noting my silence he apologized and suggested that it might have some redeeming features that he just hadn't encountered due his short stay there. I then suggested that San Francisco or the general Bay Area might be an alternative and pointed out that they did have an opera house as well as a number of fine museums and there was even a large Italian section in the city. In just five more weeks we would have finished our training here and both of us would be heading for the National Defense Language School at the Presidio in Monterey, and which was located in northern California. We had received our advance orders and whereas I would be studying Russian, Gregg would be studying Korean. He had been hoping for something a bit less exotic, but was intrigued since he knew very little about the oriental cultures or languages. I pointed out that Monterey was only a couple of hours from San Francisco and we could visit there frequently during our year at the language school. I just knew that he would fall in love with the area, even if it did mean giving up being near the Metropolitan Opera in New York. I had never been inside the San Francisco Opera House and hoped that it would meet with his approval. I knew that he still wasn't convinced, but I also knew that I had something in my favor since he detested cold weather. In that regard we were both in agreement. Suddenly it was our last weekend at Fort Devins and naturally it was spent in the now familiar

Greek section of Boston. Most of Gregg's friends and relatives now accepted me as their friend also. The evening was spent in joyful wishes for the future and tearful farewells with lots of toasts for a speedy return. So many toasts in fact that I began to wonder if I would ever see the future. I felt that I had been bathed in a river of Metaxa. Gregg suddenly had another of his brilliant ideas and almost immediately we took leave of our Greek friends with a promise to return shortly. We were now walking toward Scully Square, a bustling somewhat seedy part of the city, primarily filled with sailors on shore leave. In overhearing bits of passing conversations I knew where Gregg might have picked up some of his colorful language habits. On the way Gregg had explained that after finishing our training in Monterey, the two of us would probably be sent to differing countries. He would undoubtedly go to Korea, perhaps with luck to Japan. As a Russian linguist I would probably be sent Europe. He explained that our internal connection, our mutual love, would be with both of us at all times, but he wanted something external, something he could look at daily and know that I was with him. I thought to myself, 'so it's time for family photos?' He interrupted my slightly inebriated cogitating with, "What do I think of this one?" And I realized that we were standing in front of a small tattoo shop. The window was filled with enticing designs. Several more possibilities and then he spied what was obviously the one and onlya nice, relatively small Eagle with soaring wings. "Yea, that's it. What do you think of that one?" I thought he'd lost his beady mind, that's what I thought. He decided that we would both get the same tattoo as a binding external indication of our union. When finally convinced, I opted for the upper arm where it wouldn't be so visible, but he was adamant. No, he insisted that it had to be on the forearm so that, "We can see each other every moment of every day. And after all it was your idea." "What do you mean it was my idea?" I asked, a bit confused. Then I remembered the day up in the woods of New Hampshire when I had mentioned that the butterfly that had landed on his arm looked like a tattoo. God, not only did he not forget anything, he was also capable of attempting to turn anything to his advantage. It really didn't hurt much, but then the copious quantity of Metaxa inside our systems served as a general anesthetic. Leaving the tattoo shop he was obviously proud of his new acquisition and smilingly remarked, "Well we may be fairies, but now we're going to look like really butch fairies." I couldn't help but think how incongruous that statement sounded. He was probably one of the most masculine appearing guys I had ever met. In fact I was positive that he couldn't possibly be spotted by even the most astute 'antenna detector'. As we returned to be with our Greek friends the warm, humid night air was caressing in its velvet softness, and I realized that I never wanted for this particular night to end. I'd come to love Boston and all that it signified enchantment, magic and the love of my life, Gregg.

7 Mist In The Cypress

I arrived at the government Language School a day before Gregg and knew that he was not going to be pleased. Summer along the northern California coast can be solid fog for days on end. Occasionally there are warm enchanting fogs, at other times they can be cold, wet, damp and miserable. It was the latter and evidently had been hanging on for nearly a week. Assigned to my quarters in the building housing Russian language students, my roommate was to be Dwight, a handsome, somewhat prissy, pedantic young man whose grandparents had originally come from Yugoslavia. He had been born in Riverside, in Southern California, and lived there for much of his life. Hence it was slightly odd that he spoke with a decided British accent, although he mentioned that he had never been out of the U.S. It was immediately established that he enjoyed reading and liked classical music; and hence appeared that the living arrangements would be tolerable to us both. Gregg had flown in to San Francisco from Boston and then was to take the bus down to Monterey. I knew the times of the three afternoon bus arrivals from San Francisco and was there to meet him as he arrived on the second midday bus. His first words were characteristically Gregg, "Jesus H. Fucking Christ, I'm going to die. I just know I'll catch pneumonia and croak in this climate. You told me it was beautiful here. You call this cold, miserable shit beautiful? Oh, hi handsome, how've you been?" I thought about commenting that if he insisted on spending all his time clad only in his BVDs, then yes, he probably would catch pneumonia, but recognizing that he was not in the best mood and might not appreciate my humor decided to save my comments for some other time. We took a cab to the Presidio and after checking in at Headquarters, got him established in his building, which was up the hill from where I was billeted. His encounter with Jim, the fellow who was to be his roommate for the next year was his second upset in less than an hour. In fact it was closer to a major crisis. When Gregg and I entered the room there was this creature flopped out on one of the beds, reading a comic book and listening to very loud rock music. Little Richard was banging on a piano and wailing as only Little Richard could wail. Clothes, most of them dirty, were scattered all over the room since Jim evidently had begun to unpack and then the call of his comic bookshe had a stack of the latesthad overtaken him before he got around to putting anything away. With the exception of the first words of greeting, when Jim introduced himself, Gregg remained silent and quickly stowed his bags in his closet. Soon, he turned to me and softly muttered, "Let's get the fuck out of here before I barf all over the place and, or, have a nervous breakdown." This behavior was not characteristic of super friendly Mr. Greggarious. In checking with the clerk at the orderly room we discovered that security at the Presidio was

almost non-existent and no passes were really needed for entry or exit. In fact there weren't even any guards at the various entries, except at the main gate, and they were there primarily for show. So we began walking down the hill and out into the surrounding community in order to find someplace to eat. At that very moment the wind seemed to shift direction and a nice warm breeze blew in from the nearby Salinas valley. The fog began to dissipate somewhat and in the space of a few minutes there was a dramatic change in the climate. Gregg made an acute observation, "Holy Mother of God, you could have your balls frozen and then thawed out at almost the same time in this fucked up place." This was obviously not one of his better days maybe he was suffering from a minor case of travel fatigue and the painful thoughts of his roommate for the next year certainly didn't help. There were evidently a number of roads entering the Presidio since this definitely didn't seem to be the one we had entered by taxi an hour or so ago. Almost directly across from the entry there was a bar with considerable activity for a Sunday afternoon. Gregg suggested going to the 'Tavern' there, having something to eat and getting a beer. I attempted to explain that this was California where bars served beer and booze and restaurants served food, and if the bars did serve food it usually wasn't edible. Not only that, but not all restaurants served alcohol since many didn't have liquor licenses. It seemed to be a difficult concept for him to grasp. The bar had an unusual name, The Guilded Cage, and Gregg insisted we at least go in and look around. Neither of us was really prepared for what we encountered. Once, during my 'education' in Boston, Gregg had taken me to a gay bar, The Black Cat. Since neither of us was interested in that particular scene we had only stayed about an hour, and had never gone back. It was unmistakable that we had indeed just entered a gay bar, and it was also evident that a large number of the clientle, if not all, were students from the military Language School right across the street. All of them were in their early twenties and very clean cut. Since the Language School served all branches of the military they could have been soldiers, sailors or marines, though naturally none were in uniform since the place was undoubtedly 'off limits' to all military personnel. Gregg did an abrupt about face and said, "let's get the hell out of here before there's a raid and we wind up finishing our military careers at Levenworth Prison." I was once again presented with the sudden sobering thought that our sexual orientation and mutual love for each other was, in the eyes of the military, grounds for a dishonorable discharge if not imprisonment. About two blocks away we found a nice small seafood restaurant and they had a liquor license so that we could also have something to drink with our food. The place was quiet with tasteful classical music, a nice cozy atmosphere and our table had an exquisite view of the bay. Most important the food was excellent and while eating, and playing footsie under the table, Gregg explained that he had had a particularly bad night and day. He'd inexplicably gotten sick on the plane the night before and vomited a couple of times. At the airport he'd gotten on the wrong bus and had almost gone to Oakland instead of San Francisco. In San Francisco, where he had to change buses for Monterey, he had come within seconds of missing that bus. Now, as he was leisurely savoring an exquisite Lobster Newberg and was on his second glass of a delicious California Chablis, he relaxed and smiled. It was the most beautiful smile imaginable and one that I hadn't seen for nearly two weeks, which at the time had seemed to last for at least an eternity. I was filled with an incredible contentment at being with this very special person once again.

As we walked back up the hill in the deepening twilight it had taken on that magical quality that I had known would eventually occur. The moist air carried the fragrance of the sea, the mist had softened the majestic Monterey cypress overhead and the earlier chill had been replaced by a warm caressing breeze. The colors of nature had become muted, mysterious and enchanting. I was even so bold as to reach over and momentarily take his hand in mineI knew at this point in space and time he needed that comfort. I glanced at his face, with its soft, broadening smile and noticed the moisture covering his eyes. I knew also that it was a sign of joy. Since I had unpacked all of my gear the day before I offered to help Gregg unpack and get ready for tomorrow's first day of classes. I also somehow wanted to help him deal with the fact that it appeared he would be living with a slovenly oaf. Upon opening the door to his room the first unbelievable feature was the sound of a soft French ballad emanating from the interior. Then it was evident that there were no clothes on the floor. Gregg actually stepped back to look at the number on the door thinking that perhaps we'd entered the wrong room. No, right number, but what could account for this transformation. The open closet door had obscured the individual behind it . As it closed, out stepped a tall, blond young man, with deep blue eyes and obviously of Scandinavian or Northern European ancestry. It was certainly no surprise when he introduced himself as Sven. He briefly explained that the fellow who had been there earlier had been mistakenly put in the room. He was actually not a language student, but rather a mechanic and attached to the Motor Pool, so he had since gathered his stuff and gone to the barracks of the service personnel. My heart suddenly skipped a couple of beats when I realized that Gregg was going to spend the next year living in the same room with this young Nordic God. I felt a little pang of jealousy. Was this blond giant going to steal my handsome Mediterranean lover? Then I noticed Sven's wedding ring. Whew, I thought to myself, that was a close call. I began to help Gregg unpack and arrange his things. Gregg asked Sven about the record he was playing. It seemed that he had brought it with him from Paris. He had been studying architecture in Paris when he received word that he was about to be drafted and would have to return to the US. He also explained that he had then decided to enlist in order to take advantage of the opportunity to study and although it would entail being in the military longer, at least the time wouldn't be wasted. At this point Gregg and Sven began to converse in French. Since I had taken two semesters of French before entering the Army I could, for the most part, follow their conversation and Gregg knew I was not feeling completely left out. Sven, not knowing this, suddenly stopped and asked if I understood French. When I responded, in French, that I understood a little, he beamed and immediately invited both of us to dinner the coming weekend. His wife, who was living in nearby Oceanside, was French and still having difficulty with English. Then he explained that he had met his wife in a cafe in Paris where she was singing. He had fallen in love immediately and asked her to marry him the day after he met her. Gregg and I exchanged knowing glances and I knew from the broad smile on his shining face that he was beginning to change his attitude about his stay in California. I left the two new friends to continue becoming acquainted with the explanation that I still had a few things to arrange before tomorrow. As Gregg was closing the door he reverted to Greek, softly said Antio. Agapo sas deite avrio. [Bye. I love yousee you tomorrow] and I hoped that the Scandinavian hadn't spent any time in the Mediterranean.

When I arrived at my room I discovered that Dwight, the Yugoslav, was listening to Barber's Adagio for Strings. Hauntingly beautiful and also a bit sorrowful and melancholy; yes, definitely poignant and lovely. Though not exactly party music. From the records on his bed it looked like he was about to enter a Scandinavian period. What the hell was going on? I'd just left one Scandinavian a few minutes ago. He had pulled out a number of records to play and all of them were either by the Norwegian, Grieg, or the Finnish composer Sibelius. Although I wasn't familiar with all of their music, what little I had heard seemed to be a bit somber; no, lugubrious bordering on morose would have been a more adequate description. But then it was a hell of a lot better than a steady diet of Little Richard. Since Dwight was also from Southern California we began to exchange tidbits of information about that area. He'd never heard of Alhambra, the community where I lived, but did know the general area, the San Gabriel Valley. I in turn had never heard of the part of Riverside where he lived. And I thought to myself, 'Well this conversation's going nowhere.' He asked where I had gone to college and I replied that it was quite small and hardly anyone had ever heard of it, Mount San Antonio, near the town of Pomona. His soft gray-blue eyes opened wide in amazement, "What a coincidence, one of my best friends at UC Riverside spent a couple of years there. I've been to the campus several times and even met a number of the professors!" Then I asked if perhaps he met the French professor, Dr. Landry? He pursed his lips in an exaggerated manner, in imitation of Dr. Landry's most well known characteristic, and replied, "Mais oui - 'but of course' " His mimicry had been perfect and for the first time we laughed together. Obviously a year with Dwight would be bearable, and might even be enjoyable. As I was drifting off to sleep I couldn't help but reflect on the day and its seemingly endless number of coincidences. There were so many connecting parts. Almost as if somehow it might fit together in some type of gigantic, universal jigsaw puzzle. About a week before leaving Fort Devins. Gregg spent part of a Sunday afternoon discussing the philosophical concept which came from India; of the cosmic web of Indra, where everything, literally everything in the universe is connected. I also thought back to a curious event that had occurred just the previous week while I was home on leave. I felt it was intimately connected with today's events and perhaps even with the sudden emphasis on the French language. I still didn't understand it and hadn't yet had the time to discuss it with Gregg. It had been on Thursday evening that I decided that I wanted to hear Gregg's voice, even though I would be seeing him in three days. Considering the time difference it was already 10:30 pm in Boston, but I knew that Bela would still be up watching TV. The phone only rang twice when she answered and informed me that Gregg had gone to visit his aunt Gina and still hadn't returned. "No, Bela there's no problem, just had something to ask him, but it's nothing special and I can talk to him when he arrives at the Presidio on Sunday." A few more pleasantries, a promise to return as soon as possible and then she said, "Te amo, ciao." I told her that I loved her too. It was always special when she said 'I love you.' in Italian. Later that evening still suffering the pangs of absence and yearning to be near Gregg, I was seated at my desk, almost in the dark since there was only the illumination of a small bedside lamp on the other side of the room. Actually I was exhausted from the constant round of visiting friends during this last week. Staring off into space, my mind was almost blank. Suddenly, and without warning, I was transported to a different time and place. I was seated at a small table and had been writing, quill

in hand, but instead of the light of an electric lamp there were several candles in front of me. Most curious was that when I looked at a mirror on the wall in back of the table I saw a woman writing the letter. I happened to glance at my hand and the fingers were small and thin and then as I touched my head I could feel my hair and knew it was an elaborate wig. Looking down at the paper I noticed the date of 1863, the letter was in French and I knew it was to my sister. Within the episode, which probably lasted no more than a few minutes I was cognizant of the great sadness and remorse at what had been written. It was as if the entire grief and unhappiness of the universe had suddenly been mine to bear. In looking at the mirror once again, my eyes were rimmed in red and were very puffy. Then came the realization that Phillipe was dead. He and the other occupants of the carriage had been killed when it overturned and rolled down an embankment. How would it be possible to continue with life; for now there was no reason for living. That was what I had been writing. It was signed Michele. A sudden realization that I was Michele. Then as unexpectedly as it had begun it was over. I was once again seated at my own desk in my own room. The occurrence was somewhat unnerving since I had never before experienced something that seemed so real and yet was obviously a fantasy or a figment of my imagination. And I couldn't shake the all pervading sense of despair and doom; it was like a black cloud that had penetrated my being and was sucking the very life from my being. It had continued to haunt me and I had wanted to talk to Gregg about it, but today just didn't seem the proper time to do so. He was having enough trouble dealing with the transition to the newness of Monterey and I didn't want to saddle him with my bizarre fantasy. Still not asleep and I had to be alert tomorrow on my first day of school. This seemed to be connected to the gigantic jigsaw puzzle; only I didn't know if it was one of the missing pieces or perhaps a separate part of the whole which had a major piece missing. Who is/was Michele? Obviously I was Michele. Does it have a connection or am I just wasting precious minutes when I should be sleeping .....Morpheus, where are you?

After a lengthy orientation session for all new students, there were approximately 30 of us, the various groups went to their respective class areas. At this particular time there were groups opening in Russian, Chinese, Korean, Arabic and Turkish. The year at the Language School would approximate actually having spent considerable time in the country of the target language. There were only 5 or 6 students per class with six different class sessions per day. Each hour-long session was taught by a different teacher who was a native of the target country. Each language group was billeted in a separate area and all the students of one language group ate together, went to foreign language movies together, often had food of the target country, even listened to music and radio broadcasts. In short it was almost a complete immersion in the language, extremely effective and undoubtedly also very expensive. Only the US government could afford to be so extravagant. My particular group for the Russian language was composed of six individuals: Dwight the Yugoslav from Southern California, Peter from San Francisco whose mother was Ukrainian, Ivan from Pennsylvania whose parents were both Russian, Alexander whose grandfather was Polish, and of course my parents were from the Slovak part of Czechoslovakia. That left only Rick, who was from North Carolina and who had no Slavic background. The six of us would spend the next year together, studying, learning and spending our free time together. Also helping each other to get beyond the "burn-out" period, which we were warned affected every group and usually occurred during the fifth or sixth month of study.

That evening I walked up to Gregg's barracks and found him deeply entrenched in strange oriental symbols and uttering equally exotic sounds. In inquiring about his teachers he replied, "Well, in the first place they're all short, very short. They all have black hair. Decidedly oriental eyes. Most important is that I don't know what the hell they're jabbering about. I think sometimes they might even be speaking English, but I certainly couldn't swear to it." Sven waved hello with a broad smile and twinkling eyes. With earphones firmly in place, he continued to listen and silently repeat the recorded conversations. I had already finished my homework since the first day's vocabulary was so similar to Slovak I knew it all before leaving the class area. It was obvious that Gregg was going to have a much greater challenge since the oriental vocabulary and grammatical structure had absolutely no relationship to any of the western languages. When he finally finished with his homework we went to the Club on the Presidio for a couple of beers and then decided to turn in early. Although he was tired I could see the sparkle in his eyes and knew that for him any intellectual activity was pleasurable, no matter how difficult it might become. As the first week of our Russian classes came to an end we had established a preliminary pecking order and learned a bit about each other. Ivan, due to his completely Russian parentage, was in the forefront and so far had found the entire process to be a bit of a bore. Both Dwight and I were vying for second place. Peter was still insisting on speaking Ukrainian instead of standard Russian. Alex's Polish background tinged his speech with several sounds, which the Russian instructors found a bit difficult to accept. It appeared that Rick was going to be in for a hard time; both the Russian grammar and several Slavic sounds were perplexing for him to grasp and utilize. I almost immediately knew that Dwight was gay. No specific confirmation, but it was a suspicion based on certain tell tale features. In fact I could hardly wait to tell Gregg that 'my antenna' had picked it up. Then too there were those specific distinguishing characteristics: his precise manner of speaking, mannerisms that were....well, just different. As for Ivan, EVERYONE knew he was gay; he wore his homosexuality like a proud badge. He was tall, compactly muscular, blond, with a broad Slavic jaw line and looked completely straight. But if he moved his hand, took a step or opened his mouth, it was more than evident. He had immediately upon arriving discovered three gay bars in the surrounding area. The word was that he had already made The Gilded Cage his second place of residence. I wondered how he got into the military. Ivan's roommate was Peter. Peter had lived in a community north of San Francisco with his mother who, though born in the US., was of Ukrainian parentage. Evidently his father had been Mexican and disappeared south of the border shortly after Peter's birth. Peter was alternately vivacious and then abnormally quiet for long periods of time. Rick was originally from North Carolina and arrived at school in a brand new Mercury convertible. It seemed that his family was involved in the tobacco business and was one of the most prominent families in his part of the south. He had a soft southern accent, which he managed to

transfer to the Russian language. It was incongruous, but amused students and teachers alike. Rick and Alex were in the room immediately adjoining the one which Dwight and I shared. Alex was perhaps the most enigmatic of the group. Very shy and reserved, almost painfully introverted. Though friendly and with an abundant smile when approached or questioned, he volunteered little information about himself. He claimed to be 20 years old but didn't look old enough to have graduated from high school. Evidently prior to entering the military he had finished two years at the University of Chicago where he had been majoring in Art History. Saturday evening Gregg, Dwight and I had been invited to have dinner with Sven and Marielle. She was absolutely adorable. They had found a comfortable, small house in nearby Oceanside and she was learning to adjust to life in the US. She had been in the States less than two months and hence most things were still new to her. Since Sven was required to stay at the barracks in the Presidio during the week she had to discover many things by herself. She had prepared a magnificent Cassoulet, fresh artichokes, salad, French bread and the red wine flowed. Most important, for her, was the fact that the entire evening was spent primarily speaking French. Dwight and I were certainly not as fluent as Sven and Gregg, but the wine helped to lubricate our tongues. Then Sven produced a guitar and Marielle began to sing. With the first song and her lilting, magnificent voice my eyes involuntary filled with tears from the sheer beauty of the moment, and also probably from countless glasses of wine. I had to agree with Gregg that of all the world's languages probably none lends itself so completely to music since it is musical in its inception. Their next door neighbors, Charles and Sharon, dropped by for a bit to enjoy the music. They were a pleasant couple and Charles was also studying at the language school. Since he had already passed the probationary period he was now allowed to spend every night off base. Although Sven was spending the entire weekend with Marielle he volunteered to take us all back to the Presidio that night. Dwight wanted to visit with a friend who was studying Chinese so he was dropped off at that barracks. As he pulled away from the barracks, Sven remarked, "Well, that worked out well." I was a bit perplexed at his statement. Then he produced a paper bag and handed it Gregg with the explanation, "A little present; it's for the two of you." It was a bottle of Metaxa! He then turned to me and mentioned, "Since I'll be at the house with my wife, you're welcome to stay in the room and even use my bunk if you want to. I know you guys are good buddies and will probably want to sample the Metaxa. Just don't get caught!" It was one of those beautiful, relatively warm summer evenings with a soft breeze coming in from the Salinas valley and naturally Gregg hardly had one foot in the door before he began his usual disrobing process. I mentioned that we should probably live in Hawaii where he wouldn't have to wear any clothes and he agreed that it was an idea worth considering. He then pulled out two small glasses which I noted were very similar to the breakfast juice glasses used in the mess hall and then he opened the Metaxa. God, that aroma was without equal. He magically produced a couple of cans of coke from his closet. Gregg grabbed me and announced that he had a surprise. More surprises? He then pulled out two records of Greek folk music and explained that he had paid a visit to the library on the Presidio and discovered that they had a large collection of phonograph records. I was beginning to suspect that this little party was too well planned to just have occurred spontaneously. And I asked, "And all this just sort of happened?"

The mischievous twinkle in his eyes was evidence that there was more to this story than I aware of. He put on the record and with the first familiar notes of the bouzouki and a beautiful, ethereal voice that began singing Nafti Yero-nafti, one of my favorite songs, we interlocked arms and toasted. Then I waited for the story, from my absolutely favorite story teller. Like any good story teller he began at the beginning, "Well, remember Sunday night when I said good night to you in Greek?..." At that point I reminded him that he had said something before he said goodnight. "Yea, I said that I loved you and would see the next day, and then I said good night. Well, when I closed the door Sven remarked that I spoke very good Greek for an Italian. I discovered that he had spent a summer in the Mediterranean, first in Italy and then in Greece and Turkey. I assured him that I wouldn't hold it against him that he'd gone to Turkey. Next I had to go through the whole bit about my family tree. Without blinking those big blue eyes he asked me how long we'd been lovers. Needless to say I was speechless, well almost.... and for about five seconds. So I thought to myself, I can play this little game too and replied, without blinking my big brown eyes, that we'd known each other for only a little over six months in this life, but our previous connection went back in time for centuries." At this point I reminded him that his eyes were not brown, but as black as tar pits. He responded with, "And yours are green like a swampy algae filled pond." This friendly verbal play prompted a few minutes of poking each other and just being close, something we hadn't been able to do in over two weeks. The story teller continued, "So I was waiting for Mr. Smart Ass's next pointed question when he began telling me about a Swedish lover he had when he first lived in Paris. You know how vague English can be at times since it sort of ignores gender, so at first I thought he meant a female lover, but when he called him Niels I knew he was talking about a male." "It seems that Sven and Niels spent their first four months together in perfect bliss and contentment as well as a considerable amount of steamy Nordic passion. But then Niels began to have roving eyes, as well as fingers and whatever else it is that roves, spent considerable time "out", but not only that he began to be insanely jealous of Sven. Sven couldn't even talk to the concierge's dog but what Niels knew that there was some ulterior motive and they had these wild, mad scenes, you know like in Lucia de Lammermour, no that's not a good analogy since she was mad because she'd gone crazy. Although it sounds like Niels was a little bonkers too. Well, anyway Sven said that after two months of that he just walked out and never returned. Niels is probably still in some French pension ranting and raving. Hopefully he's crying a little too because it would appear that he's the one who fucked the whole thing up!" I surmised that Gregg was, as usual, adding a bit to the story, but of course knew it was the prerogative of any good story teller. Then too, the Metaxa was contributing its effect to the tale. The story continued, "Fortunately for Sven, and he really is a super human being, he met Marielle and seems to have replaced boys for girls, well at least one particular girl. The most important thing is that he is supremely content. And you know, he is also so well adjusted, and because of his own personal experience he is open and accepting; knows that we are all individuals and have the right to be who we are." "So anyway, Sven then said that as soon as we walked in together he knew that we were a couple, not by anything that was said, or because of our appearance, we certainly didn't resemble swishy fags, but when we looked at each other it was the admiring gaze of true lovers. Isn't that nice?

Very perceptive that Swede." "And later there was that small detail when he heard me tell you that I loved youand this is also interesting. He claims that even if he hadn't understood Greek that he would have gleaned its significance just by the tone of voice that I used. Now all of this was Monday night, no Sunday night, and I just met this guy. Then he immediately suggested that perhaps you would like to stay here on the weekends when he's with Marielle. He says that everyone deserves to be happy and be with the person they love. Isn't he incredible?" I suggested that since it was nearing 3:00 am that perhaps it was time to go to bed and 'be happy'. Gregg was in complete agreement. The weeks and then months passed. Sven, Marielle, Gregg and I were together as much as possible. Frequently the four of us would go on explorations to nearby areas, north to the Bay Area south to Big Sur and even once down to Santa Barbara. But not to L.A. since it appeared that Gregg had decided to never again enter that oasis of non-culture. We spent an entire weekend in San Francisco and were thrilled at its crystalline beauty. We rode the Cable cars, went to Fisherman's Wharf, Chinatown and of course the Italian North Beach area and for a few moments Gregg thought he was back in Boston. The highlight of the trip was when he stood in front of the Opera House gazing at its elaborate architecture, vowed to come back when the opera season opened later that year, but most significant thing was when he said, "Yes, I think we could definitely live here". Another weekend was spent with Sven and Marielle exploring the northern counties of Sonoma and Napa, wandering from winery to winery sampling their wares. Everyone agreed that it would be enjoyable doing that every weekend if possible. An especially thrilling moment on that trip was going to the Valley of the Moon and actually seeing the home and work area of Jack London. Gregg appreciated and loved reading American writers even though his special interest was the literature of England and Europe. He often complained that few American universities offered courses relating to European literature and as far as the inconceivably vast amount of literature of the Middle and Far East it was almost as if it didn't exist, or wasn't worth considering.

Gregg, due to his continuing study of Korean, had become aware of the previously unknown world of Oriental literature stretching back thousands of years and comprising masterpieces which had been almost completely ignored by the West. Sven confided to me one day, that the Korean instructors had commented that Gregg was not only the best in his particular class, many felt that he was perhaps the best student of the Korean language that the school had ever had. For a couple of months now I had listened to Gregg read and translate, as best he could, works such as 'Kye-won p'il diong' ('Literary Jewels from the Treasure Garden') which he mentioned was written approximately the same time as the Troubadour literature of France. Since much of Korean literature had been influenced by neighboring China and Japan, his interest branched out to these countries also. In fact he had decided that his next field of study, when school was finally over, would definitely be the Japanese language. He had discovered Japanese poetry and was completely fascinated by the various forms which they used, especially Tanka and Haiku. He loved reading them in translation but wanted to experience them in their original beauty. I had begun

to think of him as a gigantic sponge, intent on absorbing as much as his mind could possibly contain. He had once remarked that current psychological theory claimed that humans use no more that three percent of their brain. He was obviously intent on proving them wrong. I was, of course, being inundated with Russian literature and insisted on sharing my interest and budding passion. From me Gregg learned about Pushkin, Lermontov and dozens of other authors of classical Russian literature. I was also enthusiastic about some of the Revolutionary writers and poets such as Mayakovskii and the new contemporary poet Evgenii Yevtushenko. Upon occasion I would go to San Francisco to the Russian section of town with some of the other Russian language students, where we spent the time visiting the book and record stores, and eating at several of the excellent restaurants. We weren't just studying the language, we were utilizing and living itmaking it a part of our being. After my dramatic little scene at Fort Devins several months before, I had learned to give Gregg space to be himself. I occasionally spent weekends with other friends or just being by myself. He did the same. For me it had added a new aspect to our relationship, that of trust and acceptance of the fact that although we might be lovers, we were also individuals. Most of the teachers in the Russian department were from pre-revolutionary Russia and hence were somewhat reluctant to wholeheartedly accept contemporary Soviet authors. In fact, some of the them seemed to be trapped in a world of the past. I discovered a book of poems by Yevtusheno and it opened up a world of incredible beauty. The images, and the power within his poems, were magnificent. I went around reciting his poems at the drop of a hat. And the air was filled the music and with those hauntingly beautiful Russian voices. It was as natural to wander around humming 'Polushkye Polye' (Summer Fields) as any of the popular hits on the radio. Alex was perhaps the most enigmatic student in our six member Russian group. Though exceedingly pleasant with an ever ready smile he continued to be shy and somewhat introverted. One weekend Gregg was expected to attend a Saturday evening 'Korean Night' of food and entertainment presented by the teachers for the students of that department. I asked Alex if he would like to spend the day with me in San Francisco since I wanted to visit one of the Russian bookstores there. I had half expected him to decline, but he immediately agreed. We managed to get a ride north with Rick since his girl friend and her parents were arriving in San Francisco to spend a two week vacation and he was going spend the weekend with them. It was one of those crystal clear days in that magical city. The sun was brilliant and yet the ever present, cool, ocean breezes regulated the temperature. It was fresh and invigorating, great for walking and exploration. Alex had never visited the Russian section of San Francisco and was obviously captivated by its size as well as semblance to his own ethnic background. After visiting and purchasing books in two different bookstores we decided to have lunch in one of the many Russian restaurants. As we were finishing our meat and mushroom piroshki, I realized that I had never seen Alex so relaxed, nor so talkative. I had also never experienced the intensity of his probing, unnaturally deep, blue eyes.

He began questioning me about my friendship with Gregg. I knew that every one had no doubt noted the amount of time we spent together. I suspected that he was fishing for information, but why? Mere curiosity or was there some other reason? I hesitated in my response to his questions. Hesitated between being completely open and honest, which is what I wanted to do. But I also recognized that it could be dangerous to be too candid. Hence I simply explained that we had been roommates at Fort Devins and had many similar interests; how I had met his family and how much I had enjoyed being with them. It seemed to satisfy his curiosity and he changed the subject. More than two years would pass before I knew the real reason for his questions. One of the notable features of being a student at this unique school was the fact that in the dining hall one could hear dozens of languages being spoken at the same time. Everyone had friends who were studying different languages and naturally there was lots of interchange of information. It was like a mini-United Nations. Most important it helped to break down the barriers of fanatical ethnocentrism, one could appreciate the uniqueness and magnificence of the cultural differences of all of humanity. From nearly the first week in Monterey Gregg and I had searched out good restaurants and some of our favorites, due to California's history and ethnic makeup, were those that served Mexican food. This was a new experience for Gregg and he never failed to relish every dish he tried. We were both partial to a small family restaurant "La Cocina", 'The Kitchen', run by Consuela and her daughter Lupita. The food would perhaps not have been considered 'gourmet' by some, but it was consistently delicious. We had gone there so often that we were known as 'clientes' and were often offered special treats that were not on the menu and had been prepared specifically for the family. There was no jukebox, but they always had a Spanish language radio station playing local favorites. Occasionally during the weekend they invited friends of the family to bring their guitars and sing. One Friday evening we had just finished eating some exquisite chicken enchiladas, smothered in a green sauce made of tomatillos, a tart, husked relative of the tomato, mild chiles and served with sour cream and slices of avocado. We had also been drinking a considerable amount of delicious imported Mexican beer. A trio arrived and began playing and singing. It was one of those perfect moments in life when all parts complement the whole. An exquisite evening. Gregg commented that he had always loved Mexican music since it seemed to touch a very special part of his being. "At times it's almost as if it's a memory, something deep inside my soul wanting to find release; its much more intense than just something which I enjoy. Somehow I know it is a part of my being, much the same as I know that I am part Italian and part Greek. And I feel the same about my deep connection with the French culture." I remembered having had that very same feeling, many times and with the same fervor. It would be many years before the true, and complete, significance of those thoughts and feelings would finally be revealed. Gregg pensively continued, "I love some of the German authors and have read a lot of history about Germany but it has never triggered a special feeling of identification. It's interesting, but I have never felt that deep, almost soul touching connection. Switzerland, Poland, or the Scandinavian

countries for example, are nice to read and know about, but they just don't carry that same impact. By the way, even though I am learning to speak Korean and appreciate their culture, it is almost totally intellectual. But on the other hand, when I encounter something about Japan it also touches some sort of interior emotional identification. Do you have any idea what I'm trying to express?" Having felt that same type of emotional impact about the cultures of France, Mexico, and Greece I knew exactly what he was saying. I too had been somewhat interested in Japan, but at that point it seemed to be more casual and intellectual. I thought back to my grammar school friend, Kobuko, though he was probably as much Hawaiian as he was Japanese. And yet in knowing him perhaps I had allowed the possibility of the orient to become a part of my life. As we walked back to the Presidio the fog was beginning to drift inland off the ocean. The cypress trees overhead were becoming enveloped in a protective, misty shroud. Then suddenly the fog was so thick we could hardly see more than a couple of feet in front of us. The perfect time to stop for a nice long embrace; I could feel and taste the fog on his face and lips.

8 Gregg and the Dragon

It was now nearing the month of July. There were only six more weeks of schooling before our language classes terminated and we would be going to our permanent overseas assignments. It was something that neither Gregg nor I had really discussed, almost as if we avoided talking about it, it wouldn't happen. I had gone to Southern California several times to visit my mother during our time in Monterey, but Gregg had always declined the invitations to accompany me. The Fourth of July was to be on a Sunday. It would be a long weekend, and since my birthday was on the sixth I knew that I had to make an appearance at home or risk the wrath of Bozhena. When I asked Gregg if he would like to go south with me, it came as somewhat of a shock when he immediately agreed. Dwight was driving home to Riverside when classes finished on Friday, could drop us off at mom's house and then pick us up for the return journey late on Monday afternoon. Leaving shortly after 4:00 pm we made good time, considering the holiday weekend traffic, the six hours passed rapidly and we arrived at the house around 10:00 pm. It was ablaze with lights and Bozhena was waiting at the door with her smothering hugs. The introduction to Gregg was accompanied with her, "Vell, at last, I am to meet this special young man. I have been inundated with information about you for the last year and a half." I felt there was too much emphasis on the word 'inundated' and wondered just exactly where she was headed. Gregg and I took our things upstairs to my bedroom and I quietly warned him not to be bothered by anything that she might say, and then added that she was probably more dangerous than Bela, his grandmother. Not in a physical way, but her tongue could be cutting and she had spent years honing it down to its present state of razor sharpness. He assured me that he was a big boy and capable of taking care of himself. I was beginning to wonder if this visit had been such a good idea as we headed downstairs into what I jokingly told Gregg was the 'Slovak Dragon's Lair'. Gregg looked at me a bit quizzically and remarked that he'd never heard of Slovakian dragons. I assured him he was about to encounter one in the flesh. Bozhena was busy putting things on the table, mentioned that she had prepared a little something since she was sure we would be hungry. While she was in the kitchen I explained to Gregg that Slovakian mothers believe that humanity lives in a state of near constant famine and it is their personal responsibility to relieve those pangs of hunger. "But first a little vine to toast the new member of the family." My mother's English grammar was impeccable, in fact she was horrified by the way most Americans spoke, with no regard for the grammar or rules of their own native language. Even her pronunciation was excellent, WITH the exception of the letter 'w' for which she consistently substituted a 'v' and after years of my trying to correct her, I realized that it was hopeless. She insisted that to her "vell trained ears" there was NO difference. Period. And what did she mean "new member of the family?"

She went into the adjoining living room and put a record on the stereo. It had always been her custom to have soft music in the background, usually European Salon music or Viennese waltzes. As we sat down she immediately lit the candles on the table and turned off the overhead light. Somehow the room seemed especially dark, almost menacing. God, what was that music? It was Sibelius' Valse Triste, as dismal and somber as anything ever composed. I momentarily thought that perhaps I should have invited Dwight since that particular composition was one of his favorites. I was learning to dislike it. Then, arranging herself in her matriarchal chair, she explained that there was," jelitko, made from blood, goolash z hovyezee-ho masa nasmetanye, bramborovye knedliky, hrashek, zelii z kmin, and real bread." She had even included minor digressions as to some of the ingredients of each dish delivered completely in Slovak, with the exception of 'made from blood' and 'real bread'. Bizarre. One of her first rules upon arriving in this country had been that we did not use our native language in front of other people unless it was specifically in order to explain a particular word or concept. Gregg immediately replied, "Love real bread", giving the impression that he, like Bozhena, abhorred imitation bread. Then, his eyes having become accustomed to the dim light, and looking around at the shelves of books, stacks of books, and books piled on top of books, he commented, "Holy Mother of God, it looks like a fu... I came close to having a minor heart attack since I just knew he was going to say 'fucking'. Instead he coughed, and began again. "Wow, looks like any well stocked library." To which Bozhena proudly replied, "This is how ve live, vhithz nourishment for the mind and the body." At this point I was wishing that my favorite film director Fellini would magically appear so that he could put on celluloid what could undoubtedly become one of his greatest scenes. It seemed to be getting more eccentric and bizarre by the moment. In fact it bordered on the absurd. I was a little disturbed and decided to try bring it back to some semblance of reality by explaining to Gregg that "the goulash is a traditional beef stew made with sour cream, the knedliky are dumplings made with potatoes, in Slovak known as brambory, oh, and the zelii' or cabbage is covered with caraway seeds, lots of caraway seeds. They look somewhat like little mouse turds, but they're really caraway seeds. As to the blood sausage it's yukky, and I suggest that you not even bother touching it. At this point I obviously got a bit carried away, those first few sips of wind seemed to have gone directly to my head, and added, "And the hrashek are nothing more or less than fucking little round green peas. Oh, yes, the bread does look like the real thing, but you can never be sure until you chomp into it! I had never used the word 'fuck' in front of my mother before and she immediately knew that whatever game she'd been playing, it was over. And what was that extraordinary sound she made when she said 'with'? It had sounded almost like a Hungarian hiss. Everyone had a long, silent drink of wine, which was a magnificent Gewurtztraminer, a favorite of both Gregg and Bozhena, and I suggested that it might be nice if someone told a joke or something. Bozhena and Gregg smiled at the same time and it appeared that reality might have returned. She began to question him about his family and when she heard him say he was part Greek, she said "Say

something." I thought to myself, 'Oh, Jesus, here we go again, it was like a command you would give a trained dog, 'Speak Greek, Fido, speak'. Gregg was not one to refuse a request, or command, and began reciting in his magnificent, wellmodulated voice what was obviously a lyrical poem. Those magical sounds of the Greek language were like music and Bozhena, obviously enchanted, closed her eyes. When he finished, she asked, "Sappho?" Gregg, a bit surprised, answered, "Yes, it was her poem, 'He Appears To Be A God..., but how did you know?" "Vell young man", she began, "I vas just guessing, but I have waited for over twenty years to hear something in Greek and had always hoped that it would be something by one of the classical authors. Vhen I was in the University in Bratislava one of my professors insisted we study Greek literature of the Classic period, in translation of course, so we would know the roots of our western literary tradition. Some of my favorites were the lyrical poems of Sappho. As I remember that poem ends with" and it was obvious that she was attempting to remember, and then translate from Slovak to English, " 'my eyes see nothing, my ears are buzzing, my skin is cold and my body trembles. She paused and then continued, I am more pale than the summer grass on the hill, and because of your very presence, I feel that I shall die.' Thank you Gregg for helping me to realize one of my dreams. He was impressed but not nearly as much as I was. I couldn't help but notice my mother's misty eyes and was positive that Gregg had seen them also. I also noted that it was the first time she had actually called him by his name. Gregg then also confessed that his selection had been prompted by the book of Sappho's poems that he had seen on a nearby table. Bozhena continued, "You know ve also have a little Mediterranean blood flowing in our veins, in that my grandfather was Turkish." I felt that Gregg might have flinched ever so slightly, involuntarily since the enmity between the Greeks and the Turks was legendary and by now was almost a genetic trait. Having a Turkish ancestor was something I'd never mentioned to him. Fortunately she managed to redeem herself, "But, I vas never very impressed and had always vished that he had been Greek. Actually my grandfather vas a bit crude and insisted on vanting to eat his food with his hands. Oh, I can understand using your fingers for specific foods, for instance no one would eat an Italian pizza with a fork, it vould be ridiculous." She had saved herself twice. "But can you imagine goulash, vanting to eat goulash vith your fingers, or fucking little green peas?" Tit for tat. She smiled at me, the sweetest, most innocent, demure smile. Obviously she didn't like the sound of that word when it came out of my mouth and had made her point by showing me that it sounded just as ugly, 'osklivye', when she used it. It was evident that Gregg's first introduction to traditional Slovak food was a roaring success and between the three of us that mountain of food had soon disappeared. It also supported her hypothesis that most people lived on the verge of starvation and were longing to be stuffed with good, wholesome food and 'real bread'. But she hadn't finished yet and soon returned from the kitchen with dessert plates and a large filled bowl. "Gregg do you like apples? I made a soft bread pudding which has apples. It's something we call zhemlovka."

I wondered why she couldn't have been this pleasant and sweet when the three of us first sat down at the table. What had irked her into that perverse display of babbling completely in Slovak? Was it like Bela who almost broke Gregg's arm when she thought that his friends were stealing his affection? Worse, did she suspect that I was having an affair with this handsome young man from Boston? I then noticed that while I'd been involved in my introspection, Gregg and Bozhena had become bosom buddies and were now talking about music and the zhemlovka was fast disappearing. Gregg asked about Cristina, my sister. Bozhena replied, "Oh, she's probably green and moldy by now." Maybe it was just me and my perceptions, but the conversation seemed to be taking another of those strange twists. I hadn't heard anything about my sister having died, but since I hadn't conversed with my mother in a week or so, I knew than anything could have happened in that period of time. Gregg's eyes got larger and rounder. I knew he was considering whether he dare ask what she meant. Then she continued, "Vell, you probably don't know, but she recently went to Trinidad with her new husband,why she married that divokye prasye I will never understand (the words divokye prase were obviously for my benefit it meant 'wild boar' in Slovak and was less than complementary), but in her letters Cristina says that it is very hot and humid and everything turns green overnight." Gregg's eyes returned to their normal size as Bozhena changed the subject. They returned to talking about music and she asked if he played the piano; he replied in the negative but mentioned that he loved to sing. They made a date for a musical session the next day and everyone was in agreement that it was time to turn in. The next morning after breakfast (substantial, since Bozhena believed that people can come close to starvation by the time they wake up in the morning) she mentioned that I could use the car or if I wanted she would drive us anywhere we wanted to go. Now it was time for my eyes to widen and I replied that it wouldn't be necessary for her to trouble herself. In fact I knew that in that instant my heart had skipped a couple of beats in remembering her driving prowess. Then I made the mistake of asking if she'd had any accidents recently. "Oh, a few but nothing exciting." Exciting? Did she mean 'nothing worth mentioning' or did she in fact really mean 'exciting'? Perhaps she loved the excitement of seeing people jump out of their cars with fire in their eyes and steam coming out of their nostrils after she had just hit their vehicles. I asked about her insurance. "Oh, like an elewator, always going up." Not positive I had understood her reply, I asked again, and she again said, "like an elewator". By God, she had done it! That was a definite 'w'; it was in the wrong word, but it was definitely the sound of a 'w' and not once but twice. We were all wandering around the well-tended garden, which she proudly pointed out that she took care of by herself, well with the exception of the lawn, which a neighbor boy mowed once a week. Gregg was impressed with the many subtropical plants, especially the large flowering hibiscus. Then she showed us her new electric garden sheers, used for pruning a large hedge between her property and the neighbors. She also mentioned that last week when she was pruning, the shears suddenly went dead. Seems she had neatly cut the electric cord in two. I cautioned that in the future

she should be more careful since electrocution was not a pleasant way to die. Gregg immediately commented, "Yes, and it would give you a bad case of the frizzles." She seemed to be contemplating his statement and then began to chuckle. "Young man I like your sense of humor; can you imagine this blond mop frizzled and sticking out in all directions?" Actually her hair was a beautiful shade of light brown with natural blond highlights. With soft waves that never needed the assistance of a beauty salon. My mother was nearing forty years old but looked much younger. And in spite of the calorie laden Slovak food she had managed to retain her youthful figure. She viewed the world through soft hazel eyes, and there wasn't much that missed her critical, all encompassing gaze. Later I decided that I wanted to show Gregg the college which I had attended since I felt that the campus was particularly beautiful, and asked my mother for use of the car for an hour or so. It had a few more bruises than the last time I had seen a couple of months ago, but nothing substantial. Mt. San Antonio College was located in the rolling hills between two valleys, the San Gabriel and the Pomona. It was in an area that was still undeveloped and relatively smog free. As we were on the road leading down into the campus Gregg remarked, "Why didn't I see charming things like this when I first visited Los Angeles?" He was impressed with the layout of the campus, with its low buildings and their early California architecture; the profusion of trees, shrubs and abundance of flowering plants. Since it was summer and a holiday weekend there was no one around and it was the epitome of peace and tranquility. When we returned lunch was waiting and I was thankful that it was light. Then we all retired to spend some time with our books. There may have been three very different people in the room, but this was one thing we all had in common, the ability..... no, the necessity to spend time almost daily reading something, be it fiction or non-fiction. Later that afternoon Bozhena suddenly announced, "Vell young man, it is time to hear your voice." Although she sometimes called him Gregg, she seemed to have a predilection for 'young man'." "You mentioned that you like opera, do you know any Mozart?" Without hesitation he answered, "Well if you've got the music with the words I can give it a try," She decided perhaps it would be best to give him something a little lighter to begin and asked it he knew Turna a Surriento or Core n'grato. His eyes lit up and he said, "We're on Bozhena." She opened her piano, then produced two music sheets, 'Surriento' and 'Core', and I knew they had to be recent acquisitions since I'd never seen them before. She plainly had been preparing for this occasion. After the short piano introduction, Gregg closed his eyes, entered into the music and opened his mouth. Out flowed the most exquisite vocal tones I had ever heard. He began so softly, "Vide 'o mare quant,e bello, Spira tantu sentimento.... I'd heard him sing a lot in the last year and a half but never with such perfection, and emotion. She followed him perfectly when he would decide to elongate a passage, and then as he began the last two stanzas, 'E tu dice: 'I parto, addio!" T'alluntane da stu core' I knew that the living room was too small to contain the sound and it had to be flowing out into the universe. They finished and without looking up my mother softly requested, "One more time, eh?" If the first time had been incredible, the second rendition was nothing less than electrifying. As they were

nearing the end, "Torna a Surriento, famme campa." I looked up and realized that my mother's eyes were filled with tears. As the last note floated off into the ether, she got up, reached over and hugged Gregg. The soft tears were falling as she told him, "You should thank God for your voice and thank yourself for how you have nurtured and cultivated that supreme gift!" Then I got bleary-eyed seeing the two most important people in my life in each other's arms. It was an extraordinary moment, an image of affection that will persist throughout time. Gregg explained that his paternal grandfather had been from Naples and though all of Italy was devoted to music, he felt that perhaps the finest music and musicians were from the southern part. From early childhood he had been enveloped in the music of that region. Bozhena got a questioning look on her face, hesitated, then asked if he knew 'E te vurria vasa'? Without waiting he immediately began singing it. No musical accompaniment, nor did he need any. Bozhena was obviously lost in reflection; I had seen that look before. When he finished she went over to one of the drawers in the dining-room-library and pulled out some sheet music. It appeared she had had it for many years. She explained that it had belonged to her husband, my father, had been one of his prize possessions and had traveled from Czechoslovakia, by way of South America, to California. It was 'E te vurria vasa'. I couldn't imagine this as having belonged to my father, for in my mind he was Mozart, Schumann, Beethoven, Chopin....music of the northern and central part of Europe. I immediately began to wonder if my mother was up to her inventions again. She could have gotten the music at a garage sale..... In the background I could hear Gregg explaining that though Enrique Caruso was well known for opera his two best selling records had been 'O Sole Mio and E Te Vurria Vasa'. Well, now it made sense for I did remember my father loved Caruso and even had some of his records. Gregg and my mom were jabbering about something else and then he asked her to play some Mozart. She began with the Piano Sonata in C major and her choice made sense. It was light, yet forceful, and within a matter of seconds it had changed the mood in the room. She had become a little retrospective thinking about my father and this helped bring her back to the present moment. Then I began to think again about how I had spent my life attempting to catch my mother in a lie, not a slight exaggeration, that was acceptable, but something like yellowed sheet music with a story that, at first, didn't seem to correlate. And try as I had for many years, I'd never succeeded. Was it possible that his lady just didn't tell lies? The music flowed on, Gregg sat down on the couch and was obviously content just to be; to absorb each and every note. The second movement of the sonata was lyrical and beautiful, I watched my mother's magnificent hands as they seemed to float over the keyboard. When Bozhena finished, first she, and then Gregg insisted that it was my turn to contribute something. I sat down, didn't look for any sheet music, and began playing Mozart's Rondo alla Turca. I looked over at Bozhena and she was shaking her finger back and forth, much like a metronome, but I knew it meant NO! I stopped and she said, "That was excellent when you were twelve years old, but in case you haven't noticed you've grown up. What will your young friend think of you?" I hadn't played in months and didn't want to stumble through something. Then unbidden, my fingers began playing Mendelssohn's Barcarolle beautiful, soft, flowing, dreamy and next began playing Schumann's Traumerie each note flowed perfectly into the next in an easy succession. Yes, I knew that 'my young man' would like that, and he did. I wanted to play some Chopin, but decided that I had to wait

for the proper moment. And so the afternoon flowed into early evening. I was reading and suddenly heard Gregg singing not in English, Italian, French or Greek, but German! I couldn't believe my ears at the near perfect enunciation and phrasing. He was seated next to Bozhena and was singing an aria from Mozart's Die Zauberflaute, The Magic Flute, and it was magnificent. He later explained that he really didn't speak German, but was able to read it sufficiently to sing, nothing more. I was beginning to wonder about dinner, knowing that Bozhena's preparations normally required at least a few hours, if not a few days, when she suddenly announced that we were going out to celebrate a most perfect day and mentioned that we could dress in casual clothes. I offered to drive and surprisingly she accepted, without hesitation and then added, "Ve should probably leave soon if ve're to get there by 8:00". Obviously she'd made reservations, but when? It became even more mysterious when she wouldn't say exactly where we were going, just to get on the freeway to Los Angeles and she would point out the exit. We were on Interstate 10 which passes through Los Angeles, Hollywood, and then out to the San Fernando Valley before it heads north. The very route we had come in on yesterday. We were passing downtown L.A., which Gregg noted still didn't have an opera house, and were now going through Hollywood when Bozhena suddenly directed me to take the next exit. Then at the stop sign she motioned for me to go to the right and said that it would be 7 blocks ahead and the restaurant should be on the right. I had never known my mother to spend any time on this side of town. Did she have a private life I didn't know about? Soon I saw the sign, ZORBA'S. I didn't even know there were any Greek restaurants in L.A.! The restaurant was quite large inside and packed with people, most of whom seemed to be speaking Greek so it was one of L.A.'s insider spots, not one of the ersatz places that had elaborate decor and showy, though not necessarily good, food. Gregg spoke to the waiter in Greek, and immediately ordered some Retsina wine. He said that the waiter had suggested the Moussaka and named several other things that he felt we would enjoy. Bozhena smiled and said the night was his. The White Retsina arrived, Gregg ordered the dinner, everyone toasted and at that moment a group of musicians arrived, and they began to play. All I had to do was to look at Gregg's face to know that he was in his element again. It had been nearly a year since I had seen this particular joy in his eyes. The first musical selection was a dance which is danced by males exclusively and naturally Gregg was one of the first on the dance floor. Suddenly we were back in Boston, or was it Greece? Bozhena watched Gregg dance, smiled at his graceful movements, and then turned slightly so as to talk to me. "He is a very handsome young man, educated, cultured, with a voice like an angel, full of life and joy, and obviously loves you very much." The Retsina wine which was going down my throat suddenly stopped and refused to continue on its downward descent. I almost choked, and hoped, prayed, that she wouldn't continue, but she did, "Promise me that you will never do anything to hurt him or endanger the relationship you have." I stammered, "Mom, you don't know..." "Vhat do you mean I don't know? I have eyes. I have ears. I have a heart, and I too have

known love. It is the most precious gift you will ever receive. Honor it with all your being. I saw the change in you vhen you returned from Boston over a year ago. I have vatched you during this past year as you turned into a mature young man, one who vas very much in love. Who am I to judge vether it is right or wrong. Before this veekend I had one son, whom I love very much, and now suddenly I have two sons to love. Be happylike me!" She grabbed my hand, squeezed it and then gave me a tender kiss on the cheek. Yes, I knew that she was happy and everything she had said was true, after all I had just that day discovered that she obviously didn't lie, it wasn't a part of her being. Now it was my turn to kiss and hug her. Gregg returned to the table, vibrant, filled to overflowing with life. It was nice to see that very special sparkle in his eyes when he was in his element. Bozhena mentioned that she needed to go to the restroom and so Gregg jumped up, took her by the arm and led her over to the other side of the room where the restrooms were located. When he returned he questioned, "Why didn't you tell me you have the most fantastic mother in the world?" He leaned over, lowered his voice a bit, "If I didn't love you more than anything else in the world, and my 'orientation' were a bit different, I'd grab that elegant lady in a flash. Hey, what happened to the Retsina? Looks like we need another bottle." It was at that point that I decided that I might as well tell him that the cat was sort of out of the bag, so to speak, since among other attributes, Bozhena was a very observant lady and had come to the conclusion that we were lovers, was pleased that we had found each other and that she now had another son. Whew! I got it all out in one breath, and didn't even stammer. Gregg smiled the absolutely biggest smile I had ever seen on his face. No words, just a smile. Then finally, and very softly, "Wow. This has got to be one of the most perfect days of my life. You know I can't tell you how many nights I have cried myself to sleep during the last ten years because I missed my mother with a pain that at times was almost unbearable. And if I had gone out purposely looking for someone to call 'mom', I know I couldn't have found someone to equal Bozhena." At that moment the one and only Bozhena returned. Gregg jumped up, put his arms around her and said, "Hi, mom!" Now it was her turn for the super big smile. Dinner had arrived and it was definitely time for more Retsina! It was an evening of excellent food and two bottles of Retsina, which Bozhena decided was about the finest thing she had ever experienced, but of course that was before the arrival of the Metaxa. For desert Gregg had chosen a number of pastries. The music continued and Gregg continued to dance throughout the evening. Everyone was content with life, which flowed with exuberance and joy, seeming to fill the universe with it's vibrant being. The next morning Gregg was still asleep as I slowly came to full consciousness, my head resting on his arm. His immediacy served as a protective, loving mantel. How was it possible that I had been chosen to be the beloved of this incredible person? Equally amazing was the fact that his very existence had helped in resolving a conflict that had caused me an unknown number of anxietyridden days and sleepless nights for several years. I had known that at some point I would have to confront my mother with a discussion of my mental, emotional and sexual inclinations. However, even in considering how I might begin such a conversation I would break out into a sweat and my stomach

would begin to contract in knots and actual physical pain. I had begun the discussion a thousand times in my mind, but in the world of reality had never been able to implement a single word in order to begin. Suddenly, like so many of our fears, it had disappeared seemingly of its own accord. The release of this fear and guilt from my psyche was not unlike a rebirth. Gregg shifted slightly, I raised my head and he turned over. Now it was my turn to cradle this magnificent being in my arms and I gently slid my arm under his head. He must have come close to consciousness for he made a slight noise of pleasure and grabbed my other hand in his in order to pull my arm closer around his firm, warm body. Outside a mocking bird began singing its varied songs of love. I knew that once it began to sing it could go on for hours, seemingly never repeating a single melody, and rejoiced in imagining that it was singing specifically for the two of us. I intimately knew that 'heaven' and all of its eternal delights could not come remotely close to the joy I felt at that moment. The only slight problem was how to extend this present moment into eternity and almost as a response to my dilemma Morpheus beckoned and I once again began to drift, sleep and dream. When I awakened for the second time I gently removed my arm from under Gregg's head and after gazing at his sleeping form for a few minutes, got up. I showered and went downstairs. Bozhena was already bustling around in the kitchen and humming some of the music that she had heard the night before. Smiling, she began the day with the necessary ritual. "Dobre rano, moi syn, ako sa mash?" I replied, as I had for the last twenty years, "Dobre, dobre mama. Ty, ako sa mash?" For as long as I could remember every morning had begun in the same fashion. When we first came to the US it had been decided that we would speak only English, but somehow the day's initial greeting had to be in our native language. First we had to know who we were, remind ourselves of our identity and our roots, and then the process of daily living could continue. Bozhena was obviously very happy, it was evident in her face, her lilting voice, in her movements. The coffee was ready. Bozhena, like Gregg, really didn't begin the day until she had some coffee in her body to 'aid the circulatory system'. She began chatting, "Vhen I woke up this morning I was feeling a little heavy, depressed, knowing that you vould have to leave today, but then it suddenly came to me that this is a long veekend and ve have an extra day. And it is a very, very special day! Vshetko najlepshie k narodeninam.! Happy, happy Birthday!" I attempted to correct her with the fact that today was the fourth of July and my birthday wasn't until the sixth. She had decided that this year my birthday was on the fourth and besides those were just arbitrary numbers. Her logic was always infallible. "And my other young man, how is he this beautiful morning?" I explained that probably due to all the dancing Gregg was still asleep. She got that far away look in her eyes, "I can still see him dancing, dancing, dancing. I know I have never in my life seen anything as graceful as his movements, they vere liquid. He vas not moving with the music. He vas the music. Oh, the music. Vhat incredible music. Thank you son for one of the most beautiful nights of this somewhat lonely voman's life. You know I have decided to marry again. Soon, I think." This last statement came as somewhat of a surprise to say the least. In the nearly fifteen years since my father's disappearance at the hands of the Nazis; it was accepted that he was dead, but never

referred to as such, she had never once even suggested that she might remarry. I immediately wanted to ask if it was someone I knew, or had met. In fact this called for an immediate refill on the coffee. Actually I wanted to pass judgment, to know if it was someone I approved of. Then I began to question my own thoughts. Why was it so difficult for human beings to accept that everyone had the right to make their own decisions, even to be 'wrong'? My first consideration hadn't been if it was someone she loved, but if it was someone that was worthy of her and that I could accept. It must have been that same emotion, rather than something based on rational thought, that had prompted her little charade on Friday night when Gregg and I first arrived. It seemed funny now, and I would never again be able to face those little green, round things without knowing that they would forever be "fucking peas"; their name had been indelibly changed. Even thinking about it I began to smile. Bozhena immediately wanted to know what was so funny. I replied, "Nothing Mom, its just that I'm happy about your decision. When's the wedding?" She looked shocked, "Vedding, vhat vedding? I haven't even met him yet, but I'm going to start looking this veek. And ve are going to have a honeymoon in Greece." Then she smiled, "Or maybe I should go to Greece, find a nice elderly gentleman, marry him, and then ve vouldn't have to go so far for the honeymoon." By this time she was chuckling about her little joke. I began with, "Mom, about our little discussion last night....." Then I saw her eyes begin to turn into squinty slits, her jaw firm. "Discussion, that vas no discussion, I merely presented the facts as I had observed them. You vant to discuss? Vell ve vill vait until your young man comes down, because now ve are talking about a family business, and with family members ve discuss things together. That has always been the rule in this house. My other son deserves to be heard also." As usual her logic knew that there was a proper procedure for everything. Her other son? God, this was getting complicated. In fact it was just a bit strangewas Gregg now my brother or my 'young man'? It was almost incestuous. She questioned my most recent smile, but I said it was nothing, somehow there were certain limits and that was a little joke I just couldn't share with her. There was some noise upstairs and it was evident that Gregg was up and moving about. Soon he came downstairs and entered the kitchen, smiling as usual, dressed in some new white Bermudas and a brilliant, blue and white striped polo shirt. Bozhena and I were still seated at the kitchen table. I just couldn't resist the temptation, "Hi, little brother, how're you this morning?" Immediately Bozhena wrinkled her brow and gave me a mean, squinty eyed look, though it lasted only a fraction of a second for then with a big smile she inquired, "And how is my handsome second son this morning?" He came over and gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek. At almost the same time she was pouring his coffee. Intuitively knew she had a kindred soul in the coffee department. "Vell since ve are celebrating a birthday today the first priority is the cake, " she began, "and ve can't decide if it should be poppy seed, in Slovak we call it Makove kolach, or perhaps Shvestkove kolach, that's plum cake. Gregg have you ever had poppyseed cake?" "No?. Vell it is delicious; and Makove kolach it vill be." I felt my feathers ruffling just a bit. After all it was my birthday and I hadn't even been consulted. I was beginning to wonder if Bozhena's new 'son' wasn't receiving just a little more attention than he really deserved, but immediately recognized my agitation exactly for what it was, a wee bit of jealousy. God, when was I going to grow up? At times it seemed to be an amazingly difficult process. The phone rang, and though there was a phone in the kitchen, Bozhena went into the

living room to answer it. "Hi, sweets" he said as he reached over and gently squeezed my hand. I inquired about how he felt today after an evening of intensive dancing and he replied, "Recharged. I didn't realize how much I relied upon that Greek part of my life; the food, the music, the total ambiance, to sustain my well being. The other necessary part is you and your love, your closeness and tenderness, your everpresent wide-eyed innocence. And now, knowing Bozhena, I have another vacant part of my life filled. I know that she is your mother, but I also know that she has a super abundance of love, sufficient to share. You'll never know how much that love, which she has offered, means to me. Most of all she has accepted our relationship as having significance, as being valid, as being based on mutual love. Do you have any idea how incredible that act was? I mentioned that she had always been a very compassionate person. He interjected, "Compassion, that wasn't compassion; compassion is sort of like feeling sorry for someone. That was pure, unconditional love. It is something that all religions talk about, but unfortunately hardly ever get around to practicing." The mockingbird outside was still serenading us as he continued, "One of my friends in Boston finally decided to tell his family that he was gay and do you know what they did? They literally kicked him out of the house. They told him to leave, that he was dirty, filthy and was no longer their son. I probably don't need to add that they go to church every Sunday and pray for his soul, but still won't have anything to do with him. This same friend, Mark, told some of his straight friends that he was gay, guess he was a glutton for punishment, and many of them also dropped him like a hot potato." "And this anecdote about Mark is not an isolated example, it happens all the time. You know I still haven't been able to talk to my family, although I'm sure they know. They have to know I remember Bela went through a period, no doubt when she finally realized I was probably gay, in which she was almost rude to any friend that I brought to the house, and they were all straight. God only knows what she would have done if I had arrived with someone who was a bit effeminate or faggoty." "And by the way I'm still amazed at the way Bela accepted you In fact I've thought a lot about it and, you know, I think she does know about us and in her own way, is accepting. But Bozhena, that incredible lady in the other room talking on the phone, yes I'm talking about your mother, my adopted mother, she is unique, an absolute jewel." It was evident that his batteries had been recharged and he was talking non-stop once again. It was nice to see him so effervescent. At that moment Bozhena reentered the room with the announcement, "At times that Turk turns my blood into great big lumpy kurts." I was the first to react, "Mom, did you say curds?" "I said kurts, you know, k-u-r-t-s, kurts." Gregg looked more than just a bit confused by what was transpiring; he was obviously attempting to grasp the significance, using a process of normal logical deduction, but it was still escaping him..

I came to his rescue and explained that I thought the correct expression in English was that 'someone curdled your blood'. It would have been difficult to explain, but she often did that; she would take an idiomatic expression and, as she had often explained, 'give it a little more life', which usually removed it so far from the original that no one had any idea what in the hell she was talking about. It seemed that Mr. Ankar, her Turkish boss, had a new idea or request that she..... Of course! Utilizing her infallible logic, 'kurts' had the same letters, slightly rearranged as 'Turks' and retained nearly the same sound as 'curds'. It was so simple once you learned to apply "Bozhena Logic" to her mysterious and oftentimes bizarre renditions, which at first seemed to defy comprehension. She had been working for him for almost ten years and it had, at times, been a rocky relationship though I knew that there was also a lot of mutual admiration. However today he was a great big lumpy kurt; she probably wanted to call him a turd, but applying yet another of the rules of 'Bozhena Logic' there was no need to use obscene words when you had at your disposal a wealth of other acceptably descriptive words or phrases, even if it was necessary, upon occasion, to invent one. The rest of Sunday was a pleasant combination of excellent food, music and conversation. That morning I noticed that Bozhena had not gone to Mass. I inquired, and she replied, "God is vith me all the time, but it is not everyday that my two handsome young sons are going to be vith me." The day passed all too quickly and my special birthday celebration was very pleasant that evening. On Monday morning I hesitated to wake up knowing that Bozhena would be beginning to show the signs of her depression because of our departure that afternoon, though I knew she would valiantly attempt to not show it. Evidently Gregg had gotten up early. I went downstairs. "Dobre rano, moi syn, ako sa mash?" I replied, in response to completing the ritual, "Dobre, dobre mama. Ty, ako sa mash?" There were three cups on the table, two had been used. The coffee had been poured and the day had already begun, evidently while I was still sleeping. I asked about Gregg's whereabouts and was told that he was outside in the yard communing with his namesake. His namesake? It seemed that Bozhena, on hearing the mockingbird begin his morning serenade, had decided to christen it "Gregorio' since they both had such glorious voices. She also revealed that she and Gregg had talked about the next two month's timetable. She knew that we would finish our schooling in five weeks and then we would have a two-week leave before departing on our overseas assignments. It had been established that he would be visiting his family in Boston and then would have to return to San Francisco before being sent to Korea. He had accepted her suggestion, and invitation, to come back to southern California a few days early in order to visit before the trip overseas. I'd wanted to propose the same, but had been reluctant to do so for fear of imposing on his time with his family. Bozhena, having that same fearless spark of extroversion as Gregg, had obviously felt no such qualms. Strange how three days ago they hadn't even known each other and suddenly they were as connected as if family, and even planning my future, not that I minded in the least since it would mean

a few extra days with my beloved Mediterranean mockingbird. That afternoon Dwight arrived promptly at three o'clock. God, he functioned like a British railways timetable, always exactly on schedule. Knowing his preciseness Gregg and I were ready and waiting when he arrived. The seven-hour trip back to Monterey would always be remembered not because it was the first time that Dwight had really talked about himself, but rather my constant internal awareness that my love for Gregg had not been invalidated by my mother, but rather unconditionally accepted. I knew that it was one of the finest gifts she had ever bestowed upon me. And though she may have dragged me out of the closet, she did it with a smile.

10 Making It Official

After Greggs nap we ate a quick lunch, barely making a dent in the repast Bozhena had left. Then we went into the living room where the air was filled with the strains of a new recording of Donizetti's Lucia de Lammermour, one of my mother's recent acquisitions. I heard the clock strike five o'clock and fully expected to hear Bozhena's car at the same time. Then it was five thirty and she still hadn't arrived. When she said about five o'clock, what she really meant, baring divine intervention, was five o'clock exactly. Then I heard her car. It seemed that a few days ago the muffler on her car had a slight altercation with a curb. I couldn't exactly envision it, but evidently the curb had won and now her car could be heard from quite a distance. Well, it helped to warn pedestrians and drivers alike as to who was approaching. She was loaded down with more food and asked, "Would one of my handsome sons please get the packages out the back seat of the car?" I told Gregg that I could do it and discovered that there was almost more than could be carried in one trip. Now I knew what she had been up to all afternoon another of her infrequent, though usually extravagant, shopping sprees. She made both us of sit on the sofa since she announced that she had a little surprise. She was about to open the first package when the celebrated sextet scene in Lucia began. She stopped, closed her eyes and it was evident we were expected to do the same. "Krasni, krasni beautiful, beautiful," she murmured. And it was. First one voice, then a second joins the first, followed by a third until all six are joined in the most exquisite harmony imaginable. In a play if six people attempt to talk at the same time it becomes noise, in opera six voices in harmony, though singing different words, and it becomes divine. "And now something for my handsome number one son," and she handed me a package she had previously peeked in to be assured of the contents. It was a beautiful, long sleeved dress shirt with a pale green collar and slightly deeper color to the body. "For handsome son number two." Gregg had one that was similar except that his was a rich deep salmon with a white collar. I noticed that the boxes they had been in were from Armando's, an exclusive men's shop in Pasadena. My next package contained a very nice polo shirt, once again in two soft shades of green and a pair of white bermudas and they appeared to be made of some type of linen. Gregg's had a polo shirt of pale blue combined with an deep electric blue and a pair of the same white bermudas. Then she showed us an exquisite black dress she had purchased for herself. Gregg started to get up but Bozhena motioned for him to remain seated. She went over to her purse and extracted two identical, small boxes. I thought they might

contain cuff links or a perhaps a tie clip, and at the same time thought it rather odd. Still standing, she peeked first in one box and then the other. She almost began to speak and then hesitated as if unsure of exactly how to begin. The momentary silence was most unlike my mother. First she handed a box to me and then one to Gregg. They contained identical rings. A plain, simple, broad gold band. Elegant in their unadorned beauty. At last she spoke, "You can of course wear them on either your left or right hand, however you feel most comfortable." The opera had finished and the loudest noise in the room was the steady movement of the pendulum of the clock on the wall. Then after pausing she continued, "You know that many individuals might not accept your relationship. In this house ve do. I do." The rings were beautiful in their simplicity and without measure in their significance. She turned and went into the dining room. Gregg came over, had me put the ring on his right hand; I had him do the same for me. They fit perfectly. He held me in his arms, gave me a little squeeze as yet another seal of that eternal bond. No word was spoken, nor necessary. Bozhena returned with three small Czechoslovakian liqueur glasses and the slivovitz. Uh oh, I remembered what had happened last week when the two of us got into the slivovitz. Turning to Gregg she said, "Now you vill learn some more of our customs." She filled the glasses and we all toasted, "Na zdroviye! - Na zdroviye! - Na zdroviye! - To your health." At this time she also mentioned, with a twinkle in her eyes, that on Saturday we were expected to make an appearance at Zorbas. And added that we had new shirts, but were expected to furnish our own pants. I kept looking down at my right hand and was still finding it difficult to believe that all of this had happened. It was too much like a fantasy. Several times I noticed Gregg doing the same. Gregg and Bozhena spent the evening seated at the piano enveloped in the magic of music. And the three of us also managed to polish off the slivovitz. Gregg had already put on his polo shirt and Bozhena commented that the colors were nice but she should have gotten him a yellow one. She was positive he would look marvelous in yellow; he agreed that it was one of his favorite colors. I listened to their conversation and thought to myself that he looked great in any color, well maybe not lavender or purple, but also knew that he also looked super in just his birthday suit. Eventually I cooked dinner, relying on the abundant leftovers from lunch, since it appeared that it would be the only way anything would ever appear on the table.

Later that night, cuddled in each other's arms we were remembering Bozhena's little game during the last evening of our previous visit. She claimed that she could test intelligence, imagination and creativity with a piece of paper. She had folded and flattened a piece of paper into a quarter inch band and then held it around Gregg's finger. When it obviously wouldn't slip past his knuckle she announced, "I knew you vould pass the test!" She had done the same to me, but insisted on using a new piece of paper. She obviously had secreted away those papers which, she later confessed to me, were marked with her fingernail indentations and served as a guide for the size of our rings. I had thought at the time that her charade was sort of dumb, and even questioned it, but had gone along with her little game. She must have already decided that if we were going to be lovers, we deserved to have some

physical evidence of that bond. As we continued to talk, Gregg revealed that he really wanted to discuss our relationship with Bela, but felt that he just couldn't do it yet. In the same breath he mentioned that just last week he had finally told Aunt Gina about himself and about us. I could almost hear the smile in his voice as he continued, "Well evidently it wasn't any great revelation, as she had suspected it for some time. As to our relationship, she seemed especially pleased that we had found each other. She also mentioned that she thinks you are one of the sweetest, most sincere people she's ever met. Of course I agreed." He paused briefly, "I've often wished that Gina would meet someone and get married, but she seems to be content with her somewhat solitary life. Since my folks died she has almost been my second mother; maybe that and her job is enough for her." I realized that we hadn't really hadnt talked much about Bela. "Oh ,she's just fine although she seems a little lonely. And by the way, she also doesn't know that I'm here with you. She thought I had to leave early because the government had changed the plans. I just didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. But we had a super visit." Then he went on to tell me that he'd finally found out how Paolo had gotten his broken leg. Giovanna had told him the entire story. It seemed that Paolo had gotten a young lady friend pregnant, and when confronted by Bela, had refused to accept any responsibility for what had happened. Bela didn't agree with his attitude and felt that since he had been having a relationship with her he should be responsible enough to marry her. As usual they couldn't come to an agreement. She told him to get out of the house and he started to leave and then turned around to argue some more. That's when she closed the door and with sufficient force to break his leg. Gregg continued, "And you know I've been mentally reviewing when she closed the refrigerator on my arm. She probably should have done it to my neck." He chuckled for a while at the imaginary scene of Bela closing the refrigerator with his head inside. "Now, this dedicated lady had cared for me for much of my lifefrom the time my parents died. She washed my clothes, cooked my food, held me when I was sick, sang to me when I was frightened or lonely, told me marvelous stories and jokes. I was her life. In turn I adored her and she could see and feel the love on a daily, hourly basis. Sure we argued a bit, actually a lot, but that is part and parcel of the Italian temperament; arguing and yelling a little is another way expressing love. Then suddenly I had closed her out of my life. I spent very little time at the house." "I told you about when I discovered that there were lots of guys out there who liked to play with other guys....I went a crazy for a while. Sure, I came home for clean clothes and of course to fill the cavity in my tummy. "Hi Nona ciao Nona." She had put up with it for a couple of months and then WHAM. God damn that hurt, my arm was purple for two weeks. But I got the message. If you're going to come home and wolf down my manicotti, at least acknowledge that they're delicious, and while you're still chewing why don't you at least say you still love me."

Gregg asked if Bozhena ever got violent like that. I explained that as children she had a favorite hair brush that she used, though rarely. I related that when I was thirteen I had transgressed some major rule, though now I couldn't remember what. She was really pissed, grabbed her brush and attempted to put me over her knees and discovered that I had become so tall and lanky that it was no longer feasible. I began to laugh and then she did too. We laughed until we were almost crying, and the punishment sort of got lost in the merriment. No, her 'violence' was verbal and she didn't even have to raise her voice. All she had to do was say that it was time to 'have a little talk' and both my sister and I knew that it was the worst punishment possible and we would see the logic of her thinking and wind up crying. Although one time she did threaten to rip out my tonsils. Gregg loved that story about my French Parisian 'rrrr's'. He then squiggled around a little like a cat, and finally comfortable, purred, "Night, see you in my dreams." The next day Gregg began talking about the future when we would be in different parts of the Far East and was eliciting a promise that I would write every day. I didn't have to mail the letters every day, but I had to at least think of him every day. He gave me explicit instructions that upon waking each day my first action was to look at my tattoo and know that he was looking at his. Then added that we also had identical rings as a second reminder. Then came a discussion about military censorship of mail since we were working for an organization relentless in their insistence and vigilance on security. We decided that perhaps if we wrote in a foreign language they might just ignore it. Then came a better idea, to invent an alphabet which would look foreign but was really nothing more than a basic letter transliteration with a few simple devices to defy easy detection by all but the most minute scrutiny. We had taken basic cryptology in Fort Devins and hence were aware of those exact methods which were used in deciphering coded messages. Gregg was enthusiastic and chuckled, "We'll beat the fuckers at their own game. And if we get caught, then we'll just spend the rest of our lives in bed making love." Sounded like a great idea. So between us there evolved an alphabet based on Greek, Russian and purely invented letters, with certain random characters which would serve as a camouflage and help to avoid easy detection. Most of our letters would be in English and when we wanted to say something of a personal nature the clue would be, "aunt Hepzipah or uncle Ezber, or any other ridiculous name, wrote and told me that...... Gregg giggled and commented, "And who would know that in this line we were writing about something which they could never comprehend, even if they could decipher the letters. Actually we spent much of the day working on it and then making refinements until we were satisfied with how it looked and functioned. One of the first things that Gregg wrote down and then handed me to translate was a portion of a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. . . . .

On Friday evening, after dinner, Bozhena excused herself and explained that since Mrs. Henson, the next door neighbor, was still in the hospital she was going drop by there to see her and visit for a while. Gregg and I had spent a few minutes visiting with her earlier in the day. Actually we had gone to a jewelry store to find something for Bozhena, as a small gift from the two of us. The hospital was only two blocks away and I had told Gregg that our family had known her since the first day we moved into our house. She and her husband had been the perfect neighbors; always available in case of any need and yet never invasive of our privacy. She also made the most delicious oatmeal cookies in the world. Gregg was stretched out on the sofa reading. I had been curled up in one of the large comfortable chairsI put down my book and went to the piano. I loved to play the piano and enter into that special, magical world inhabited by such greats as my mother, father and Mozart, of course. But playing in front of Bozhena still made me a bit apprehensive for fear that she somehow wouldn't approve of my technique or if I hit a couple of wrong notes she would get all squinty eyed and scowl. I rummaged through the piano bench for something and then saw the book of Chopin Nocturnes. Yes, it was time. I turned to the page of the Nocturne in F minor. It was now over three years since Georges death. And yet this composition had also become a part of the relationship which Gregg and I shared. Then as the notes flowed from my fingers I knew that it had come to have a new significance. In essence this had not been George's farewell. It had been his gift to me for my future. It was because of these very notes that Gregg had sat by my side and first put his arm around my shoulder, in that incredible gesture of tenderness and caring. I stopped thinking, not even considering the notes on the page in front of me, and just let the music flow. I had been so involved in the music that I wasn't aware that Gregg had gotten up and was sitting by me once again. Yes, he also knew that this particular Nocturne was very special for both of us. And seeing my smile he knew that I was now playing it especially for him. It certainly wasn't as fluid as I would have liked, but each note was a vibration released into the universe as an affirmation of my love, vibrations which would continue without pause for all of eternity. When Bozhena arrived I was still seated at the piano, and still with Chopin. My fingers, which had been rather stiff when I began, had limbered up a bit. I had been so engrossed in the majesty of Chopin's music that I didn't hear her enter, I wasn't aware that my 'teacher' was standing nearby; I didn't have to be fearful that she was critically evaluating, not just the ability and technique to reproduce the printed notes, but something much more important, how much feeling I was able to convey. Was the music really a part of me? I had just finished the Prelude in E minor when she came over and kissed me on the cheek.

"Vhen I came in the back door I knew immediately that I vas hearing your father. I knew that it vas him. And then vhen I came into the room and saw you it vas like stepping back in time. I saw him, heard him and felt him once again. Thank you son for making your mother very happy and giving me this grand gift. You play just as beautifully as he did and I am very proud of you."

I knew she was exaggerating, but appreciated the praise. Gregg had gotten up to give Bozhena kiss on the cheek. Then he bent down and kissed me on top of the head, saying, "Im happy too." It was the first time there had ever been an overt display of affection between us and I must have had a slight look of apprehension on my face. But when I looked at my mother she had a marvelous smile and her eyes were twinkling. I remembered that many years ago when we had first come to the United States and the kids in school had taunted and teased me because of my foreign accent and occasionally different ways of expressing or doing things she had told me to never, but never be ashamed of who I was. That night in bed Gregg and I were, as usual, chatting before going to sleep. He then began to talk about my playing the Nocturne in F minor and how beautiful it was. He had heard the entire story about George and I explained to him that this evening I realized that the F minor had actually been a gift from my cousin George; and because of that gift the two of us had made our first contact. Gregg then interjected, "But it was also because of the gift of Doug." I had no idea what he was referring to. Then he continued, "First of all I believe that every person we encounter in life has a gift to offer us. Mainly something we can learn from them or about ourselves by our interaction with them. "But to continue with Doug. It was about a year before I joined the military that I first encountered Doug. He was a graduate student at Boston University and working on his Master's in Business Administration. We met at a gay party and were almost immediately attracted to each other. We left the party early and drove out to the Cape, in his brand new, cute little T-Bird, and sat and talked until the sun came up the next morning. Just talking, no coochy coochy well not that first night, not the first 24 hours. He was absolutely brilliant, tall, handsome and very masculine in appearance. We started going out together and soon were seeing each every day and going to bed together every night. His family was one of the oldest and most influential in Boston. Abundant money and the power that goes with it. He loved the theater, music, opera. He was obviously a Knight in Shining Armor, and the shine was pure gold of course." "Doug started talking about our getting a place together and making it a permanent arrangement. Of course our little hideaway would have to be outside of the city, far enough away so that his parents would never know about us. He added a number of other limiting conditions, but I felt I could deal with them. Now mind you my family has always lived well, but there was never a super excess of money. His offer was definitely appealing. One morning I woke up, and I know it had something to do with a dream that I couldn't remember, but I realized there was one minor problem with my relationship with Doug. I didn't love him. I had lots of affection for him, was even physically attracted to him, but it wasn't love. After avoiding and attempting to skirt the issue for a week or so, I finally told him nothat I couldn't do it." "I recall that even as those words were coming out of my mouth there was a part of my brain telling me that I was really a dumb shit and had just thrown away a permanent ticket to that fabled Easy Street. But I had to be honest with him and honest with myself. I still wanted to be friends with Doug, but he insisted that we not see each other for a while. One night when I came home Bela handed me a package and explained that a young man had left it for me."

"Now about two months previously we had gone to Boston Symphony Hall to a concert by Arthur Rubenstein. It was a varied program and absolutely incredible. The only Chopin he played was the Nocturne in F minor and Doug and I both agreed it was the most beautiful thing he had played. As you have no doubt guessed the gift from Doug was the album of Chopin nocturnes, the one I played for you that first night when you entered my life. So sweetie, it was not only the gift from George but also the gift from Doug that helped us to find each other." We embraced, knowing that it had to have been something even greater that had put it all together. Saturday evening and decked out in our new shirts, with pants provided by the owners of course, we were ready to head for Zorbas. Bozhena looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her. Her beautiful multihued blond hair had, that morning, been cut and shortened a bit, styled to reflect the new youthful look of her face. Somehow she seemed much, much younger than she had just a few months ago. She was wearing her new black dress, simple and very elegant, with pendulous gold earrings and around her neck a simple gold chain with the zodiac symbol for Capricorn. The accessories a gift from her 'handsome sons' that afternoon. When we entered the maitre 'd beamed and immediately said, "Good evening Mrs. Stefanos, we have your usual table up front." He then greeted us and us to a table near the dance floor, off to one side. On the way Gregg and I gave each other questioning glances what had Bozhena been up to during the month since our last visit? Without being asked the waiter arrived with a bottle of white Retsina and he also addressed her by name, but both times they had said Mrs. Stefanos, a slight variation of our actual surname. Now it was time for Bozhena to tell us what had been transpiring. It seemed that she had been visiting Zorbas about once a week since first coming here two months ago. She confessed that she just couldn't absorb enough of the music and atmosphere and if you included the food, well it as close to heaven as she would ever encounter on earth, unless of course, she got to Greece, and it seemed she was considering that. As for 'Stefanos', well someone made a mistake when she called for a reservation and since she liked the sound of it, and it was a legitimate Greek name, she had just never corrected them. Dinner was ordered, the musicians had arrived and Gregg had of course already been on the dance floor twice. He came back to the table just as one of the slower dances had begun. Bozhena stood, took him by the hand and they went back to the dance floor. Somehow I just couldnt imagine her doing a Greek dance, though I remembered that in Czechoslovakia she had loved to join in the traditional Slovak dances whenever she had the opportunity. Many of the Greek dances were for males only. How did she know that this one wasnt? She may not have been quite as fluid as some the others dancing, but she was without a doubt the most beautiful. Some of the steps were a bit complicated, yet she moved as if she had been dancing them all her life. At one point Gregg looked directly at me, opened his eyes as wide as possible in amazement and smiled that special smile of complete contentment. It was a joyous occasion and I was trying to not let those other thoughts intrude. I attempted to

keep them at bay. This would be the last night I would be with my mother for three years. And it might well be the same with that other part of my being, Gregg. How could I possibly live apart from the two people who helped to sustain my life and give it meaning? In this place, and at this moment I was surrounded with the joy of life, with happy, carefree people, enchanting vibrant music and yet I was dying a small death inside. I had not yet learned the art of living completely in the moment. Something it appeared that both Gregg and Bozhena were capable of. I had talked to Dwight several times during my leave, but we couldn't arrange a time to get together. He had asked if Gregg and I would like to go with him to the airport since Reginald would be driving. I asked if Reginald would mind if Bozhena went along and he could drop her off on the way back. No problem, all was arranged and they would come by the house at about 4:00 so there would be plenty of time to make our 6:30 flight to San Francisco. Before Dwight and Reginald arrived Bozhena announced that she had decided that she would not be going to the airport. She explained that she enjoyed seeing people arrive, but, 'departures were not pleasant'. She smilingly promised Gregg that she would not get married until we got back so that we could go on her honeymoon to Greece with her, and if her husband to be didn't like the arrangement, she would just find another one. Gregg also added that if she decided to not get married, then just the three of us would go. In fact he even had a couple of unmarried relatives over there that she might be interested in. They both giggled. She confided that she would be in Greece next week, well the closest thing to it. Before leaving Zorba's last night she had made reservations for this coming week. Surprisingly not a tear was shed as we said good-by, but all three of us were biting our lips and I just knew that Bozhena's would swell up like a great big, bloated, pink lizard.....or some other marvelous simile that only my mother could invent. It was a rapid flight and we arrived at the San Francisco airport at a little after 7:30 pm and surprisingly there was a military bus going directly to the Army Base located in Pittsburg, about an hour and a half north to the north. The three of us were billeted in the same barracks as Sven and all of the other ASA Language School graduates that were going to the Far East. There were also hundreds of other soldiers whose destination was either Japan or Korea. No one seemed to know when we would be shipping out and whether it would be by air or ship. The most prevalent rumor was that the orders would be posted tomorrow morning. Although the Korean Armistice had been signed, after five years of devastating war, there was still considerable movement of 'peace keeping' troops headed in that direction.. The day dawned gray and foggy. Really dismal. I felt that it was somehow yet another sign, an external manifestation, of the internal depression that was enveloping my being. I had mentally attempted to envision how I could possibly say farewell to the person who had given me the greatest happiness I had every known and now sustained my daily life. Try as I might, there was no way I could envision it. Everyone was assembled at 9:00 am for the information was to be read and then would be posted as to who was leaving when and by what means of transportation. I couldn't help but notice the difference in the general atmosphere. Those of us who had been in the Security Agency for the past

year and a half had been living in a world where people, who were at the same time human beings, were treated with respect and human decency. Once again, like Basic Training, we had entered a world of superiors and inferiors, the latter treated as sub-humans. Officers and 'cadre' barking and screaming orders, nothing was uttered in a normal tone of voice. It was demoralizing and added to the bleakness of my emotional state. After what seemed like hours of endless names, primarily those of the regular army units, they finally began with the Security Agency personnel. Specialist Adams, Charles, was the first name read and would be reporting to Travis Air Force base for further orders. I knew that Chuck had studied Chinese and was headed for Okinawa. The third name was Specialist Bartoni, Gregory, and when the information after his name was read I realized that my heart had been pounding with such ferocity that either I didn't understand it or had just momentarily blacked outI had no idea what had been said. I did remember the date, Thursday, August 26. As more names were read, I began to notice a pattern; everyone going to either Korea or Japan was to be aboard the USS Bristol leaving on Thursday the 26th. I too would be leaving on the 26th. It was nothing short of a miracle. We would be together for a few more weeks. My heart almost returned to its normal pattern of beats. As the troop carrier, the USS Bristol, passed under the Golden Gate bridge I looked down the railing to where Gregg was talking to Sven and a couple of other guys. I smiled as he winked, and all was right with the world. For the next three days the ocean was particularly rough and the large ship heaved to and fro, bobbing like some insignificant cork. Most of the army personnel were sick. In the galley, when we went down to eat, it was jokingly referred to as the 'domino effect'. One soldier would be eating, suddenly turn pale and vomit. Then it would just pass down the line with nearly everyone playing follow the leader, and vomit in turn. Fortunately, Gregg, Sven and I were three of the lucky ones who had spent sufficient time on either ships or smaller boats that we were able to enjoy the voyage and not succumb to the seasickness which was prevalent among the others. Although Dwight had turned green even before many of the others and rarely ventured far from his bed. The military was well known for its 'need to know' policy which briefly meant that nearly everyone was kept in the dark about everything. No one had even been told how long the voyage would take. Sven had talked to one of the sailors aboard and learned that we would be stopping in Hawaii, though even he didn't know for how long. As we were entering Pearl Harbor and could see the magnificent greenness of that lush, tropical island of Oahu, I encountered Martin, now a sailor attached to the Bristol, and a former classmate from my high school. Although we hadn't been friends, and in fact I had probably never even spoken to him, he had been in several of my classes. He also recognized me and we began to chat. In the course of the conversation I learned that the ship had had some minor problems and would probably be docked here for an unknown length of time. I rushed over to tell Gregg the newest 'scuttlebutt', except that this time the gossip came from a fairly reliable source. Martin had also mentioned that the facilities there were excellent and if there for more than a couple of days we would probably receive day passes to go off the base.

Sven, Gregg, Dwight, Alex and I were on the bus headed for Honolulu. Gregg and I, obviously in an unconscious anticipation of the future, had had the good sense to bring along Bozhena's present of bermudas and bright polo shirts. Her two handsome sons were the best outfitted on the bus. All regular army personnel had been restricted to the base, and the ASA personnel had been given day passes, which meant that we had to be back by 10:00 every evening, but we were also free to explore the island every day. The other soldiers had to stay on base and although it didn't make us very popular, we were extremely happy that we'd had the good sense to enlist. Obviously our rating as ASA Specialists had certain advantages. A portion of the second day was spent at the Foster Botanical Gardens. Gregg and I had wandered off by ourselves and left the other guys to explore downtown Honolulu. This incredible world of tropical plants was nearly beyond belief. There were blooming orchids, fragrant gingers, trees filled with brilliant blossoms. I had fallen in love again, only this time it was with that particular niche of plants within the vast world of tropical botany. It seemed that Gregg was in complete agreement. That night as we were returning to base he confided that California was no longer the only contender as a place for our future residence. He would opt for a tropical location since he loved the feel of the warm, humid air on his skin, the sweet fragrance of the nighttime air; in fact everything that comprised this tropical paradise. He whispered that it was really nice of the army to have generously given us yet another honeymoon. Then I had to remind him that we'd never finished the first one. It had begun the evening we first met and just sort of magically continued. We couldn't really touch each other, other than a quick embrace behind one of the dense clumps of bamboo, but it was indeed, a magnificent gift. Yes, it would be nice to live in this type of a tropical paradise. Suddenly, and seemingly without warning, the notice was posted. The Army Security Agency personnel headed for Korea would be leaving from the nearby airbase on the following Tuesday. We had two more days together. They were spent with smiles and knowing glances. Then once again I had to bite my lip, summon some unknown courage from deep within so that I wouldn't cry, as Gregg, Sven and the others boarded the bus that was transporting them to the airbase. As the bus pulled away all that remained in my field of vision as the sight of his smiling, shining eyes as he waved good-bye. His eyes carried a sheen obviously caused by moisture, and not the humidity in the air. Most important, I knew that deep, deep within my being I retained his love, and he my love, and that would be with us forever. Neither time or space could alter that in any way. But even that comforting knowledge couldnt restrain the abundant, but silent, tears in my pillow that night.

11 Hokkaido It was another of those not very eventful eternities when the ship we had boarded in Pearl Harbor, crossed the rest of the seemingly limitless Pacific Ocean. The monotony was oppressive. The passing time was veiled in a distant memory of seeing a smile and the receding face of the person I loved. As the days relentlessly passed there was a ritual which occupied a portion of nearly every evening. I wrote to Gregg, brief descriptions of life aboard the ship, and included more intimate information in our personal 'language'. Daily words of tenderness and affection which, no doubt, would not have been acceptable had they been encountered by one of the military censors. It was pleasant to not only have a very special person to love, but we also that had our own private means of communication. Several of my shipmates had seen me writing in an unknown scrip and inquired about it. I blithely replied, "Oh, its Nodroggerg, a little known dialect of my people who are from the Tartar mountain region of Czechoslovakia." Well, that certainly prevented any further prying questions. Most of them didn't even know where Czechoslovakia was located, let alone the Tartar mountains. Gregg and I had previously christened our private correspondence language Nodroggerg, which was simply Greggordon spelled backwards. The seemingly endless voyage was accompanied by endless chatter, most of which, for me, had little intrinsic worth. Fortunately I had brought along a number of books to read, something most of the regular Army personnel seemed to find distasteful. I could lose myself in the marvelous would of the imagination, savor delectable words and encounter new ideas and concepts. As the giant troop carrier steamed into Yokohama Bay, I had the second extraordinary psychic experience of my life. I suddenly felt that I had returned 'home'. Everyone, at some time in his life, has been away from home for a period of time and on returning has felt a flood of intimate emotional identification. They have returned to that special place which contains all of the multitude of recognized and even unknown, but sensed, elements which are in essence, home. I breathed the warm, humid air, laden with the special olfactory molecules of this particular geographic area, I saw the fishing boats in the bay, the buildings in the distance and heard, wafting through the air, sounds that were hauntingly familiar. I knew that my identification was complete, and yet if asked to explain what was happening to me internally would have had no way to respond. It was an exhilarating and somewhat confusing experience in that I had never before been to Japan, but somehow sensed a connection with this country, its people and its traditions that reached to the very core of my being. Of the many soldiers on deck I was undoubtedly the only one silently trying to not weep. They were repressed tears that carried with them the joy of recognition. Dwight, Alex and I were temporarily assigned to the Tokyo ASA headquarters while we awaited permanent assignment. We were informed that the process could take anywhere between a few days to a couple of weeks. In the meantime we were free to explore this exciting new world around us. It was

sort of strange that after having lived in close proximity for over a year in Monterey, during our time together in Tokyo the three of us had finally became very close friendsgood buddies. Dwight and I were also able to share and talk about our loneliness, the quiet inner despair at being separated from the person you longed to be with. We spent the time investigating Tokyo and beginning to learn about this extraordinary and enchanting land with its unintelligible way of writing and seemingly incomprehensible social customs. The stores in the center of Tokyo, the Ginza, were filled with strange and often unknown articles. There seemed to be literally thousands of book stores, always filled with customers and students in their ever present black uniforms. The large department stores were marvelous worlds within themselves. Each 'depato' or large department store of many floors seemed to be a self-contained world of merchandise of an absolute bewildering variety, much of it of the highest quality and craftsmanship. The restaurants, large and small, offered exotic and delicious food, most of it based on items from the sea which surrounded this island nation. And there was music everywhere. Primarily Japanese music, which with its oriental tonalities assaulted many western ears. I found it all hauntingly familiar. Surprisingly there was also a lot of western classical musicin the larger stores and even in some of the buses. At night the brilliant neon signs were ablaze with magical, yet unfamiliar symbols; kanji, hiragana and katakana, the three methods of Japanese writing. It was difficult to believe that less than ten years ago this area had been bombed and nearly totally destroyed. It was the Phoenix arising from the ashes and evidently in even greater glory than it had been before. Then I had to say good-by to these two friends from the language school for our happy little trio was to be separated. Alex was assigned to permanent duty in Tokyo, Dwight would be traveling south to the second largest island, Kyushu. I was the only Russian linguist going north. My next three years were to be spent on the northern island of Hokkaido at the ASA communications facility. The plane from Tokyo landed at the military airbase near the town of Chitose. Originally a small village, Chitose had grown in boomtown fashion within the last few years due to the two nearby military bases. The Army had the headquarters of the First Cavalry Division located here and then in a more remote location was the Army Security Agency Field Station. There were few visible buildings within the ASA station, but hiding behind the trees was the compound and gigantic antenna fields that covered an unknown number of acres. The entire area was fenced with a double file of fences and resembled a modern concentration camp, though slightly more attractive with the enclosed hills, natural forests and hundreds of evergreen conifers. The ASA compound was relatively small with perhaps two hundred or so personnel, those who worked in the operations facility and support cadre of office staff, motor pool, cooks and others who maintained the base. There were eight barracks for the operations personnel, with 15 to 20 men per barracks and billeted in two-men rooms. There were two barracks for each of the four 'shifts'. One shift worked during the day from 8:00 until 4:00, the evening shift from 4:00 until midnight, and the night shift entered at midnight and left at 8:00 in the morning. That left the fourth group, or shift, which was on break. The four groups constantly rotated and would work days for three work periods, have then change to working evenings and so on with a 24 hours rest period between each shift change. Biological clocks that were forever attempting to make some sense of night and day, working and eating, dreaming and sleeping. When we finished with our week of working at night we were given

three days rest. Because of the intense pressures during our working hours that time off was more than recreational, it was imperative for our mental and physical well being. At a considerable distance from where we lived was the actual Operations Building. 'Building' was sort of a misnomer since it was more like a cavern. The large facility was almost completely underground and once inside, its temporary inhabitants were sealed off from the outside world where there was night and day, lightness and darkness. The operations facility knew no such distinctions; inside it was always ablaze with light and there was constant activity. Not unlike a gigantic ant hill there were comings and goings at all hours and constant movement inside. My job would be working in the Translation and Analysis Section. It consisted of reading and analyzing the constant inflow of documents in Russian, writing various reports that were then sent to National Security Agency headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It was located near the better known headquarters of the CIA, although both organizations shared many of the same physical facilities and much of the same information. And yet the ASA was so secretive that it existed for nearly fifteen years without the American public ever being aware of its existence. The data at this Field Station was primarily obtained from radio transmissions within the Soviet Union, picked up by the multitude of antennas outside the facility and consisted of voice transmissions, radio telegraph, encoded telegraph and the super-secret Soviet Naval transmissions, which had never been decoded. Nearly every paper we touched or produced was stamped in brilliant red letters 'TOP SECRET' and many of the documents had an additional code word designation. Perhaps the most difficult was learning to live in two distinct worlds, since we were prohibited from discussing anything that transpired in the Operations building once we were outside its protective walls. It is rare and almost unnatural to not occasionally talk about one's work outside of the workplace, but it was a rule that was rigidly adhered to within our super secret organization. We were constantly aware of the fact that we lived in two separate, and very distinct, worlds. In the analysis section some of the best information came from the Soviet radio operators who would chat with each other before, during and after sending their 'official messages'. For example, Yuri, located in Tashkent, in the eastern Republic of Uzbekistan would talk to a station in Khabarovsk or Vladivostok, in eastern Russia, about how his good buddy Aleksei Petrovich, and everyone else in that company, had left the previous week for Nikolaevsk. He was really going to miss his buddy Aleksei Petrovich. He hoped Aleksei Petrovich didn't freeze his balls off. Then he would send the official message. My job was to realize that there were a number of towns and cities called Nikolaevsk all over the Soviet Union, and Yuri's good buddy could have been going to any one of them. There was also one on the eastern coast, near the island of Sakhalin, north of Japan. That would account for the comment about Aleksei's frozen gonads. But that eastern town had no reason for receiving such a large military contingent. As a result of this breach of security there would be continual monitoring of all activity in and around this northern Nikolaevsk. Congratulatory birthday telegrams from Moscow, Kiev and other cities being sent to Nikolaevsk were monitored and compared with normal traffic. In this scenario, since the increase was more than significant, it helped to confirm Yuri's little indiscretion. As to why a large number of troops were now stationed there was another matter, and that was the task for the intelligence teams at the headquarters in Virginia. Of course this was just one

small incident during a shift and at times the sheer number of messages to be translated and analyzed was staggering. Oftentimes a message just received would trigger a connection with something that had been obtained a month or so in the past and an attempt would be made to research the previous information and if possible put the two together. The work was exciting, rewarding, yet at times downright frustrating. Atmospheric conditions often garbled words so that they sounded like little more than animal sounds or the radio telegrams would look like messages from another planet. Perhaps the most frustrating would be a message in which everything seemed to pivot around one particular word or phrase, which of course was zizzz ...snap ...crackle ...hissssss and completely unintelligible. My new roommate was Patrick O'Brien; tall, thin and lanky, from San Leandro in Northern California. A misfit. He hated the army, didn't really like Japan, and though a Russian linguist and very proficient at his job, didn't especially care for the Russian language. Often he would refuse to eat in the Mess hall, though the food was of excellent quality, and would cook his meals on a single electric hot plate in our room. Besides buying whatever elementary provisions were available in the nearby First Cavalry Post Exchange, he also received near monthly food packages from his parents. He was also a slob and never picked up anything that had been dropped when he was finished with it, though he probably thought of himself as merely not being dependent upon unnecessary social conventions. He was also brilliant. An accomplished poet and spent nearly every spare moment reading or writing. He hardly ever left the room. We often talked about literature, poetry and music, and Patrick rambled on endlessly about his three years at UC Berkeley, but during the nearly four months together, in the same small room, we never really became friends. Patrick undoubtedly felt himself to be the original non-conformist, a hippie before they had been named. Not only did I have to live with this strange creature, but we also worked together. We were the only two Russian translators on our shift, and although there were supposed to be three on all shifts, our shift was functioning with only two. I quickly discovered that though Patrick might have been a slob, he was undoubtedly the most brilliant translator on base. Like Gregg, Patrick was able to make connections that no one else could perceive; he understood Russian slang expressions that I had never seen written or heard expressed, he remembered insignificant facts that helped to solve the incomprehensible. In short, I had once again lucked out, and felt proud that I was able to work with and constantly learn from Patrick. It was just too bad that there was evidently some quirk in both of our personalities that prevented a close friendship from developing. In arriving at the Field Station I had an awareness of something that had first impressed me before leaving California. When the small group of linguists was suddenly put together with the regular army personnel there in California, awaiting transportation to the Far East, there were times when communication was difficult. In the first place, the regular Army personnel talked about different things. I, and most of those from the ASA, felt there was more to life than 'Cunts, Cars and Cash', the three big 'C's' of regular army personnel. The gulf between the two groups of individuals was immense, not unlike the size of the Great Rift Valley in Africa. I didn't feel that I was a snob. Bozhena had attempted to show me that snobbery was artificial and usually based on principles that had little actual value. And yet the difference was real and tangible. I had seen that at times communication between two individuals or groups of individuals was

next to impossible since we seemed to see and experience the same situation in a completely different way. At first I felt that it had to do with the person's level of education. It would be, for example, more than difficult to discuss some of the new speculative theories of physics with someone who had no concept of an individual atom, and furthermore "didn't give a shit". Then came the realization that the level of "intelligence, social maturation, interest in personal development", whatever it might be called, had little to do with formal academic studying. I met a number of individuals with credentials from excellent schools who had never progressed beyond the three big C's. Obviously it was the individual who was inquisitive enough to question and had a desire to know more. That same person who was also open to communication and hadn't personally fitted themselves into a narrow way of thinking, comfortable though it might be. The members of the ASA field station also discovered that for our military neighbors, the members of the First Cavalry Division, the most immediate and effective way of dealing with any problem was by means of brute force, since actual communication of a difference was rarely considered. They were modern day Neanderthals dressed in a contemporary army uniform. No doubt the daily treatment from their superiors was also reflected in the way in which they interacted with other human beings. Though both groups, Cavalry and ASA, were Americans in a strange land, interaction between the two groups was nearly nonexistent. I immediately made several close friends in the building where I was billeted. Frank Rizzo was very short and very Italian. He was from New York and I discovered that the New York Italians, if Frank could be accepted as representative, were very different from the Italians I had met in Boston. Boisterous and aggressive. Smart, but it was a street smartness that evidently helped to keep them from being trampled by all the other aggressive groups in New York. Frank, consistent with the stereotypic Italian image, loved opera and though his voice certainly wasn't as refined as Gregg's it helped to fill that gap in my psyche. We spend countless hours with records from the library, most of course were opera. Unfortunately Frank was in his last few weeks on the base before being sent back to the States for discharge. That was another part of life in the military; friendships blossomed suddenly and oftentimes just as rapidly disappeared as the guys were separated by the constant rotation of personnel. Then there were the two Strouds. Kurt Stroud was tall, blond, blue eyed and looked a lot like Sven, my Swedish friend from the language school. Kurt was very Nordic appearing. However in this case he was very German. Soft spoken and deliberate in everything he said. The other Stroud, and obviously no relation, was Len. Medium height, light brown hair, also blue eyed but absolutely nothing like the tall Stroud. From North Carolina, very talkative and at first it seemed that he rarely put his mental apparatus into gear before opening his mouth. I soon discovered that Len was just playing a little Confederate game and knew exactly what he was saying at all times. Most of the guys in the barracks found that if they were friends with one of the Strouds, they really didn't care for the other. I found both of them charming, each in their individual way, and became very close friends with both, though the three of us never spent much time together since they didn't seem care for each other. Kurt had been a physics major before entering the military and was now working in the cryptology section. He spent endless hours working on Russian puzzles that must have at times seemed to have no solution. The cryptology section was divided into two parts; those who actually worked on deciphering messages and those who worked on encrypting material to be sent out. The

former, where Kurt worked, was undoubtedly the most interesting, though must have also had its frustrations. Kurt was also one of the solitary travelers. He for the most part kept to himself and when in his room was involved in reading science fiction and books about the workings of the universe. He seldom smiled, but when he did the person on the receiving end realized that a genuine smile like that was worth waiting for. Len, who at first seemed to be related to the proverbial village idiot. and my nearly forgotten cousin Pavel, seldom stopped smiling. The softness of his North Carolina speech was entrancing and like many southerners he spun yarns and tales without end. Stories that would have given Truman Capote or Eudora Welty material for literally hundreds of books. Len seemed to write a lot of letters and the keys on his portable typewriter could be heard softly clicking away hour after hour. It was from Mike, Len's roommate, that I discovered that Len was involved in writing a play, or as Mike surmised, maybe several plays. Mike and Len were both radio operators and in the operations section at work they hardly ever talked to anyone, since they spent the time enveloped in large earphones, colorful lighted dials, rows of knobs and switches and surrounded by banks of recording equipment. They had specific time schedules linked to frequencies that they received and then monitored the material while it was being recorded. The radio operators comprised a major portion of the operations personnel. I still didn't know exactly why, but I really felt an inexplicable closeness to Len. Little did I know at that time what an important part of my life Len would become. Gregg's letters began arriving with weekly regularity. He was enjoying Korea and absorbing the culture. He abhorred the destruction which had been wracked on the country and couldn't understand how human beings were capable of such indecency. Killing in the name of any god, spiritual or political was, to him, the most immoral act a person could commit, and when in the process they went about destroying the entire culture of those killed, the destroyers had merely compounded their heinous crime. He and Sven spent a lot of time with local inhabitants they had met there in Seoul and found them to be charming and hospitable. He wrote a lot about the food and mentioned a pickled cabbage dish called 'Kim chee', redolent with garlic and small red peppers and described as being 'hotter than hell'. It didn't seem especially oriental and he added that the Koreans appeared to consume even more garlic than the Italians. And then that very special, last paragraph in our special script, which began: I can't tell you how much I miss you, how much I need you right now. Just to see those beautiful innocent eyes, your half smile. When, oh when will this eternity end and we can once again be in each others arms. . . . For me the most important part of my time in Japan was absorbing and becoming a part of this incredible country. Rather than always travel with my military companions I often journeyed alone and spent time with the Japanese people, where I felt very comfortable. I had been told that the Japanese were weary of strangers and especially the American military. Rule number one appeared to be: Never, but never go off the base in uniform. A little trick I had learned from Gregg. Instead of the Japanese being unfriendly, I found quite the reverse to be true and was always accepted as a special friend or an honored guest. Though I was shy by nature I learned that a bit of well-placed extroversion, yet another lesson gleaned from Maestro Bartoni, was necessary to combat the natural reticence of the Japanese. It was necessary to break down that psychological and cultural barrier so that communication

could begin. I quickly learned basic conversational Japanese and even began a study of reading and writing the two phonetic alphabets of Hiragana and Katakana and then began studying the more complicated Kanji characters. It was late summer and with the help of an excellent rail and bus system I began to explore the magnificence of Hokkaido with its incredible natural beauty of densely forested mountains and deep blue lakes, of hot springs and charming, remote inns. In Chitose I met a bright, industrious university student, Kinji, who was desirous of progressing beyond his basic English and we began studying together. I taught him English and he in turn helped me with my Japanese.

Since Kinji was majoring in the Japanese language, with the intention of eventually teaching, I could have found no better mentor. His knowledge of the etymology and historical development made for fascinating study. The fundamentals of conversation presented no specific problems since Japanese was a very logical language with a specific word order and fairly regular verb patterns. It merely entailed the learning of new vocabulary and putting the words together in proper order. However I soon discovered that it was much more complex than I had surmised. All speech was based upon extremely complex rules of social etiquette. Then as we continued with the study of kanji, the complex characters originally adopted from Chinese, I began to discover the incredible richness of this unique language with nuances of meaning which were nearly impossible to render into English. Kinji also introduced me to the vast world of Japanese slang and colloquial expressions. In learning to write Japanese I was fascinated by the fact that it was also a specialized art form. Unlike mere penmanship found in those western languages based on an alphabet, this entailed becoming an artist by the way in which the characters were represented on paper. Language had been elevated to yet another realm of creative expression. I also took several trips south to get to know Hakodate better, which was at the southern tip of the land mass. Hokkaido was so gigantic that it was difficult to think of it as an island. Then a trip to the eastern sea coast and visiting a quaint coastal town known as Noboribetsu. Kurt and I had gone together and the Japanese, who are normally very polite, could not help but stare at this tall blond giant with blue eyes. Noboribetsu was well known for its hot springs and the beautiful Inn where we stayed had a large bath area fed by steaming hot mineral waters. Bathing and soaking were a new experience. The proprietor explained very carefully, and several times, that all cleansing was to be done before entering the heated water. Then soaking and relaxing was the ritual performed in hot water. Hot? It could probably have been used for cooking lobsters, or so it seemed when first entering, but after a few minutes it became evident that it was one of the most completely relaxing experiences in the world. And of course the bathing and soaking was done in the nude; the Japanese didn't appear to be the least bit conscious of their nudity. Kurt and I decided, 'Well, when in Rome, or Japan....' From the owner's specific instructions if was evident he must have had previous experience with some of the soldiers from the First Cavalry unit who had not wanted to accept the traditional method as observed by the Japanese. I knew about the ethnocentricity of Americans. They intrinsically felt that all customs in the world were inferior to their own, and since they were now the

most powerful nation on the planet and the undisputed world leaders, naturally everyone should conform to their views and methods of doing things. They had probably felt that way before the second world war, but now had the leverage to try and force everyone else to conform. One of the pleasant customs of the Inns were the cotton 'yukatas', or light summer kimonos, which were presented immediately to all guests. Usually they were white with a deep indigo blue design or the reverse with the blue background dominating. Depending on the height of the guest they were ankle to mid calf in length. Kurt's, due to his height, was about knee length and was the source of many smiles. He just smiled back. It was an extremely relaxing few days and we knew that we would return to the base relaxed and completely invigorated by our experience. Noboribetsu, and Hokkaido in general, may not have had as many of the centuries old traditional buildings such as were found on Honshu, the main island, but its natural beauty was unsurpassed. Unfortunately, the world of the Japanese, with its rich traditions, remained an unknown mystery for the many of the U.S. soldiers. The cultural concepts of the Japanese were different and often so diametrically opposed to what the American soldiers were used to, that they could not grasp even the basic elements of this foreign world. Nor did they make much of an attempt to understand what surrounded them. And in their lack of understanding, all too often they dismissed it merely as being inferior. But then I had encountered this all too prevalent attitude before. I remembered back to when I had first arrived in the U.S. with my mother and sister and we had quickly learned to subjugate our own cultural habits, since they were foreign and hence, suspect. Prejudice in America took many forms and unfortunately seemed to an integral part of its culture. All too soon the pleasant summer ended and the colors of autumn heralded the approach of winter. The first cool evenings soon turned nippy and then cold. Increasingly more time was spent inside, often in bed where it was warm and cozy. At times, even when one is in the dream state, we somehow know we are within a dream, but if the dreamscape is pleasurable, we flow with it and accept the gratification and sensuality of those moments. Gregg and I were on a warm tropical beach, enveloped in each other, making love. Closeness, his lips, his arms; the warmth and pleasure as one's being is completely encompassed. Ecstasy enclosed my being as wave after wave of pleasure overtook my entire being. All of creation seemed to be involved. And then I began to awaken, I wondered where I was, where was Gregg, who had been with me no more than a few seconds ago? The warm futon blanket stirred and Len's head and voice appeared at the same time. "Wow, buddy that was something else. How long's it been anyway?" I rapidly and foggily tried to reconstruct how I came to be in bed with my barracks companion, Len. It was a three day break and Len had invited me come into town and have dinner at a great little restaurant he had discovered, with the greatest curry rice in all of Hokkaido. During our feast I asked Len about his girlfriend, Mariko. Len had rented a small house and set up housekeeping with a young lady a couple of months ago. Len explained that Mariko had gone to visit her family that lived in Tomaru, near Sapporo. The chicken curry had indeed been spectacular and then Len took me to a place called the Star Bar. It had no sign and was reached by a circuitous route of going down several alleys, inquiring at a plain door and then being admitted. Evidently the owner of the bar had previously had

trouble with members of the Cavalry and hence had established this place specifically for members of the ASA Station. Although relatively dark, with glimmering stars on all of the dark blue walls, I managed to see a number of familiar faces from the base. There were also a number of young ladies who sat with the clientele and kept them company while they were drinking. Bar hostesses, sort of modern day Geisha, but considerably more liberal with their sense of physical pleasure. There was both American and Japanese music, the atmosphere was exceedingly pleasant and Len and I finally had a chance to share a bit of about our lives with each otherand the smoky flavor of Scotch flowed freely. I reminded Len several times to not let me miss the last bus back to the camp, which left at 9:00. I had left my watch on the desk after showering and hence had to rely on Len for the time. When finally I mentioned the bus again, Len looked at his watch and announced that it had left about twenty minutes ago, and in the same breath added that I could stay with him at the house. There was no memory of leaving the bar but I could recall vaguely entering the sliding shoji door of Len's small two room house. Len almost immediately went to the closet, got out the thick futon and spread it on the tatami mat floor. It was very chilly in the room and when he pulled out the futon quilt, which served as a top blanket. I wondered if it would be warm enough. Len explained that they were incredibly warm and began to undress, stripping down to his light blue boxer shorts. I did the same and quickly crawled under the futon. The last thing I remembered was Len talking about our having to share the pillow since Mariko didn't use a pillow and they only had one. I seemed to be falling asleep even before the light went out. Gaining full awareness, and in the few moments it had taken me to reconstruct the evening, Len had asked once again how long it had been since I had sex. I replied about six months and then began to explain to him about my relationship with Gregg. I didn't want to reject him and cause any guilt trips or possible psychological hang-ups, but at the same time felt that I had made a commitment to someone special and it was a promise that I intended to honor. But before I could finish and completely clarify the situation Len explained, "Yea, when you started calling me Gregg, I knew more or less what the story was, and in case you haven't noticed you're probably the only guy in camp who gets a letter from an army 'buddy' once to twice a week without fail. I noticed that the envelopes were from a Specialist Gregg Bartoni with a Korea APO and sort of put two and two together. What happened wasn't really your fault, I just sort of took advantage of an available situation. I understand, really I do. Now it was my turn to ask a few questions. What exactly was the situation with him and his girlfriend Mariko. I was a bit confused. Len lit a cigarette, took a drag and then handed it to me. I looked over at him and with the dim, diffused light coming through the shoji and illuminating his blond hair I realized, perhaps for the first time, that Len really was very handsome young man. Then Len began to spin yet another of his yarns. I had no idea what time it was, but yes, it was very warm and comfortable under the futon.

12 Len's Personal File

Len's southern speech was soft and it was very easy to listen to him. "Well, when the Star Bar first opened I was a regular customer and met Mariko, who had just moved here from Sapporo since the possibility of work was better. From the first night we found it easy to talk and be together. We talked in this frightfully strange 'Japenglish' and half of the time neither knew what the other was talking about, but it was fun and we enjoyed each other's company. She's really cute." He put out the cigarette and suggested some instant coffee or tea. We settled on a pot of green tea and Len jumped up and put a small tea kittle on the hotplate. Back in bed he continued, "Well it was her suggestion that we move in together. You know most of the bar girls live with G.I.'s. I was a little hesitant. In the first place I'd never had sex with a woman and wasn't really sure I wanted to. Unlike most of the guys here I'd never been to any of the whorehouses. And honey, I wasn't exactly keeping tabs, but couldn't help but notice that you hadn't either. Too busy writing letters to Korea is what I surmised." Len's southern drawl had suddenly taken on a campy quality. He jumped up again, fixed the tea and returned to the bed with the pot and two cups. Off in the distance I could hear the sounds of a samisen and someone singing in Japanese. Still jabbering, Len got back under the futon, "And what is the story on that long tall drink of water, Kurt? Who, by the way, has had the audacity to use my name, a fine southern name that he claims is pure German. According to my well-documented files he hasn't dipped his wick even once since he got here. Of course I don't know what happened on a recent trip to Noboribetsu with a certain young soldier who shall remain unnamed for the present; although I could poke him right now if I felt so inclined." And he did playfully poke me in the side and asked if I was ready for tea. "Len, what's this about 'files'? Have you been compiling information on everyone?", I inquired. "Look sweetie, that's my job. It is my duty to amass as much information as possible about as many interesting people as I can find. And let me tell you that place where we are presently being held hostage is a god damned goldmine! How does anyone write a play unless they can provide some characters to people that play? Did you know that the Shift Leaderyou know we do have a Shift Leaderalthough he's not much in evidence. According to the rules he's supposed to make sure that everyone gets home on time and then tuck us all in. But how, pray tell, can Specialist Burkowitz do that when he's in another room, not his own mind you, doing god only knows what with a certain Specialist Loomis in Building #9? This is not just hearsay, I've almost seen it with my own eyes; and it was of course immediately noted in my Shift Leader's File, 'Little Known Facts.'" Although I didn't verbalize it I noted that Len said he had 'almost seen it'; perhaps he, like my mother and grandmother, was also good at elaboration.

After sipping some tea Len lit another cigarette, a glowing red dot in the semi-darkness. "But we were talking about Mariko. I must admit that even though we've lived together for about two months, her file is still a bit skimpy. Communications problem. God I wish I was as fluent at languages as Miz Innocent." In order to keep everything straight in his mind I had to inquire as to who 'Miz Innocent' might be. "Why you, sweetie, although at first you were Mr. Unknown, but then you had a costume change and soon became Miz Innocent. You know you were the very first file I began when I arrived at the barracks. You and then that bizarre creature that you room with. Now that is a basket case if I ever encountered one. Can you imagine eating all that crap that comes out of those cans when we have perfectly palatable food in the mess hall? I could write a one character play based on Mr. Bizarre, although I'm sure everyone would dismiss it as being too unbelievable. If anyone in our barracks has a cross to bear, it is certainly you. Now my roommate, Mike, is a super sweet kid, straight but not offensive about it. I'm sure he's got my number, or maybe I've managed to keep him confused. But we both respect each other's individual rights and are just as snug as two bugs in a rug; with a proper distance of course, considering that one of the bugs is straight and the, well we all know what the other one is....." "So Mariko told me that she loved me and wanted to live together. It was a tender story and I sort of wanted to believe it at first. Didn't take long to realize that it was economics, pure and simple. And I can't blame her for wanting to exist and help her family to do the same. Affection, yes, we have lots of affection for each other but that's about where the line is drawn. Sex, oh at first we had sex rather regularly. The first night I was shaking so much she probably thought I was having an attack or something. Then I learned that I could do it, sort of on automatic pilot. You know, push-pull, grunt, grunt, small squeal or large sigh and its all over 'till the next time. I'm sure by now she's figured out she's rooming with a Southern Belle and not a Southern Gentleman. And let me tell you there is nothing gentle about Southern Gentle-men. Most of them are coarse, vile creatures intent only on self gratification; and as much and as frequently as possible. Now that last bit of inside information is based upon reams of data compiled by interviewing as many Southern Belles with baskets as possible and when necessary, personal experience." "When Mariko first suggested living together I thought it was a great idea since it would give me an opportunity to see which way the road forked, so to speak. Maybe I could learn to be straight and have a wife and fulfill my parents' fondest dreams by presenting them with a flock of squealing, snotty nosed kids. You know the Southern scene, sitting on the verandah slugging down booze every night, bellowing an endless string of prohibitions at the kids, telling your wife not to cry, that your little flirtation with MaryLou was over, and all the while wondering how in the hell you were going to be able to keep the payments on that shiny big new automobile to date. It's the big American dream and part and parcel of every parent's heritage to their children." "But wouldn't they just shit bricks if they knew their little Lenny was going steady with Roger, planned to make it a completely monogamous arrangement, they actually loved each other, were working at responsible, well paying jobs, had no outstanding debts, and were genuinely happy? Well, it just couldn't be. Illogical. And if they just happened to consider the fact that little Lenny and Roger were sleeping in the same bed, and all that might entail, well papa would snort, start to rant and rave and probably go on a search for his pistols in order to do both of them in. Mama of course would have one of her swooning spells; that or take to the bottle, swilling down Southern Comfort until she

reached oblivion. Now I love fantasy scenarios, but this is not one of them. That is life in the south. Both events exist, side by side, but never the twain shall meet. Not in the south." "So I discovered that while I was having sex with Mariko I began to fantasize about Roger, more about Roger in a moment, or one of the guys on the base. Even little Miz Innocent snuck in there one night. Am I shocking you? I still don't know if you're as innocent as you seem. Maybe I should revise your character file and give you a new first name, Miz Questionably Innocent. That has a real nice ring to it. Yes, I do like the way that sounds." "So I have stayed with Mariko because it is financially helping her. I pay the rent, give her expenses for the house and that way she gets to keep all her earnings from the bar. She goes home every couple of weeks to be with her family and give them money, and I know that a portion of the house money also goes to them. Most important it also gives me a nice cover. I've always been sort of paranoid that everyone was going to find out which side of the tree I was swinging on. That is also part and parcel of a nice southern upbringing; for god sakes don't let anyone know who you really are. I think that in southern maternity wards they give all new babies a mask, something to help hide and conceal the real identity inside the body. I have had to adopt mannerisms that weren't mine, watching the way I smiled, laughed, walked or talked, moved my hands, everything; and honey that is difficult when your wrists are as delicately hinged as mine." It was time for some more tea, which was now sort of lukewarm. It was becoming increasing difficult for me to believe that this was the same person that I had had almost daily contact with for the last few months. The non-stop nature of Len's dialogue was almost a release mechanism, he had found someone he could share with; take off his mask and be himself. The quiet was now complete and even the music of the samisen in the distance could no longer be heard. I began to outline how Gregg and I had first met. A few details about his personality and family. How we had blissfully been together for over a year and a half, first in Boston and then in California, sharing and being with each other as much as possible. About how my mother had 'adopted' Gregg and even completely accepted our relationship. In the semi-darkness I pointed out my ring and explained how each of us had one, gifts from Bozhena. I explained that now the one thing that sustained me was receiving Gregg's letters and counting the days until we would be together again. Len sighed a large sigh, and then said, "It would never sell." I was a bit confused and then Len continued, "If something is written that is too beautiful, too perfect, and sweetie, it appears the relationship you two have is straight from heaven, well, people just can't accept it. Almost the same thing if it's too weird; like that fucked up room mate of yours. Just not believable. Have you got a picture of this Grecian God from Boston....well of course you have, that's like asking if fairies like fruits. What I mean is do you have it with you, in your wallet?" I said that I had, and felt around on the floor for my pants. Just then Len pulled out a small flashlight from somewhere. He hadn't used it before and had spent the night padding around in the

semi-darkness. I didn't really understand why he didn't just turn on the light. Maybe like Gregg, Len's eyes were sensitive to light after midnight. The small photo was well concealed in my wallet, and was one of my favorites with Gregg on his bunk, clad only in his BVDs and with a book in his hand. It had been taken during that second week in Boston. Len examined it carefully for what seemed like a long time and then said, "Jesus, you let this gorgeous creature go off to Korea all alone? Even little ole paranoid me would have told the military that I was a raging queen and wanted to spend my days with my handsome king and if they didn't like it they could just go to hell. No wonder you write all those letters. Honey, I am speechless. Well, this warrants an immediate costume change and a new name. But it has to be perfect, let me think just a bit.....How about the Czechoslovakian Cinderella? No, won't work, just too many syllables. Let me think. Names are very important and sometimes it takes a while to find the perfect one....." He then asked if I had had many other relationships. I briefly related the story about George and mentioned Stevie. Len seemed surprised. "You mean you've only had sexual encounters with three people in your entire life?" I smiled in the darkness and replied, "Well, three and a half." Len understood the illusion to the proceedings earlier in the night and began to chuckle. He grabbed me, then held me close for a few seconds. It was obvious that we had gone beyond the sexual to another level of friendship, more like brothers, or sisters as the case might be. Relationships of this kind were always difficult to sort out. Len mentioned that he liked my allusion to having had three and a half sexual encounters and was going to file it away for possible future use. I began to wonder about the size of Len's files. Some twenty years later I was walking by the television in my living room in California when it was announced that the following week Kraft Theater would be presenting 'A Love Almost As Big As Everest' by the noted playwright, Leonard Stroud. I hadn't heard from Len for a number of years. Hardly believing my ears I tuned in the next week. Yes, it was the same type of dialogue it had to be the same person, though somehow I had never known that Lenny's name was Leonard. The dialogue was more polished, but definitely the same individual whom I had come to know and love in a very special way, in a darkened six tatami mat room, long ago and far way. It was even more surprising when Arthur, one of the protagonists in this strange, bizarre comedy, remarked to a companion that he had had two and a half extramarital affairs. The companion looked puzzled and Arthur explained. "You know about Martha and you know about my affair with your wife Jenny. Well, I was in bed with Sally and was having what was an exquisitely passionate experience, until I discovered she was sound asleep; I had thought she was sighing with pleasure, but no, she was just snoring." Not only had it been filed away, but utilized. I was hoping they'd present more plays by Len, but then some of them probably weren't suitable for television. I still hadn't found out about the mysterious Roger, but the panels on the shoji door were beginning to show light from the eastern sky. Len suggested that perhaps it was time for a little shut eye. "Good night, or morning or whatever, Plum Blossom." Plum Blossom? I smiled and was content knowing I had a friend with whom I could share that multitude of personal things that previously had been concealed, veiled and carefully guarded. It was obvious from Len's night of chattering that he felt the same.

Those in the barracks who had been there for a year or more warned the newcomers of the length and severity of the winter. Temperatures down to -20 F. were not uncommon. There was something invigorating about the feel of the cold as it entered your lungs. As long as you didn't have to stay in it too long. Secure within our cozily warm buildings it was a time of rest and reflection. Fortunately the base had a library which was well stocked with both books and records, even some opera. There were near daily letters to write. I continued in my study of the Japanese language, both there in the barracks and with Kinji. I had also begun spending a lot of time with Len, although primarily talking to him in his room on the base. The severity of the winter precluded spending much time at the house. Len's 'girl friend' Mariko had found another 'job' and moved back to her home near Sapporo. Patrick's tour of duty was coming to an end. He would be flying out in three days and I began to wonder exactly when he would begin to pack and do something with the vast collection of things that he had amassed during the last three years. Most guys began packing, mailing or selling their stuff weeks before their actual departure date. He had one well-used, grimy hot plate, pots and other cooking utensils, a stereo, radio, a mass of books, records, and god only knew what stashed under his bed and in his closet. I was also wondering who would take his place, both as a roommate and working partner at operations. The night before he was to leave Patrick packed his duffel bag with all of his army issue clothing and one pair of baggy trousers and a particularly ugly faded blue shirt. The army clothing had to turned in and accounted for before discharge, which is probably the only reason he took it. I felt that now was as good a time as any to ask what he planned to do with all the rest of his stuff. He, in characteristic Patrick fashion, replied, "I'm out of here. Call in the garbage truck. This whole place never happened." The next morning he walked out of the barracks carrying his duffel bag and one book. He said no formal good-byes to anyone, not even me, his long suffering roommate, just waved and sort of grunted. That evening Len and I began sorting through what Patrick had left. We decided to take those things that could be used to the house. The next evening we got one of the taxis waiting outside the base and filled it up. I just sort of unofficially moved in, though of course with Len's smiling blessing. We were currently working days and several evenings were spent hauling boxes and bags of things to the house. It took the entire week to completely clean out all of the stuff that Patrick had been squirreling away. There was an entire set of expensive Noritake China, setting for eight; an electric portable typewriter still in its box and never opened, brand new tape recorder. Most of the stuff had been purchased at the PX since Patrick had rarely ventured into town. There wasn't much food; he seemed to have eaten all the food, probably in a final gastronomic banquet of canned delights for one. I had worked for several days by myself in the section and attempting to do the entire workload had been staggering, almost impossible. I complained to Major Zimmer, the operations officer. Zimmer brought in one of the linguists from the 3rd shift to temporarily help me out. Randy was quiet, very efficient and with the longest eyelashes I had ever seen. It looked like he had pulled the antennae off a flock of butterflies and pasted them on his eyelids. Every time he blinked his eyes I expected him to go fluttering off into space, looking for some new place to alight. I mentioned to Randy that he could utilize the extra bed in my room since I knew that living in a barracks with guys on a different shift was probably difficult. Randy explained that he had been rooming with Tom (blink, blink, flutter, flutter) for nearly two years and they were just (blink, flutter, flutter) like two peas in a pod. No, he would stay where he was until some final decision was made. Hum, two peas in a pod were they?

Strange, but the guys on one shift knew very little about the crews on the other shifts. Their personal lives rarely coincided. Len seemed pleased with the new living arrangements at the house, and on the first day of our next major break he even bought a small wood burning stove and had it installed. Many of the Japanese used charcoal, but because of carbon monoxide fumes it could be deadly. Now that we were a two-hot-plate family Len and I cooked up a storm that first night; it was cozy warm in the room. Besides the thin shoji doors there were also some thick outer wooden doors that could be slid into place to retain the warmth. We began to play some of the records which Patrick had left. He had bequeathed a nice collection of classical disks and a considerable number that were of Japanese music, so he had obviously gone off the base from time to time. We had been sipping from a new bottle of Chivas Regal scotch, also found in the squirrel's nest, when Len held up an imaginary file by two fingers and said, "And now it's time for Roger." Yes, I had been inquisitive about Roger, but had waited for him to initiate the conversation.

"Well in order to understand the relationship between Len and Roger we had better start with Len, little Lenny. When Lenny was about, let me see, twelve or thirteen years old his very best friend was Buford. Now can you imagine that, I mean what southern parents do to their children. It is absolutely criminal, like calling a child Buford. Be that as it may, Lenny and Buford spent every spare moment together. One evening while we were wrestling and just rolling around on the lawn in back of the house Buford started gabbing me in the crotch. I didn't know what it was all about but decided to do the same to him. Imagine my surprise to discover that he had this hard little rod in his pants and mine was just as soft as putty, and not only that it was so tiny it was difficult to find. Buford just kept rubbing and massaging until I also had a little, and I do mean little, rod in my pants too. At about that moment we heard his mother screeching 'Buford, Buuuuuford'. He got up, said 'see you tomorrow' and left poor little Lenny lying there on the grass with his very first erection and not knowing what to do about it." "Well Buford and I spent the next few months or so investigating our mutual pleasure centers. He would spend the night over at my house or I would stay at his house and as soon as the lights were out we were at it. Occasionally we would diddle around in my parents garage and then we even made a 'Club House' in the basement of Buford's house. We put one of those folding cots in it so 'we could rest'. It was a Club House for two and with one express purpose, exploration. That was Buford's bright idea. He decided we could be Explorers and he even made a sign for the door, Explor Club. Misspelled of course, Buford may have been sexually precocious, but he wasn't too bright. Basically we explored each other. His mother asked him one time what we explored and he innocently replied, 'oh, things'. Yeah, my thing and his thing. Then one day, it was the beginning of the eighth grade, suddenly Buford had a girl friend and little Lenny was left behind while Buford went on to explore other things." "Well, little Lenny wasn't about to let this new discovery languish and proceeded to continue with his explorations. First it was John Paul then shortly after it was Paul Edward. Then Randy. Then a number of others. For a while it looked like I was intent on exploring every boy in the eighth grade; had also considered going to work on the ranks of the local high schoolers. Seventh grade was

outtoo juvenile. Most responded and we would diddle around for a few weeks and then suddenly they'd get a girl friend and leave Lenny diddling by himself. Then there was Johnny Fowler and he seemed to be just about as sex crazed and I was. He lived on the other side of town and our bicycles nearly made ruts in the pavement as we zoomed back and forth across town. I am positive that the muscles in my legs grew considerably during my Johnny Fowler period. Now Johnny was chunky, not fat nor particularly muscled (with the exception his legs which were also showing the effects of our cycling marathons) and he had a dong like a donkey. Johnny also had particularly big feet, I mean he could have gone skiing without the necessity of using skis. It was at this time that I formulated a theory which, in my estimation was equal to anything that Einstein had come up with. In reviewing my past 'explorations' there seemed to be a very definite relationship between 'foot size' (FS) and 'thing size' (TS). It could even be expressed mathematically: FS = TS Age "I am sure it will come as no great surprise to know that I spent the next few months with my eyes glued to the shoes of my classmates. They probably all decided that, among other abnormalities, I had developed a full-blown foot fetish. And I was obsessed with confirming my hypothesis, it had become my duty in the advancement of science to do so. I even had the audacity to confront Billy Joe who was the biggest jock in our school, and, as I had recently observed, had feet even longer than Johnny's." "One day Billy Joe was sent out of class because he was talking; he had already spent about half the school year in the hall. It was my big opportunity. I started jabbering to everyone around me. Mr. Randall sort of ignored it at first since I had never misbehaved in class. He just frowned at me. I continued, and continued and finally succeeded when Mr. Randall told me go out in the hall and see him after class. Billy Joe was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out and staring off into space. Standing right next to him I said, 'Billy Joe, Mike Burgess told me you got the littlest thing in school.' His reply was typical of his mentality, 'Fuck off, creep'." "I continued goading him, "Honest, he's telling everyone that you got the smallest prick in town.' At that point he reached down and flattened his Levi's against his leg; there was a roll that went almost to his knee! 'You see this, you little shit? If I was to stick it up your ass your eyeballs would pop out. Now get the fuck away from me you creepy little fairy.'" "Eureka! I had my confirmation and it also corresponded to the second portion of my equation, Billy Joe was two years older than anyone else in our class, having flunked both the sixth and seventh grades (and his chances for getting through the eighth grade weren't too promising either). Naturally I continued with my investigative research, knowing that as a budding scientist I needed adequate data to substantiate my findings. I also spent considerable time every night pulling on my toes, trying to make my feet, and other related anatomical parts, just a little bit longer." It was time for a refill on our scotch and though there was no longer any ice, nor soda water, we were content with the chilly bottled water. It also gave me an opportunity to use the 'benjo', the

Japanese equivalent of a toilet. I returned knowing that Len was just beginning. "It was shortly after the second semester in high school began that a new student came to our class, Jerry Miller. I had never been in love before and wasn't in the least attracted to girls. Oh I liked them, but never once considered mooning around with them like Buford and the rest of the exexplorers. I think Buford was diddling as many as he could by the time he was fourteen. Most southern boys are precocious. Oh I was masturbating all the time. Liked to lay on the bathroom floor and prop my legs up on the counter and look at comic books of Superman, Captain Marvel, anyone that had a sizable basket, and just jerk off by the hour. I think my parents thought I lived in a state of constant constipation considering the time I spent in my bathroom. Fortunately they had their own bathroom, or they would have been constipated." "Well then Jerry Miller arrived on the scene. He had just moved into town from New Jersey and he had the biggest, roundest eyes I had every seen, sort of looked like an owl. Sweet, cuddly owl. Thick wavy hair, nice muscular body and a smile that could melt icebergs, big ones. Normal sized feet. And can you believe it Miss Scanner, our math teacher put him right next to me and asked if I would help the new student find all his classes on this, his first day. Suddenly it was Christmas in October and the ole witch Miss Scanner had donned a Santa suit. Our next class was down the hall and I took Jerry in tow and introduced him to Mr. Williams, our English teacher. I also explained that I had been instructed to show him around today and so he should probably sit next to me. I pulled that same shit in every class all day long knowing that he would have to sit next to me for the whole semester. During lunch we ate together in the cafeteria, since neither of us had brought our lunch and I got a chance to know a bit more about him. His father was a chemical engineer and was going to be in charge of the new plant that had been constructed outside town. I discovered that they had moved in the previous week, only two blocks from where I lived. I didn't even know it. I'd probably been flat on my black in the bathroom with my feet in the air. We walked home together that afternoon and found that we had lots of similar interests. That night I wrote in my dairy that 'I had met my best friend. I just know we will be good friends. And he is really cute.' Yes honey, I started writing and keeping my detailed files when I was in the eighth grade. I was want to put in very personal things like, 'I hate Buford's guts and hope that his thing shrivels up and just falls off' so of course I had to hide it from the prying eyes of my mother. It also had my momentous scientific discovery of FS = TS And pages of copious notes concerning my investigative research. It was kept in a shoe box in the bottom of my closet and had all kinds of things on top of it like old stones, coins, shells and just miscellaneous crap I had collected during the years. Even had a dried up snake skin on top so I knew she'd never touch it." "Before the week was out I invited Jerry over for dinner and he met my weird family. Have I ever mentioned my brother? Well Bender (another of those bizarre southern names and almost as bad as Buford) is two years younger than I am and was a little jock when he was four years old. I've never disliked sports but I certainly never had any intention of devoting my life or precious time to being a slave to them. Bender and I have kept a reasonable distance for the entirety of our lives. I knew it was going to be a disaster the minute I asked Jerry to come over but then couldn't back out. Miracles still happen, even in the south and it was one of the most perfect performances the Stroud family had ever given. They asked normal, reasonable questions and seemed genuinely interested in the responses. Bender got a little weird, but I later explained to Jerry that it was because of his age and limited

mental capacity. Jerry and I were together at school, after school and spent half of every night on the phone. I have no idea what we talked about. Then I was asked to dinner at his house and it was perfectly delightful. His parents were educated, cultured, evidently had no idea what a mask was and were absolutely charming. And being an only child he didnt have to cringe about having a weird sibling." "Then the incredible. He asked me to spend the night at his house. I didn't know until I arrived that his folks were going to be out of town on both Friday and Saturday night and they felt comfortable leaving him at home. All he had to do was call and check in occasionally with a friend of his mother's who lived on the other side of town. For a fourteen year old he was extremely mature. We pigged out on all the delicious food his mom had left, watched a little TV, looked at some photo albums and then went up to his room. Now I don't want to bore you with all the delicious details but young Jerry knew his way around the adolescent body. Seems he had been diddling around with an older cousin in New Jersey for several years. Sweetie, I don't think we slept a wink that first night. The next day we got up late, and Jerry and I fixed an enormous breakfast that would have choked a hog, and we ate it all. I went home and since my folks were out I just left a message that I would be spending that night at Jerry's also. But first I had to write down all the goings-on down in my diary. I had early on discovered that the human mind is tricky and if material is not put down immediately, while it's still fresh, it becomes subject to distortion, or little bits are forgotten. That particular entry also stands out as perhaps the first time that I had been completely truthful and didn't play our southern game of illusions; calling things by something they're not. I distinctly remember writing that 'his cock was silky smooth, firm and burning hot, pulsing with life'. Now that was big stuff for a fourteen year old. And it wasn't just the sex, although it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. Something else had been happening, and during the those two weeks of knowing Jerry I had, for the first time, fallen in love. Well, maybe is was just adolescent lust, but I had the biggest infatuation imaginable. I knew that Guinevere had found her Lancelot. This little 'affaire d'amour' went on for nearly two years! I remember that when we were juniors in high school and both tried out for the part of Romeo in the school production. Jerry got the part and there was a real desire to tell the English teacher, who served as drama coach, that I could be Juliet. I knew that I could do it, and probably better that any of those twats with boobs." "Then came the summer between our junior and senior years and Consolidated Chemicals decided to send Jerry's father to France to supervise a new plant there. When Jerry told me the news I just knew I was going to die. Do you know the immolation scene from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde, where Isolde actually dies from pangs of love for her lost Tristan? Well I just knew that this little ole southern Isolde was on her way out." While Len was talking I thought back to that magical day when Gregg first talked about Wagner and then later when he had first played that particular selection from Tristan und Isolde for me. It was so incredibly beautiful; someone actually willing herself to die because of lost love. More unbelievable was that Wagner had actually captured it in the most exquisite music imaginable. God, how I missed Gregg. Len, seeing the expression on my face, commented, "Well honey you don't have to get all misty eyed, I eventually recovered." I explained that it was because of something else and then continued to tell him the entire story about how Gregg had introduced me to the music of Wagner. As I finished Len observed, "Well Gregg is obviously one those cultured Italians, you know many of them think that music begins with Perry Como and ends with Paul Anka."

Now Len had pushed my 'on' button and I went on to tell him about how on that morning long ago you I had awaken to find Gregg playing the lute and singing Troubadour songs in their original language. About the countless enchanting nights of Greek music and.... but by now I was really almost crying from the ache of estrangement, which just wouldn't go away. Len put his arm around my shoulder, "Poor baby. I know it hurts, yes I know only too well." Then he suggested that maybe it was time to spread out the futon and go to bed.

As Len turned out the light I commented that I still hadn't heard about Roger. "Oh, Roger, Roger. Now sweetie, imagine, if you can, a combination of all the most handsome men in the world, the most charming people you have ever met, the most suave, the most intelligent and sexy. Sex that just oozes out of every pore in their body. If you can put all of that together you have a small idea of my Roger. My Roger, hell's bells, that marvelous creature belongs to no one. Although I like to fantasize that he's going to be mine forever." "Well I had spent my senior year of high school mooning around and in a state of mild, but near continual depression, missing my cuddly Jerry something awful. My parents had decided it was just a stage, an adolescent thing. As the year passed the letters from France became less frequent and then suddenly Jerry was writing page after page about Louis. Louis this and Louis that. It didn't take a mathematician to figure out what was going on. Now I was in the midst of a full blown identity crisis. I found that I had two release valves, writing and playing tennis. I had completely given up my scientific research. In writing I could release all of the torment and frustration by putting it on paper. Also in playing a good game of tennis. No thinking, just reacting to the action involved. And I was very good, guess I just put all the energy I had into that single concentrated action. I graduated from school and had made plans to enter college in the fall. It was on a Friday afternoon, June 18th to be exact, and I had made plans to play a couple sets with my school chum, Jimmy, who was also very good. I got to the club, my parents of course belonged to an exclusive golf and tennis club, and waited for Jimmy. He was a little flaky about keeping dates. There was this other fellow there, also waiting for a partner who hadn't shown up." "Now here is young Len, just having turned 18 and in front of this incredibly handsome, mature man. I later discovered he was an ancient 25 years old. He was tall, 6' 2" with skin the color of deep, rich honey, light brown hair with flecks and streaks of gold, penetrating steel blue eyes, lean, well muscled body. Serious looking with a soft, half smile. I accepted his offer and we played a bit, probably the worst I had ever played. It was one of those super sticky humid southern afternoons and while showering in the club Roger asked where I went to school. I mentioned that I was attending the local college. That was just a little exaggeration since I was enrolled to begin in the fall term. It appeared that having determined that I wasn't jail bait, he then invited me out for a hamburger. I felt that he had been sort of assessing my body while we were showering. Little did he know that I was already lusting after his. Incredibly well proportioned frame and he had probably seen me sneaking peeks at him. While eating I discovered he had finished law school the previous year and was now working

for the best known firm in our city. He was originally from Atlanta. We just talked up a storm and by this time it was starting to get dark. He offered to take me home and then asked if I wanted to call my folks and let them know where I was, before leaving The Hamburger Pit. I explained that they were visiting with my grandmother in Hickory and wouldn't be back until Sunday. I didn't add that I hadn't gone because I wanted to stay home and mope. My 'Camille scene' had become so boring to my folks that they undoubtedly enjoyed the opportunity to get away from me from time to time. Well at least they certainly never insisted that I go anywhere with them." Len decided it time for some tea, and as usual got up and padded around in the dark, putting on the water, putting the tea in the pot. It was almost as if he had some type of night vision that I lacked. And at that same moment I realized how much I loved Len as a friend, how comfortable it was being with him." He put some more wood in the stove and then returning with the tea pot and cups he crawled back under the futon. I reached over, kissed him on the forehead and told him how very special his friendship was to me. Even in the semi-darkness I could see the whiteness of his teeth as he smiled and said, "Well sweetie, you know it's a mutual admiration society. I just don't know what I'd do without you either. As you know I make friends easily, but there is no one on base that I can share with, let them know who I really am." He continued, "Then Roger came up with this brilliant idea. Since both of us were going to be alone, maybe I would like to come to his place and watch some TV, listen to some music or just chat for a while. Well, by this time little Miz Lenny's heart was going pitty-pat, pitty-pitty-pat. He looked awfully masculine and straight, but where there's hope there's always a possibility. While driving to his place he reached over patted my bare thigh, remember we were still in our tennis shorts, and said, "You know Len, I think you are capable of much more than we experienced this afternoon." Then he squeezed my leg before withdrawing his hand. Well it looked like the probability factor for a little koochie had just increased. But then it was also something that any jock would do. I was still unsure; but hopeful. We arrived at a new section on the outskirts of town where they had constructed some garden condominium units. Beautiful grounds, well landscaped and each unit was tastefully hidden from its neighbors by lush, dense vegetation. The inside of his house was even more tasteful than the outside. Obviously he or his family had some money since I had heard my folks talking about how expensive these units were. All of the furniture was masculine, yet fine, elegant. He had so much original art on the walls that it could have been a gallery. He put on some Tchaikovsky, a Violin Concerto I think, said he hoped I liked classical music and mentioned that he was going to have a scotch and soda and asked if I would like one or that there was soda or fruit juice. I too opted for scotch though I'd only tasted it once and wasn't too fond of the flavor. I was examining the paintings and also admiring his baby grand piano in the corner. In less than ten minutes I had decided that I could stay here for the rest of my life. And when I considered Roger as an integral part of this whole, it was just so comfortable, so exquisite. It was what I had always dreamed of. You know a lot of guys, when they discover that they are probably gay, go through a period of mental gymnastics, flip flopping over whether they are or aren't, wanting a male lover and then the next day wanting to be straight and have a wife and family. I guess it's natural, after all we live in a heterosexual society and every day that is held up to us as the norm. The way everyone lives. Not me. From the time I met Jerry I knew what I wanted in life. A man to live with. I never even considered the other as an alternative."

"I made some comment on the beautiful chess board on his coffee table and almost immediately we were playing. Jerry and I had spent two years playing chess and my maternal grandfather was a master at chess. It was a long, excellent game and Roger was obviously very good, and though he may have creamed me at tennis, this time I beat him. When we finished he was beaming and commented that he hadn't had such good competition in a long time, and said he was looking forward to our next match. During the game I had also discovered that scotch, sipped slowly and not swilled, like my folks did with bourbon, was an excellent drink." "Roger asked if I wasn't a bit hungry and then went in the kitchen to fix us a couple of sandwiches. Even his kitchen was so neat and tidy with gorgeous copper pots hanging up and a row of electric appliances that any French chef would have been envious of. I asked him who had decorated the house and he smiled and explained that he had done it himself. Oh my god, I thought to myself, a butch husband who's a lawyer, pianist (he had played a little earlier), and an interior decorator. I was ready to walk down the aisle. But not only had he not proposed, he hadn't even touched me since we came in the house. He asked what I wanted to drink, he was going to have a little Rose d'Anjou that he had opened last night and hadn't finished. I had no idea what he was talking about but wanted to sound as mature and cosmopolitan as possible and said that sounded great. And actually it was, as were the sandwiches. I just knew that I could fit into this lifestyle very easily. He finally got around to asking what I my major was in college and I explained that I wanted to be a writer and I was taking primarily English and literature classes. Roger confessed that he had a real desire to write but that every time he attempted to write something, that upon reading it he felt it was so trite that it always wound up in the wastebasket. I voiced my horror and explained, mocking Mr. Williams, my high school English teacher, that writing was a process and very few successful writers were pleased with their first drafts. And if he really enjoyed it and had a true desire to write, he should do exactly that and have no concern for the results. The result was in having done it. Mr. Williams had said a lot more but I couldn't recall what it was. Roger seemed genuinely pleased with my advice. Can you imagine the gall of a teenager telling a grown man what he should do with his life?. That second glass of wine had loosened up my tongue and inhibitions; in fact I was feeling just a bit dizzy, well dizzier than usual that is." "Well since it was obvious he wasn't going to do it, and having the fortification of the wine, I just point blank asked, 'Roger would you mind if I stayed over tonight? And quickly added before he could open his mouth, 'I wasn't especially looking forward to staying at home alone tonight.' Now he had a big smile, and he said that it would be a great idea. But can you believe what he next said? 'Well Ill get some PJ's for you, I'm sure they'll fit, and I know there are clean sheets on the bed in the guest room. My threshold level of frustration had just about been reached. We cleaned up a bit in the kitchen and he tidily put the glasses and plates in the dishwasher. It was just so strange. He usually acted so butch and masculine and then would be as prim as a little ole spinster. My poor head was spinning from more than the wine, primarily from trying to figure him out."

"He showed me my room and then opened an adjoining door and showed me his study. Beautiful large desk and all three walls were covered with books. And what was really nice was that there were all sizes and descriptions. You know some people buy a library of books, leather bound of course, and then never open a single one. This was obviously not the case since there was a marvelous lack of tidiness." I couldn't help but think about the dining room at home and Bozhena's comment to Gregg about it being the room where we fed our bodies and our minds. Roger suggested that I if I wanted to read anything that the fiction was primarily on the first wall, nonfiction on this wall in front us and miscellaneous things on the third. I commented on the lack of law books and he explained that he worked in the office and enjoyed himself at home. Well that set things straight with a minimum of words. He also explained that he liked to read for at least a few minutes before going to sleep. "It was beginning to look like Roger went to bed to read and sleep and may not have even considered that a bed could be utilized for other activities. I immediately spied a book of Dorothy Parker, After The Pleasure, and decided that her dialogues were so beautifully satirical that though I might be sleeping alone at least I would go to sleep chuckling. But then something else formulated in my devious little mind. He handed me the PJ's he had been carrying around and apologizing said they were the only type he used. Now honey, they were nothing more than these little baby blue, fancy boxer type shorts and a sleeveless shirt to match. Soft as silk,. As I was entering the guest bedroom he explained that he would be right next door if I needed anything. Like he was talking to a little kid. Well, the little kid already had a plan in mind, and had had since I saw that Dorothy Parker book. I waited until he had turned off his overhead light, was well settled in bed and heard him turn a couple of pages. I turned to a specific page I liked, I had the same book at home and had read it a zillion times, and I began to softly chuckle. I waited a bit and chuckled a little more, a little louder." "I got up and went into Roger's room. He had on the same blue PJ's, we sort of looked like Bobsey twins, and he quizzically looked over the top of his reading glasses. 'Roger you've got to hear this.' And I read one of Dorothy's delicious and scathing comments. He laughed and I sat down on his bed and read some more. By now he was really laughing and it was the first time since we had met on the tennis court that he sort of looked relaxed. I continued to pick out especially biting comments and we were both laughing so hard that it hurt. While I was reading I noticed that he had been fixedly staring at my handsome young legs. At that time they were nice and tan and the little blond hairs just glimmered like gold. Now was my chance. 'Roger do you mind if I stay here for a bit?' He said it would be just fine and suggested I get under the sheet. Southern summers preclude using anything other than a single sheet. I had also noticed what appeared to be a bulge under Roger's sheet a couple of minutes earlier. I immediately put down my book and turned out the light on my side of the bed. Roger followed my lead and we were suddenly in semi darkness.I had left the bedside lamp on in my room. As soon as his light was off I raised up and kissed him. I'd been wanting to do it since that afternoon. He immediately pulled me over next to him and I spent the night teaching that 25 year-old man what physical love was all about. He was a fast and eager learner by the way." "So now you know how little Lenny violated Roger, with his consent and full fledged

participation of course. He also confessed that I was the first person he'd ever had a sexual relationship with, mentioning at the same time that he'd wanted to for years, but just didn't know how to make the first move." Len later told of how he and Roger had spent the next two years together, well, as frequently as possible. Len's parents evidently were not too concerned that he was spending a lot of time outside the house. Evidently the mere fact that 'Camille' had finally gotten off her death bed was good enough for them. What I didnt share with Len was that I too had a penchant for amassing information and had been religiously writing in my diary every night since I was 15. And for the last six months it had been written in a script that was accessible to only two people in the entire world.

13 H.F. - The Puppy

We returned to the barracks about midday since our three-day break was just about over and we would, as usual, begin our work 'period' with the evening shift. Like many aspects of the military, even within the ASA, illusion and reality were oftentimes quite different. The words 'three-day break' looked nice on paper but in reality we began work on the evening of the third day. It was hardly what could be called a full three days off. On entering my room I discovered that I had acquired a new roommate. He had just arrived the day before. Harold Frederick Barnhart, originally from Pennsylvania. He had actually been in Japan for a number of months but had previously been assigned to the Naval Base at Sasebo on the southern island of Kyushu. He was a cryptologist and hence would be working in the Communications center. I asked how it had been working with the Navy and he replied that he had enjoyed being one of the few 'doggies' on a whole base of 'swabs'. He added that he felt that some of them were pretty queer, but nice enough guys to work with. I wondered, though didn't voice my question, if he meant 'queer' like in strange, or 'queer' like in fairy? I immediately noted that he was very orderly, clothes neatly arranged in his closet, desk tidy with everything in its place, even his shoes were perfectly lined up under his bed. His shoes, oh my good Lord Almighty, his shoes. They were so small they looked like something from China's past, when all the women had their feet bound. Since he was lying on his bunk in his shorts, I couldn't help but take a quick look to see it the goods hidden inside his shorts were consistent with young Lenny's brilliant mathematical formula. Well, it was a bulge, not terribly significant, but there was obviously something there. As to whether it was a confirmation of 'Scientist. L. Stroud's' famous FootSize=ThingSize theory, I just wasn't sure. God, a few weeks with that crazy Len and I was starting to act like him. But I certainly couldn't stop myself now. After a few minutes of conversation, I excused myself and rushed down to Len's room. Mike was sprawled out on his bunk sound asleep. Len was sorting out clothes to send to the laundry. I told Len I had a new roommate and it would appear that he was as fastidiously neat as Patrick had been sloppy. I asked Len to come down and meet H.F., also not to comment of course, but to take a look at how neatly arranged his shoes were. Len was introduced to H.F. and they chatted for a few minutes. Len's eyes finally looked down, saw those diminutive shoes, and unable to restrain himself, he said, "Oh my God, oh my God!" He wheeled around and rushed out of the room. H.F. looked a bit perplexed and I explained that Len was occasionally given to sudden, inexplicable religious outbursts like that. Then I added, "He seems to call on God at the oddest times." I knew that Len was undoubtedly, at that very moment beginning a new file, probably entitled Prince Tiny Feet or maybe, considering his warped sense of humor, Princess Tiny Meat. H.F. was a chatterbox and immediately began talking about himself. He had never known his parents, in that they had died in a boating accident when he was barely two years old. He had been

raised by his maternal grandparents. In fact his paternal grandparents were somewhat of a mystery and he didn't even know if they existed. His grandmother had originally been part of an Amish community, but having fallen in love outside of her closed society, had left them. While he was talking I finally figured out what was so odd about his boxer shorts; they were of a medium dark blue which was not especially unusual in itself, but they had three small bright red buttons on the fly. Not only that odd feature but they were skin tight, like form fitted. H.F. was almost six feet tall, trim to almost thin, and a nice tan complexion. Somewhat Mediterranean, but his facial features were very fine, thin lips and eyebrows, dark brown, flashing eyes. His dark brown hair was short, modified military crew cut in that the front of it sort of stuck up in a peak that gently fell over. Friendly smile with a flashing sparkle of gold. And tiny feet. Very smallI was surprised they accepted him in the army. In fact I was somewhat curious to see how he managed to walk on such small feet. He continued by saying that when he got out of the service he planned to go back to college and probably major in Marketing or perhaps Fashion Design. He explained that his grandfather was a tailor and his grandmother helped out, working as a seamstress, in their small shop. He remarked that he had probably learned how to sew before he could read or write. I commented that was obviously the reason that I'd never seen any boxer shorts like his before. He smilingly explained that they were his own modification. He told me examine the stitching, all done by hand, on the sides where he had 'taken out the bagginess'. I looked from where I were standing and nodded. He insisted that I get close and really look at it. It seemed like I almost had my head in his crotch, but, yes the small, fine stitches looked as perfect as any I'd ever seen made by a machine. The three of us went to the mess hall together before going on swing shift duty at 4:00 p.m.. H.F. seemed to really enjoy Len's campy sense of humor. In heading for the Operations Building H.F. realized he'd left his ID badge in the room, would have to go back after it, and told us to go on ahead. Len was cautious to keep his voice down, since there were other guys on the walkway, though not very close, and began his usual patter, "My God he's cute. He's got the sweetest smile, like an innocent young puppy. Well I've decided that we have to take that one under our protective wings. Now considering the size of those shoes and related anatomical parts, you know that if he goes to any of the whorehouses in Chitose the girls will just laugh themselves silly and probably cause all kinds of permanent psychological damage. Seriously. He needs to know that there are other things that can be done with that little weenie of his. I've never been concerned about sizewell other than for scientific investigation." "I hereby appoint myself protector and teacher to that sweet young thing. Remember I do have experience in that field, and since you are married and intent on honoring your vows of temporary celibacy, you're completely useless. Did you notice how his shirt is molded to his lithe, muscular body? Now that looks like an advertisement to me. Yes, he's definitely on the prowl, whether he knows it or not." I explained that his father was a tailor, he had done the shirt modification himself and was even thinking about going into Fashion Design. Now Len was beside himself, "Oh a fashion designer, I have always wanted to know a Fashion Queen, just think of the marvelous party frocks he could design for me. And you know there is another thing that precludes your having anything to do with him. Your gold tooth."

I explained that I did not have a gold tooth, but rather a gold cap. "Yes I know and I'm sure you must have noticed that Freddie has one those things too. It would never work. Electrocution. Once those two gold teeth came into contact the sparks would fly and we'd have to have a double burial out there in the antenna field or someplace else equally suitable." Fortunately we'd arrived at Operations and Len would have to shut up for a while. I'd never thought about it before, but his job must be a daily torture; having to be quiet for eight hours at a stretch. It was pleasant working with 'the Butterfly' again and Randy efficiently flitted from one task to another. I checked his work and pointed out a couple of minor corrections. Suddenly I had become the big cheese in the Analysis Section for my shift. It implied a considerable responsibility to make sure that everything was as complete and correct as possible. However since both Randy and I were conscientious about our work it wasnt any problem. Finally the shift was over; after returning from break the first night shift always seemed especially long. A quick snack in the mess hall and back to the room to sleep until sometime in the late morning. Prior to settling down with a book I put on a record of soft piano music. I asked H.F. if he had any specific preferences in music. He claimed to like everything from Popular, Jazz and Country Western to Bartokas well as just about everything in between. Well, he was very liberal in his tastes, since I drew the line long before it got to Bartok and his atonal compositions. H.F. then mentioned that there had been a letter on my bed when he came in and he had put it under the book on my desk. I'd sort of expected a letter from Gregg and I recognized the familiar writing on the envelope immediately. Gregg was complaining about the cold. Of course with his fetish for lolling around in his white jockey shorts, and unless the facilities were well heated, there would naturally be a complaint about the weather. He also commented that it was time for us to begin planning a reunion during the summer. In August we would both be eligible for three weeks of R & R he wanted to know what I thought about meeting in Kyoto. Gregg could fly into either Tokyo or Kyoto, actually Osaka which was the closest airfield to Kyoto. He seemed a little depressed; nothing specific that was written, just the general tone of the letter. I thought about responding immediately, but decided to do it later, when I woke up. But first just a few pages in the book I was currently reading. It was Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain. I had been reading for about 15 minutes when H.F. questioned, "What's Hans Castorp up to today? Obviously he had read it. He continued, "The novel by Mann that I really enjoyed, really identified with , was Death in Venice." I mentioned that I hadn't read it yet. Now what did H.F. mean by that? Although I hadn't read it I knew that there was something about a homosexual relationship in it. Was he referring to that? Yes, the cute little puppy was obviously bright, it appeared he was well read, and also somewhat of an enigma. The swing, or evening shift, always seemed the most difficult, not for the work, but the hours off. It seemed like we just woke up, moved around a bit and it was time to go to work again. It was

about noon, I was writing a letter and so was H.F. Len came in, and as usual, was loaded down with gossip. It seemed that the First Cavalry Division would be moving their entire unit and leaving Hokkaido. It was official since he had seen a directive in the office just a few minutes ago. They would be gone, bag and baggage, within a month or so. Actually they had been moving out their heavy equipment for several months now. The ASA unit had been informed because in the future we would have to receive supplies direct from ASA headquarters in Tokyo. Many of our supplies had previously had been supplied by the Cav. More important now we could soon walk the streets of Chitose and feel safe in that the 'savages were leaving'. H.F. asked Len if the relationship with the guys from the Cav had really been so difficult. Len explained that "there was no problem whatsoever if you were masochistic and just looking for someone to beat the shit out of you and then as a crowning touch to have them slit your throat. Absolutely charming group, the 'Cav.' "Now for the important news," as he continued with his tidbits of information. "The scuttlebutt from the gutter is that two young lads from our distinguished ASA field station have set up housekeeping in town and are rumored to have already tied the knot. Evidently it wasn't a large gala wedding with an abundance of bridesmaids;just a quiet intimate affair. But it is unconfirmed since the two uniformed young ladies in question have refused comment. However, Hedda Len Hopper will keep all informed of any late breaking information." H.F. was giggling like a little kid. I hadn't found it quite so funny since I knew exactly who the 'two ladies' in question were and was more than slightly pissed. Especially disturbed since it was a complete distortion of the facts. Later, before going to work I stopped by Len's room and asked where he'd heard that most recent gossip. "Well, really no place. I made it up! It was specifically to test Handsome Freddies reaction. I knew that if he was hard core straight he probably wouldn't have laughed. If he was limp wristed, interested, or even unsure of what direction he was headed, I knew he would at least find it amusing. I hope you noticed he twittered and giggled like a school girl. And that little girl's formal education is about to begin." Len was clever and funny, but he was also devious and absolutely single minded when he decided on a course of action. I sort of felt sorry for H.F. and in one of those hastily planned, and ill conceived schemes of Good Samaratanism, decided to save him from the clutches of Miz Lenny Lecherous. I didn't want to hurt Len, but at the same time wanted to find a way to assist H.F. in defending himself. That night I decided to begin. The plan was so simple; engender H.F.'s confidence and then quietly advise him to be careful. The overhead light was out and we were reading by the light of our desk lamps. I had decided that 'Fred' sounded softer than H.F. and asked if he minded being called by that name. He was reading an old Time magazine and responded that I could call him just about anything as long as it wasn't Harold. He hated his first name with a passion. I pulled out Ray

Bradbury's Martian Chronicles. "Fred, have you ever read much Science Fiction?" I inquired. He replied that he had only been exposed to a few short stories, and added that he had enjoyed the little he'd read. Then, as an introduction to a particular short story, I asked Fred if he knew of the British poet of the 19th century, Lord Byron. He once again explained that he knew of him, but hadn't actually read any of his poetry. I began:
So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving. And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself must rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet, we'll go no more a-roving, By the light of the moon.

Then I began to read 'And the Moon be Still As Bright' from Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles, which utilized Keats poem as a part of the story. The story was no more than about 20 pages, but I knew that it would take at least a couple of nights; I also knew that nearly everyone enjoys being read to. Fred was no exception. On about the tenth page I saw Fred's eyes begin to droop and suggested continuing tomorrow. With his boyish smile Fred thanked me and mentioned that he had never considered the possibility of combining a 19th century poet with futuristic stories. "It's absolutely beautiful", he commented and was soon sound asleep. The next night after the swing shift Fred could hardly wait to return to the barracks and continue with Bradbury's short story. I had just begun reading when he turned on his side, made a space, patted it with his hand and suggested that I sit on his bed while reading. This was working better than I had supposed; it was obvious he already trusted me. That was what I was aiming for, his confidence. I sat down and continued reading. The images in the book were haunting and beautiful. Sensitive, and the friendship between the two protagonists was extraordinary. On the third night, once again seated on his bunk, I finished the story. Fred was obviously impressed with Bradbury's writing and laughingly asked if I would consider reading the whole book to him. I suggested he read it himself, and handed it to him.

The next night he was busy reading the book and then finding a passage he found particularly beautiful, he came over, sat down on my bunk and began to read to me. Now it was my turn to become drowsy and nod, as he voice faded off into the distance. I felt him gently pull up the blanket to cover my arms before turning off the lights. The last swing shift was over and it was time for a two-day break. I had developed a slight cold and decided to stay on the base and take care of my sniffles. Len had planned to spend the first day in Sapporo and asked Fred if he would like to come along. Fred declined and said that he wanted to just read and relax. I didn't feel like going to breakfast the next morning and Fred returned with four lemons and proceeded to heat some water in the electric hot pot and fix "his grandmother's cold remedy', hot water and lemon juice. He then produced a bottle of maple syrup that he had swiped from the mess hall and explained that the original recipe called for honey, but this would probably work just as well. The 'honey version' was also one of my mother's home remedies so I knew it well, and found that the maple flavor made it taste like a really vile medicine, but didn't comment. Fred spent the rest of the day playing Florence Nightingale, hovering around me and making sure that I was warm, comfortable and constantly sipping that yukky hot lemon and maple syrup mixture. Curiously by afternoon my sniffles had begun to disappear. Fred and I went to dinner in the mess hall and then afterwards decided to go to the club for a couple of drinks. We got to talking about our individual responses to being in Japan. We were both of the opinion that it was probably one of the most marvelous things that had ever happened to us. It appeared that Fred was almost as enthusiastic about Japan as I was. In fact he wanted to join Kinji and me for Japanese lessons. Evening mail call had arrived while we were out. It appeared that Fred had yet another letter from the Sasebo Naval Base. I'd noticed that they were arriving with amazing regularity. From an Ensign Duane Freeman, and in fact this was the third one in a week. Obviously Fred had a 'friend', a very close friend it would appear, since he had been responding regularly also. Fred read the letter, carefully folded it and put it back in the envelope. Then he squeezed the envelope, held it up to his nose and said, "Old Spice, Duane loves Old Spice Cologne." He sighed, smiled and began, "You know, we've only been friends for a few weeks, but I know that I can talk to you. Somehow I just know that you'll understand what I'd like to share with you." "When I first got to the Sasebo Naval Base I was bunking next to this guy, a swabbie, and we became immediate friends. Within days it was like we had known each other all our lives. We ate together, went to town together; became inseparable. Then our friendship got just a little complicated, not much, but a little.. We worked shifts just like here and on one of the long breaks the two of us had gone to a Japanese inn at Beppo, a resort town on the Inner Sea. On the first night we were on our futons and just talking when suddenly Duane told me that he was in love with me. At first I didn't say anything. It was certainly something I hadn't expected to hear. Then I reached over, laid my hand on his shoulder and told him that I loved him too, in my own way, though perhaps it was different than what he had hoped for or expected."

"I could feel that he was shaking like a leaf. In response to his shaking, I reached down and held his hand. I went on to tell him that I felt honored to be the recipient of his love, but that if he expected me to respond in some physical waywell, I just wasn't capable of doing that. At the same time I wanted him to know that in my own way I was very fond of himas a friend. I told him he was without a doubt one of the most special individuals I' d ever known. There was a long discussion of course, and I explained that my best friend in high school, Robbie, had confessed to me that he was gay. Robbie and I had known each other nearly all our lives and I undoubtedly knew he was gay before we actually discussed it. I told Duane that the revelation hadn't changed anything; he was still the same incredible friend I had always known.. " "By the way I was still holding Duane's hand, but by this time he had calmed down and stopped shaking. He said that he felt fortunate to have found me. I let him know it was mutual. Duane and I have remained friends and we learned to completely accept each other without wanting to change the other person. Straight, gay, whatever; doesn't make any difference to me as long as people respect each other, and care for each other. Now, this may be a little premature, but I'm sure that I can tell you that I value you as a friend. You have no idea how much I have come to value your friendship in the short time we've known each other." Fred continued, "I don't think it's any big secret that Len's gay and by now you must know that it doesn't make any difference to me. He's one of the most genuinely witty and creative people I've ever met. He's a truly nice person and to me that's most important, and what he does in bed, and with whom is his business." By this time Fred had stripped down to his cute little shorts with the bright buttons and crawled in his bed. I had gone to bed immediately on arriving. As Fred was talking I had been mentally driftingI thought back to my friend Sven and knew that I had been privileged to have encountered probably two of the most advanced human beings on planet. Their views were exactly what religion was supposed to be all about, yet very few of the millions of true believers ever got beyond their petty judgmental prejudices. And it appeared that neither Sven nor Fred had any type of religious leanings whatsoever. It was certainly something neither of them every talked about. Maybe true, genuine contact with the divine was something that occurred within and there was no need to try and convince anyone else. I got up and went over to Fred's bed, placed my thumb on his forehead, in that special spot that Gregg had pointed out, then shook his hand and said, "Fred, it's my privilege to be able to call you my friend and to offer you my sincere friendship." He smiled and the gold cap on his tooth sparkled, "Thanks, and I know that coming from you, it's a lot more than just idle words. " As I was going to sleep, I began to think about how I had been thinking of helping to save Fred from the clutches of Len. Obviously the 'little puppy' was more than capable of taking care of himself. I couldn't help but inwardly smile at my own innocence and naivet. Winter continued. The buildup of snow was now almost five feet high in places and the daily

trips to various buildings such as the mess hall or Operations building was accomplished by maze-like paths. The temperature hovered around -10 to -30 for days on end. Fred and I spent endless hours reading, listening to music and basking in our ever deepening friendship. Len obviously had forgotten about his interest in Fred, 'the cute puppy'. In fact he had somehow become involved with a File clerk from the First Cav and they spent as much time as possible at the house. Seemed a bit strange considering Len's vituperative remarks concerning the mentality of everyone in the Cav. Once again it was evident that generalities of any kind were dangerous and more often than not could be proved to be wrong. Although many of the Cav. personnel had already left, or were in the immediate process of doing so, some of the office personnel remained to continue with their office duties related to closing down the unit. One of the windfalls of the Cav. evacuation was that they bequeathed most of their large library of books and records to the ASA station. Thousands of new books and most of the classical records had never even been played. For our small ASA unit it was like an abundant gift from the heavens. Soon the holiday season was upon us. Christmas dinner at the mess hall was excellent and after eating Fred, Len and I went into Chitose to the house. Mark, Len's friend from the Cav, was already there, had lit a fire in the stove and the house was cozy warm. Fred had taken it upon himself to be in charge of the music and Len saw to it that the glasses of scotch, soda and fresh snow, his new invention which he christened a Scotch Slush, were never empty. Fred, Len and I were at the beginning of our three day break and Mark had a two day pass. Instead of going back to base Fred and I decided to stay at the house. There was plenty of firewood, food, booze and pleasant conversation. Len had also purchased a new futon and explained that Fred and I could sleep together and he and Mark would share the other futon. It seemed to be a satisfactory arrangement. Mark was talking about the fact that he had lived all his life in Montana and mentioned that the winters there weren't much different from the weather here in Hokkaido. Fred recounted that some of the winters in Pennsylvania were pretty severe too, but not nearly as frigid as what he had experienced here. Being Christmas season much of the conversation centered on nostalgic remembrances of our individual families. At one point I retreated into a reverie which included memories of previous Christmases with Bozhena. God, it seemed like a thousand years ago. It was getting late and Len started hauling out the futons. Fred was already stripping down to his shorts and I mentioned that I was probably going to sleep in my clothesit would be warmer. Fred grinned and said for me to take off my clothes, it would be more comfortable and then jokingly remarked that he would keep me warm. Len raised his eyebrows and began, "Well my dears, I have suspected for some time that there was some koochie koochie going on in that room down at the end of the our building, but now you have just substantiated my conjectures. Come on now, tell mother all about it." I immediately decided to set Len straight, for once and for all, though I had already explained it number of times. "Fred and I are friends, nothing more. Ponimayesh?" For emphasis I had added , 'Do you understand?', in Russian. It was breach of one of our most basic ASA rules, to never use Russian outside of the Operations Building. Then as Len was getting up to turn out the light, he looked at Fred and asked point blank, "Are

you really straight? What is your story, bright eyes?" Mark, who was obviously a bit shy and had been somewhat quiet most of the evening, interjected, "Ah, Len leave the guy alone." Len continued, "Well, are you or aren't you Fred?. You know we're all friends and we're not going to judge you one way or the other, and we're certainly not going to go rushing to the company commander, no matter what you say." Fred hesitated, then responded, "You know Len, that's a good question and it's too bad I can't give a more explicit answer, but the best I can do is to say that I don't know. HOWEVER, I promise that when I do know I'll give you an exclusive! Not only that but I'll even sign a release form so you can put it in your files." Mark, being a file clerk, was immediately interested and wanted to know what 'files' Fred was talking about. Len was still standing up with his hand near the light switch. I was, as per Fred's instructions, taking off my clothes and quickly jumped under the futon quilt, but not before Len noticed my new pale green shorts with bright green buttons and his eyes got very large. "Now look you two little faggots, you've been trying to pull the wool over my eyes, but the truth is slowly coming to light. Gordon, where pray tell, as if I didn't know, did you get those fancy little shorts with the pretty green buttons?" At this point Fred playfully put his arm around me and looking me right in the face, commented, "Under the fifth amendment you know we don't have to answer any of that filthy gossip mongers questions. Sweet dreams., honey" Now Len really was confused. Len turned out the light and crawled under the futon quilt next to Mark. As I was drifting off to sleep I could hear Len and Mark chattering about Len's bevy of files. Then Len asked Mark why he didn't try to get a transfer and he could work in the office at our camp. He knew for a fact that our company was presently short two file clerks. Mark explained that it wasn't that simple and he didn't have a secret clearance which was necessary for all ASA personnel. Len acted shocked and commented that he couldn't possibly go to bed with someone who didn't have a top secret clearance, and sex, natural, unnatural, or anything in between, was definitely out of the question. They started giggling. Len continued by explaining, "They can probably get you a temporary clearance until a permanent one is secured." I realized that Fred still had his arm over my shoulder. It felt nice and comfortable, warm, and not the least bit suggestive or compromising. It was a very friendly arm. He snuggled a little closer. In the morning I could have told Len that his years of precious research into FS = TS (foot size thing size) appeared to be an invalid theorem, but held my tongue. It wasn't so much that I didn't want to embarrass Fred, he had nothing to be especially distressed about, since bulges and foot size can evidently be deceiving. Fred wasn't about to win any prizes at the county fair, but it was also nothing to cause psychological alarm, as Len had previously surmised. I didn't want to compromise myself. I was the one self righteously proclaiming celibacy. And it was no big deal, just a little midnight exploration, nothing more. Evidently for Fred, it had been something more, and then too he had been

the one doing the exploring. This morning he was especially chipper and happy. Maybe it helped to resolve his questions about himself. I also realized how difficult it was to be a male and not get aroused. Much to my chagrin I had discovered that males were evidently just naturally horny creatures. Then it was Saturday, December 31, our first New Year's eve in Japan. Our shift was on its two day break between the swing shift and the midnight shift. Mark was on his usual two day weekend, and so once again the 'foursome' had arrived at the house for a small party to usher in the new year. Earlier I'd suggested going out for some snacks and more booze, but Len insisted that everything was taken care of. Len got drinks for everyone and Mark, for the first time a bit chatty, began talking about his family. His mother was a teacher in the local high school and his father had an insurance business there in Helena, Montana. Evidently not everyone in Montana was a cowboy, and Mark explained that he had never ridden, or even been on a horse. As an only child he had received the complete attention of his two devoted parents, who were also his best friends Being drafted, and then put in the First Cav had not been the most pleasant experience of his life. He talked about how difficult it had been to make friends, especially when his interests were so different from nearly everyone around him. He mentioned that having met the three of us had helped to change his life from boredom and frustration into one of the most pleasant experiences he had known. Suddenly Len looked at his watch, put some wood in the stove and told us to put on our coats since he had arranged a little surprise. Len was being especially secretive and as we left the house and he closed the shoji and outer sliding doors I noticed that it had begun to snow again. A soft, gentle snowfall. Walking through the narrow streets with the muffled sounds of the individual houses we passedmusic, chattering, singing I realized how privileged I was to be in this special place. Len finally came to a large gate and pulled the outside bell cord. Soon a beautiful young lady dressed in a gorgeous kimono arrived and with gracious bowing and entreaties in Japanese, asked us to come in. I noticed that in her salutation she had referred to our group as 'honored guests'. Len was all smiles as he explained that on this special night we were to be treated to real geisha entertainment. "Now these are not bar girls, but rather Geisha, or at least a Hokkaido equivalent, artists and entertainers, and hence don't speak English, but Gordon and Fred can serve as our interpreters. It's going to be an evening of the real Japan." As we followed the kimonoed young lady up the freshly cleaned path I couldn't help but stop to admire the inner courtyard garden. There was just enough light from the shoji screens of the large house to dimly illuminate the tall granite lanterns, flickering with candlelight, and the well trimmed and trained evergreen trees and shrubs. In winter and covered with snow it had a distinctive enchantment. Before entering the small entry for shoe removal I'd noticed three cut pieces of bamboo, tied together and with a spring of pine needles; a good luck symbol for the New Year. We could hear someone playing a samisen and singing, obviously several other parties were already in progress. On entering we removed our shoes and put on some slippers. We were greeted by an elderly lady in a elegant kimono who also graciously welcomed us. Led down the hall of brightly polished

wooden floors we arrived at our room. We removed our slippers since the room was covered with tatami mats where even slippers were not permitted. We were shown into the large room that was to be ours for the evening. Inside two young ladies, each dressed in exquisitely colored kimonos, bowed low as we entered. There were cushions on the floor in front of a long, low table. They introduced themselves, Senko, and Tatsuko and asked us to please be seated, 'Chakuseki shite kudasai'. They attempted to learn our names: Mark became Maruko, Fred was Furedu, I also gained an extra vowel and was known as Gorodon, but Len presented a real challenge. Since the Japanese language contained no 'L' sound, he became Ren-san. Actually the suffix -san had been added to each of our names since it was a mark of respect. The room was, in Japanese tradition, very plain and simple; exquisite in its simplicity. On the far wall there was an alcove, the 'tokonoma', which contained a hanging scroll of calligraphy, and a delicate floral arrangement. The young lady who had shown us in had disappeared and then the shoji door silently slid open again and there entered another young lady, even more beautiful than the others. It was somewhat of a shock when she said, in perfect English, "Good evening gentlemen. Welcome to our humble establishment, The House of the Crane. I am Kinko, but you may call me Connie if you wish." It seemed that Kinko/Connie had spent most of her life in Seattle and had just recently returned to Japan. "Would you like some Sake or perhaps some other beverage to drink?" All agreed that it was to be a completely Japanese evening and sake would be in order. As the heated sake arrived and was poured into small, exquisitely decorated porcelain containers, Connie proposed a toast in Japanese, "Yoi otoshi omukai kudasai!" (May you see in a happy New Year). Since this was my first New Year's celebration in Japan I was pleased to learn this New Year's greeting, but then Connie cautioned that it was used only before the actual New Year's day. We could use it this evening, but tomorrow the greeting would become, "Akashimashite omedet gozaimusu!" ('the New Year having begun, this is indeed a happy occasion') and she mentioned that it would be heard for several weeks as people encountered friends that they had not yet seen during this New Year. She then explained the various customs that surround the arrival of the New Year. For weeks now they had been cleaning their houses, buying new clothes for the children and most important paying their past debts. Family and close friends would also exchange small gifts. New Year's eve would usher in three days of festivities. Thus began one of the most memorable evenings that any of us had spent in Japan. All three of the young ladies were charming, the endless dishes of food were delicious, the sake flowed. Itsuko produced a samisen and began to sing. Tatsuko danced in graceful, flowing movements. Then Connie decided to teach us all how to dance a simple folk melody, one of the 'tanko bushi' songs. The lyrics were fairly simple and soon everyone was singing and following Tatsuko's lead in dancing. Every moment was beautiful and magical. It embodied joy and the age-old traditions of this magical land. During the evening we learned that Connie was not actually a Geisha and was just visiting with her aunt, who was the owner of the House of the Crane. Learning of the visit of the four Americans she had volunteered to help make them feel comfortable, since she was able to speak English. Then we heard the first gong from the large bell of the distant temple. It sounded once as the

suspended log struck the bell and continued for 108 times. Connie explained that the number was significant since it was counting the 108 human frailties. The New Year of 1955 had begun. It was a joyous occasion and a most beautiful way to usher in the New Year. It was nearing two in the morning when we finally left amid many bows, a final "Akashimashite omedet gozaimusu!" and many "sayonaras". It had stopped snowing and turned colder. The snow was squeaking beneath our feet. The clouds had cleared and crystalline twinkling stars filled the sky. A perfect ending to a perfect night.

The months passed. The intense cold lessened and then worsened. Some of the snow melted only to be soon replaced by a fresh covering. The time was spent reading, writing and with music. In our letters Gregg and I were making definite plans to meet in Kyoto the first or second week in September and would have three glorious weeks together. It was still six months away, but closer than when we had waved good-bye last August in Hawaii. Hokkaido, due to its long cold winters, was an area, like Korea, which allowed the soldiers stationed there to be eligible for R & R, Rest and Relaxation, at government expense. The airfare and even staying at an R & R center was all paid for, though neither Gregg nor I could envision spending much time at an R & R center filled with other military personnel. But it could serve as a base from which we could then visit and stay in Japanese inns or hotels. Suddenly his letters sounded more positive and filled with anticipation. I knew that I would tell him about my sort of unwilling bedtime participation with both Len and Fred. We had agreed upon no secrets, but I wanted to do it personally and not in a letter. Fred was also spending a lot of his free time writing letters. It appeared his correspondence with Duane had taken on a new aspect; Fred even confided that he been been prompted to mention to Duane that he wanted to talk about 're-negotiating their friendship'. God, at times Fred was so weird, it almost sounded like a major business deal. Fred had planned to take an R & R later in the year and go south and he and Duane were planning to spend the time together. Fred also was quite candid about discussing how much his Christmas eve exploration had helped to release certain suppressed portions of his psyche. Evidently his grandparents were strict Lutherans and hence there wasn't much in the world wasn't a sin and one-way ticket straight to hell. Fred was at his desk writing when he mentioned how much he appreciated the Christmas presentand he wasn't talking about the shirt I had given him. He got up, came over and gave me a great big bear hug, exclaiming, "You know, your appearance in my life is one of the finest things that has ever happened to me! Except for Duane of course, and I might never have known how important he was to me if it hadn't been for you." I assured him the feeling deep friendship was mutual. One evening Len came dashing into the room. "Listen up guys, you're not going to believe this. You know I have been trying to convince Mark to talk to Major Hawkins about seeing if he could transfer to our unitespecially since they've been understaffed for a couple of months. Well, Mark

finally called Hawkings, who in turn called some friend of his in the Cav. and they made all the arrangements. He's going to be transferred over here by the end of the month." Len was ecstatic and I was once again impressed by how some people managed to mold reality around their needs and desires. I remembered it was one of Gregg's favorite tricks.

14 Beyond the Surface

Due in part to the New Years Eve party, I had begun an intensive study of various aspects of Japanese culture. And yet it wasn't as if I was learning something completely new, just refreshing my memory. My first six months in Japan had been an introduction to the surface, the exterior aspects of Japanese culture. Now I was ready to partake of the substance. I discovered in the black and white sumie paintings a world of art in which only the barest essentials are suggested and the viewer adds his perceptions and becomes a part of the composition. I immersed myself in Japanese literature, in translation of course, since I still hadn't reached the point of being able to enjoy it in the original, though with each passing day my knowledge of the written language was increasing. Although daily verbal communication had never really presented a problem. In the terse, three lined Haiku poetry, I encountered once again a beauty of feeling which was a part of something deep within my inner self. Once my friend Kinji, who was still studying English with me, was reciting and attempting to translate some of his favorite Haiku verses. Kinji began, "Uki ware wo, sabishi garase yo...." and from some inexplicable source I was able to finish the verse with the final word, "kankodori".
Ah Kankodori In my melancholy Deepen thou my solitude.

The Kankodori [ ] is a bird that lives in the deep, deep forests of central Japan and though seldom seen is often heard with its plaintive song. In that moment of recognition I also knew the sound of the Kankodori, though I was certain that I'd never heard it in this present lifetime. Later I learned that in this evocative haiku lay one of the keys to Japanese culture. Literally translated it becomes, Kankodori, make lonely melancholy me, and expresses the aim of getting into the deepest possible contact with nature. Sabishi [] is a means describing this contact, and the kankodori is known to have the particular quality of voice, of timbre, pitch and volume to intensify our minds, increasing their depth and receptivity. At every turn a new wave of identification presented itself and waited to be absorbed. I loved Japanese music which was based on an oriental scale that many westerners found too different to be enjoyable. The music of the string instruments of the Koto and Samisen struck chords deep within me and each note sounded across the centuries as a reminder of something that once had been a part of my being and was being reawakened. The somber, deep piercing notes of the bamboo flute, known as the Shakuhachi, recalled memories I couldn't quite grasp, though I knew they existed.

One 'word/concept' which immediately struck home with me was that of 'sabi' [] which in Japanese means patina or antique, but literally means solitude or aloneness. That same word was used in the Kankodori haiku. In discussing this word with Kinji, I learned that one cannot understand the Japanese with having an adequate grasp of its significance since he felt that it lies at the very core of their entire culture. I immediately realized that it could also refer to that "aloneness" which had always been an integral part of my nature and was also so evident within the Japanese character. Unfortunately neither my Japanese, nor Kinji's English, was sufficiently adequate for a complete, detailed explanation of 'sabi'. Then suddenly it was green again. Spring had arrived and it was time to begin more explorations. I had been told of an especially beautiful, though somewhat remote, ryokana traditional inn, and this one was located on a mountain lake. From Chitose, where we were located, it involved taking two different busses and then crossing a large lake by boat in order to get there. I was assured that the beauty of the area and the inn was worth the effort expended. Originally Fred, Len, Mark and I had planned on going, but at the last minute the plans seemed to fall apart. Fred had the sniffles and didn't feel up to the trip; he decided to stay in the barracks and rest. Since the trip was planned for four days and Mark wasn't able to get the extra time off, Len decided to stay with him on the weekend. I realized that I was being presented with an opportunity to make the trip alone, something that was also occasionally necessary to my well being. As I was getting off the first bus, in the a small remote village, the driver carefully and slowly explained that the bus for the mountain area, where the Ryokan was located, would stop here, but that there would be a two hour wait. He then proceeded to write out the complicated kanji characters, which would be on the bus, on a small piece of paper and handed it to me. I mentally contrasted this polite, and helpful, behavior with that of the typical brusque California bus driver. Having some time to pass I decided to explore this remote, sparsely inhabited area. I walked around the small town for a bit and then decided to continue on outside town. As I rounded a bend in the road I saw a small temple nestled up against the hillside and curious, I followed the carefully groomed path to the building. I was sort of peeking inside when a young monk, clad in a black kimono, and with a shaven head, motioned for me to enter by saying, "Dozo gozaimasu", 'please come in'. Even before removing my shoes and entering I felt the tranquility and peace that seemed to pervade the entire area. The only other person in evidence was another monk, seated on a cushion, enveloped in a fragrant cloud of incense, and reciting sutrasthe ancient Buddhist texts. I sat down on the tatami floor allowing the tranquility of the moment to envelop my being. I knew little about the Buddhist services and just wanted to partake of the serenity and quiet harmony. I closed my eyes and was absorbing the rhythm and soothing quality of the monk's voicejust drifting with the sound. Suddenly to one side a voice spoke to me and said that I was a welcome guest. As I opened my eyes I saw an elderly gentleman, dressed in a deep brown priests robe, bowing to me. I turned slightly and bowed back from my seated position. It was then I realized that the person had actually been speaking in English. I later discovered that I'd been addressing the Abbot of the temple, Shimizu roshi. Shimizu was his surname and roshi was the term for 'abbot'. Though he preferred to be addressed as Shimizu-sensei, simply 'teacher Shimizu'. He explained that it had been many years since he had uttered a word in English and hoped that I could understand him. His accent

was a combination of British English and Japanese, beautifully articulated. Instead of going to the Ryokan, I was invited to stay in one of the rooms on the grounds of the Temple as "their honored guest". I spent the next three days in a number of discussions with one of the most learned men I had ever met. Thus began a very special friendship and introduction into one of the most fascinating of all 'religious' philosophies, that of Zen Buddhism. Shimizu-roshi had years before studied at Tokyo University, and Dr. D.T. Suzuki, one of Japan's foremost scholars and writers, had been a classmate and lifelong personal friend. He had all of Dr. Suzuki's books, many of which were in English. Shimizu-roshi explained that he used those in English to read and study so that he wouldn't forget the English courses he had taken many years ago. As we were drinking tea in another part of the temple complex Shimizu-roshi smilingly offered the observation, "I often wondered why I continued to be cultivate my English, perhaps it was so that we could have this conversation today." That one perhaps, and the many during the months that followed. Recalling my conversation with Kinji a few weeks before, I asked Abbot Shimizu about the roots of haiku. How did the Japanese formulate this exquisite type of poetry? Shimizu-roshi began explaining the periods of Japanese history and mentioned that during the Tokugawa Era, which began in the early 1600's, there were recorded the very first haiku. Before this time a type of 35 syllable poem known as waka was the prevalent form. It appeared that haiku, like many things in Japan, was an attempt to reduce a broad concept to its barest essential. The conversation lasted well into the night and the Abbot even produced a book by an erudite scholar, R.H. Blythe, who had spent most of his life in Japan and had recently published several volumes on haiku poetry. According to the abbot, haiku, nature, Zen and the entire Japanese culture were so intricately bound that it was difficult, if not impossible, to separate them. In the coming months I was to hear, repeatedly, that nearly every aspect of Japanese culture had been influenced by Zen Buddhism, from the government and laws of the country to the most seemingly mundane everyday activity. Obviously if I wanted to experience and know what constituted Japan I would have to have more than a superficial knowledge of this all important element. It was during the second night at the temple, lying on the cozy futon in the small room that I thought back to the conversations Gregg and I had indulged in about Christian missionary zeal. One of the many topics discussed when we were studying at the Language school in California. In essence it seemed to boil down to "Be saved or be damned". So far no one here at the temple seemed the least bit concerned about 'saving' this foreign heathen that was wandering around in their complex. Everyone was friendly, some were shy and two of the acolytes were especially extroverted. Shiro and Matsuo appeared to be two of the youngest, perhaps in their late teens, and had engaged me in several conversations about life in the United States, my impressions about Japan and told me bit about their lives before entering the monastery. I realized that I'd been waiting for 'the big sell'; for someone to insist that I become a Zen Buddhist. Wasn't that what religion was all about; attempting to convince everyone who was not a part of your special group that you, and your sect alone, had the 'truth'? Fortunately it was something that never happened at Chosetsu-ji.

On my fourth afternoon there, as I was bowing good-bye to Abbot Shimizu and several of the other monks at the temple, I was presented with a gift. One of the most precious of my life. The entire four volume set of Dr. Blythe's momentous work on haiku poetry. I left knowing that this was but the first of many visits to this very special refuge and unique, tranquil site. In fact I returned on my next five day break. So it was that I began to spend as much free time as possible at the Chosetsu temple talking to Shimizu-roshi. Never once did I feel that he was attempting to gain a convert or convince me that Zen was the one and only path to salvation. In fact his discussions were much like the history lessons my father had given me as a child. They were filled with information and I was free to make my own connections and conclusions. Zen had arrived on the shores of Japan in the sixth century and since its appearance had been a stimulating and formative agent in the cultural history of the country and its people. Its philosophy consisted in seeing directly into the mystery of one's being, to gain an inner experience which takes place in the deepest recesses. It was an appeal to an intuitive mode of understanding that consisted in experiencing what in Japanese is known as satori []. According to Shimizu-roshi, Zen and satori were synonymous, and the satori experience could not be verbalized since that would remove it from its intuitive structure. Quite simply, it was beyond intellectualization and had to be experienced in order to be understood. The western mind, being logical and discursive, forever attempts to take things apart and examine them as if on an operating table. Zen accepts the spiritual connection between inner experience as expressed in art, religion and metaphysics. It reaches the core of creativity and, according to the information from Shimizu-roshi, moves its followers to the depths of their being wherein art becomes a divine work. The greatest works of art, whether painting, music, sculpture, or poetry invariably have this qualitysomething approaching the work of the Supreme Being. The artist, at the moment when his creativity is at its height, is transformed into an agent of the creator. The supreme moment in the life of an artist, expressed in Zen terms, is the experience of satori. To experience satori is to become conscious of the Unconscious. The satori experience, therefore, could not be attained by the ordinary means of teaching or learning. It has its own technique in pointing to the presence in each of us of a mystery that is beyond intellectual analysis. Life is full of mysteries, and whenever there is a feeling of the mysterious, it was contended that there is Zen in one sense or another. Zen had thus greatly helped the Japanese to come in touch with the presence of the mysteriously creative impulse inherent in all of nature. Shimizu-roshi's discourse on Zen was spread over many visits and was combined and punctuated with a marvelous combination of history and literature. I attempted to absorb as much as possible from this brilliant man, though his admonition remained: you can never know Zen through the intellect no matter how many words are used in an attempt to describe it. Hence, when I discovered some weeks later that there was going to be a 'sesshin' at the temple, I

asked the abbot, and was granted permission to attend. A 'sesshin' is a special, intensive period of meditation and individual instruction specifically for lay people. In this case it was a period of five days and four nights. Getting the time off from work was much more difficult, but finally managed to arrange it. When I arrived at the temple early on Wednesday morning I discovered that there were four Japanese who had previously arrived and were also to be a part of the sesshin program. Immediately after a short introduction by Shimizu roshi we entered the zendo, meditation hall, and began our first 'zazen' [ ], or sitting meditation. We had previously been informed that our time would be spent primarily in zazen, though we would also be doing some work around the complex such as sweeping, cleaning and other necessary chores. For they were also an integral part of the process. Everything we did within the period of the next five days was a part of the zen process. Even our breathing and sleeping. Late on Sunday afternoon, when I boarded the bus for the return trip to Chitose I was aware of the fact that I had arrived there one person and now, five days later, I was a different person. Though clearly there was much more to learn, the change in my awareness was the most profound that I had experienced in my life. It was something I intuitively knew, yet if pressed for an explanation, would have found it difficult to verbalize. It had been an experience which went beyond words. After having spent a number of my free periods at the Chosetsu Temple I asked the assistance of the Abbot to help me choose some haiku to send to a friend. Thus began a study, which has lasted the entirety of my life. It also resulted, during the early spring months of that year, in the following introductory manuscript wherein I attempted to explain to Gregg my limited understanding of haiku along with a few of my favorites of the hundreds of well known haiku poems.

HAIKU The love of Nature the Japanese people originally had was no doubt their innate aesthetic sense for things beautiful; but the appreciation of the beautiful is basically religious, for without being religious one cannot detect and enjoy what is genuinely beautiful. And there is no denying that Zen gave an immense impetus to the native feeling for Nature, not only by sharpening it to the highest degree of sensitiveness but also by giving it a metaphysical and religious background. Anyone who has even the most superficial contact with Japanese culture will be aware of the intense appreciation of the objects of Nature as expressed by artists, writers and poets. And the significant fact is that these objects are not necessarily confined to things commonly considered beautiful or those suggestive of an order beyond this evanescent and ever-changing world. Haiku poetry, which developed during the beginning of the Tokugawa period (1600 AD) is one of the most popular methods used by the Japanese people to express their philosophical intuitions and poetic appreciation of Nature. In that feeling compressed within the smallest number of syllables, we

detect the soul of Japan transparently reflected, showing how poetically or intuitively sensitive it is toward Nature and its objects, non-sentient as well as sentient. The haiku poem is composed of seventeen syllables, no more, no less. It is the shortest form of poem we can find in world literature. It consists of seventeen syllables into which have been cast some of the highest feelings human beings are capable of. To quote Dr. R. H. Blythe, an authority on the study of haiku: "A haiku is the expression of satori, of a temporary enlightenment, in which we see into the life of things." It is a product of the moment and in that momentary grasp of reality is reflected all of eternity. A haiku poem may concern the evanescent beauty of the blossom of a morning glory, which opens at dawn and fades even before noon of the same day, or it may concern itself with the magnificence of an ancient, gnarled pine tree which has lived for hundreds of years. If we, as individuals, take the time to pause in our daily activities, we realize that each moment pulsates with the life of both, of all; the totality of creation. The small bronze-green tree frog does not ordinarily seem a beautiful creature to most occidentals. But to the Japanese, when it is found perching on a lotus or a basho leaf, still fresh with the morning dew, it stirs the haiku poet's imagination. A quiet summer scene is depicted by means of a green-backed amphibious animal. To some, an incident like this may seem too insignificant to call out any poetical comment, but to the Japanese, especially to the Buddhist Japanese, nothing that takes place in the world is insignificant. The frog is just as important as the eagle or the tiger; every movement of it is directly connected with the primarily source of life, and in it and through it, one can read the deepest religious truth. Hence a small haiku poem is just as weighty a matter as the Fall of Adam, for there is here, too, a truth revealing the secrets of creation.

The beauty of Hokkaido's relatively short, but incredible spring continued and soon became summer. The vibrancy of the many tones of green was punctuated with splashes of color as the flowering plants raced to bloom and produce seeds as quickly as possiblebefore the long winter arrived once again. The bus that was taking me and Fred into the interior of this mountainous region continued to round curve after curve in its upward voyage. Finally we stopped at a large, intensely blue lake surrounded by steep mountains covered with trees and dense vegetation. The lake was actually located in an ancient volcanic caldera. There was a small grouping of houses and several small stores. Most important there was a small dock for the boat which ferried passengers to the mountain 'ryokan' on the far side of the lake. There were only the two of us waiting for the boat, whose soft puttering motor could be heard in the distance as it approached. The bus was still waiting, evidently for the arrival of the boat and perhaps more passengers to go back down the mountain.

Though I had imagined that the inn would be in a beautiful area, I wasn't prepared for the magnificence, peace and absolute tranquility, which reigned, in this remote mountainous area. Even as we were stepping off the boat Fred was thanking me for suggesting that we visit here. We were greeted at the entrance to the inn and after the formalities were completed we were shown to our room. We found two sets of kimonos awaiting us; one was the traditional light cotton kimono (yukata - ) and another was heavier. It had been explained that the nights could occasionally be cool, even in the summer. Before changing into our fresh yukatas we went down to the bath area which was fed by hot mineral springs. After washing, we slowly slid into the hot water of the large communal bath. It was the perfect way in which to begin yet another experience in knowing traditional Japan. Attired in our traditional white and blue yukatas we spent the afternoon exploring the area surrounding the inn. The owner had suggested that we use the geta, wooden clogs, which were also reserved for guests. The light clumping noise of this unique footwear added to enchantment of our exploration. The paths surrounding the inn were roofed by towering trees, the ground was covered by ferns and mosses of every conceivable kindeach a different hue of green. Occasional flowers shyly made their appearance as we rounded one bend after another. As we were returning to the inn we were greeted by an elderly gentleman on the path who bowed low and then introduced himself. He explained that he too was staying at the inn and suggested in Japanese that he would be honored if we would join him for a drink of sake. We were seated outside the inn on the broad engawa, or verandah, and Kokugawa-san, our new acquaintance and host, had ordered some sake for the three of us. I was expecting the usual small bottles of sake, with the even smaller cups. Both Fred and I were surprised when the sake arrived in large water glasses and it was cold instead of hot. There also arrived a large plate of what was obviously small chunks of squid. We hesitantly tried it and discovered that it was pickled and quite delicious, a nice accompaniment to the cold sake. Except for his head of perfectly white hair Kokugawa-san looked much younger than his 72 years. He explained that he had been born in 1883, a few scant years after the beginning of the Meiji period, when Japan had decided to embrace and become a part of the modern world. He had originally lived on Honshu, near the city of Sendai and after graduating from the University there had come to Sapporo, here on Hokkaido. He had been a teacher of Japanese literature at the University in Sapporo for many years. When his wife had died three years ago he had gone south to live with a married son and daughter-in-law in Sendai. He was presently on vacation and had come north to Hokkaido to stay with friends and also especially to visit this small inn were he and his wife had spent many a joyous occasion. Besides offering information about himself he was also anxious to know about uswhere we came from, about our families, and how it was that we had learned to speak Japanese. Most of all he was curious about how we, two American military had found this remote inn since, as he surmised, we were probably the first foreigners to ever have visited it. Soon more rounds of sake were ordered and this time we insisted on treating him. The sun was beginning to sink behind the towering mountains, though it wouldn't be dark for several hours. It was a magical late afternoon, made even more so by the soft serenade of the birds in the surrounding forest and the soft lapping of the lake's water against the rocks.

I mentioned to Professor Kokugawa that I had recently begun reading The Tale of Prince Genji (Genji monogatari) by Lady Murasaki. I immediately knew by his beaming face that I had touched a very tender spot. He began to explain that this novel, written in 1010 AD, was really the beginning of Japanese literature; in fact it was one of the first written in the Japanese language. Before that time all 'literature' was written using solely Chinese characters. Lady Murasaki had been so bold as to write using Japanese characters and the everyday Japanese vernacular. He voiced the opinion that this novel, written by a noblewoman of the Kyoto court, had been written with a delicate sensitivity and with a depth of psychological insight that had rarely been approached in literature. He hoped that my English translation was able to convey the beauty of the original and that some day in the future I would be able to read it in Japanese. Our conversation that afternoon had been almost exclusively in Japanese with the professor occasionally using a few halting words in English. I had been translating as best as I could for Fred, though with each glass of sake he seemed to understand more. I was also aware of the fact that the professor had purposely been using a very basic vocabulary, and simple phrases in order that we could understand him. His capacity as a teacher, to understand the ability of the student and work from that level, was evident and appreciated. The professor asked if I had encountered any books by a relatively new writer by the name Mishima Yukio (in Japanese fashion he had put the surname first). I told him that just the previous week I had purchased "Confessions Of A Mask" - Mishima's first novel translated into English and in fact had brought it along with me to read. The professor commented that he had read three of Mishima's novels and was anxiously awaiting the publication of any new ones. He commented that Mishima had much of the same psychological sensitivity in his writing as Lady Murasaki, who had written nearly a thousand years before. He added that perhaps it was his homosexuality that made him more aware and sensitive to the emotional states of both sexes. Until that time I hadn't been aware that Mishima, one of contemporary Japan's most prized new writers was homosexual, and noted that there was no hint of derision in the professor's voice or language when he spoke about this novelist. Professor Kokugawa also suggested that I try and find some of the works of Tanizaki Junichiro. Though a contemporary novelist, he evidently often used themes or set his works in the times of Japan's ancient past. The light was now disappearing and the first fireflies were beginning their nightly ballet when we said goodnight to the professor and retired to our room. After a light supper, served in our room, we retired to our comfortable, soft futons. Fred was the first to hear and bring to my attention, that far off in the distance someone was playing a shakuhachi, the plaintive bamboo flute. It was a fitting end to a most beautiful day. Several weeks later I was once again visiting the Chosetsu Temple. When I asked about the all pervading sense of tranquility that I had felt since I arrived in Japan, Shimizu-san began by outlining the concepts of 'sabi' and 'wabi'. I made mental as well as copious written notes and was offered several of Dr. Suzuki's books to read. The result was the following note that I sent home to Bozhena and of course one to Gregg. Perhaps a bit pretentious with the footnotes, but obviously wanted to impress my mother with her sons ability to write a scholarly paper, and access to the typewriter that Patrick had left behind.

Sabi Wabi

It has been proposed by my friend the Abbot Shimizu of the Chosetsu Temple that a comprehension of the Japanese character and traditions is absolutely impossible without an understanding of these two words and their significance within and upon Japanese culture. The words underlie concepts that were introduced by the Soto Zen sect of Buddhism, and over the centuries become an integral part of Japanese culture. The most basic meaning for the calligraphic character of 'sabi' is tranquility. Tranquility, peace, serenity. It can also be used to mean lonesome, lonely, solitary or quiet. 'Wabi' in the most simplistic definition means 'primitive simplicity; close to the natural state of living'. But those definitions barely touch upon the deeper and broader meaning of 'sabi' and 'wabi' within the entirety of the Japanese culture. Dr. D.T. Suzuki1 has written that the spirit of 'Eternal Loneliness', an integral part of the Japanese personality and which is the essence or spirit of Zen, expresses itself under the name of 'Sabi' in the various departments of Japanese life such as sumie painting, landscape gardening, the tea-ceremony, flower arrangement, dressing, furniture, in the mode of living, theater, classical music, poetry, home construction, and in fact pervades all aspects of living The spirit comprises such elements as simplicity, naturalness, unconventionality, refinement, freedom, familiarity singularly tinged with aloofness, and everyday commonness which is veiled exquisitely with the mist of transcendental inwardness. Many features of everyday life can be referred to as 'having a sense of sabi' or 'tasting of sabi'. The transcendental inwardness which Dr. Suzuki refers to is obviously a part of the Japanese love of Nature and its basic simplicity. At some time we all wish to go back to the bosom of Nature and feel her pulse directly. Hence the desire of the city dweller to go camping, spend some time on the beach or go traveling in those areas away from the urban environment. Zen, which for centuries has helped to mold the Japanese character, has guided the people in breaking through all forms of human artificiality and take firm hold of what lies behind them. It has been instrumental in helping the Japanese to not forget the soil but to be always friendly with Nature and appreciate her unaffected simplicity. Zen has no taste for the complexities that lie on the surface of life. Life itself is simple enough, but when it is surveyed by the analyzing intellect it presents unparalleled intricacies. With all the apparatus of science we have not yet fathomed the mysteries of life. But, once in its current and when we sense the 'ground of our being' we seem to be able to understand it, even with its

apparently endless pluralities and entanglements. Perhaps the most characteristic thing in the temperament of the Japanese people is the ability to grasp life from within and not be constantly examining it only from without which is so characteristic of the west. Within Nature we are able to appreciate its simple beauty, its perfection as well as its small imperfections. Beauty obviously does not always mean perfection of form as evidenced when we happen upon a torn or slightly battered leaf. Its basic beauty is still apparent as well as intrinsic. One of the favorite tricks of Japanese artists has been to embody beauty while combining slight imperfections. The pottery vessel which seems to embody perfection of form and with an exquisite glaze evidences an ever so slight indentation on its rim. Even in a magnificent flower arrangement the Ikebana artist will include a damaged leaf as evidence of reality and to show the beauty inherent in imperfection. When this beauty of imperfection is accompanied by antiquity we have a glimpse of 'sabi', so prized by Japanese connoisseurs. Sabi consists in rustic unpretentiousness or archaic imperfection, apparent simplicity or effortlessness in execution, and richness in historical associations. It contains inexplicable elements that raise the object in question to the rank of an artistic production. It may be an ancient picture which is recognized as a National Treasure or a simple tea cup which is used daily. The artistic element contained in both is the 'sabi' of tranquility and peace. The artist embodied these qualities and was able to imbue his creation with them. The patina of age (real or suggested to the point of appearing real) embodies the essence of sabi. The artistic element that goes into the constitution of sabi, which in its most literal sense means 'loneliness' or 'solitude', can also be found in much of Japanese poetry. As I come out To this fishing village, Late in the autumn day, No flower in bloom I see, Nor any color tinged maple leaves. 2 Aloneness appeals to contemplation and does not lend itself to spectacular demonstration. It is not only to the fishing village on the autumnal eve that aloneness gives form but also to a patch of green in the early spring which is in all likelihood even more expressive of sabi. For in the green patch, as evidenced in the following thirty-one-syllable 'tanka' verse, there is an indication of life impulse amid the wintry desolation. To those who only pray for the cherries to bloom,

How I wish to show the spring That gleams from a patch of green In the midst of the snow-covered mountain village.3 In this poem there is just a dim inception of life power as asserted in the form of a little green patch, but in it he who has an eye can readily discern the spring shooting out from underneath the forbidding snow. It may be said to be a mere suggestion that stirs in his mind, but just the same it is life itself and not a feeble indication. To the artist, life is a much here as when the whole field is overlaid with greenness and flowers. It could be called the mystic sense of the artist. It is this same mystic sense that recognizes and appreciates the underlying beauty and suchness of sabi within life Sabi / Wabi simplification, aloneness, and similar ideas make up the most conspicuous and characteristic features of Japanese art and culture. All of these emanate from one central perception of the truth of Zen, which is "the One in the Many and the Many in the One." 1-D.T. Suzuki, Zen Buddhism and Its Influence on Japanese Culture, Kyoto, 1938. 2-Fujiwara Sadaiye (1162-1241) 3-Fujiwara Iyetaka (1158-1237)

Gregg had become fascinated by the haiku poems that I had sent him and asked for more. In fact he mentioned that one of the first things he was going to buy when he arrived in Kyoto was a Japanese grammar and calligraphy book so that he could begin studying Japanese. Though he admitted that it would have to be a solitary study and he probably wouldn't mention it to his Korean friends since there was still a lot of enmity toward the Japanese. And the recent exploration of the concepts of sabi and wabi added to his desire to know more of Japanese culture. It was now late August. Within a few short weeks Gregg and I would be meeting in Kyoto for three weeks of R & R. The correspondence between Korea and Hokkaido had been voluminous during the last couple of months as we had begun to plan how we would spend the time together. I had also written to Alex in Tokyo and Dwight in Kyushu making plans to visit with both of them.

I had been in Japan for a little over a year. The time seemed to have passed especially fast and surprisingly I had never once been homesick for California. Some of the guys talked of nothing but how many days they had left until they went back to the 'States'. Many were homesick, others not able to relate to the unique culture of the Japanese. I'd never given it a second thought since I seemed much too busy absorbing my surroundings and basking in the present.

15 Alex and Tatsuo It was a Monday morning in early September when the military courier plane landed in Tokyo. There were three flights a week that carried the classified material from our Field station to the ASA headquarters there. Major MacIntyre and I were the only passengers. The major was the second in command at our operations center and though I had never actually talked to him before, we chatted non-stop during the entire flight. When he learned that I was going to visit Kyoto and was interested in Japanese culture he suggested a nearly limitless number of places that I should visit. I had written to Alex and arranged to spend two days there visiting with him in Tokyo, and then fly out early Wednesday morning to Kyoto. Gregg would be arriving in Kyoto, directly from Korea, within an hour of my arrival there. First Gregg and I had planned to explore Kyoto, the ancient political capital of Japan and still recognized as the cultural capital of the country. Next we would take the train down to Hiroshima and then a ferry to the southern island of Kyushu. Dwight was at the Fukuoka ASA station in Kyushu and we had arranged to visit with him. Fred insisted that we also look up Duane who was at the naval base in Sasebo, an hour or so south of Fukuoka. We had probably planned far too many things to do in the short three weeks, but would do as many as possible, and comfortable, in our allotted time. There was a car waiting for the major at the airport and he invited me to go with him to the ASA headquarters building. Normally, as an enlisted person I would have been expected to utilize one of the transport buses which shuffled military personnel around the city. This small gesture on the part of Major MacIntyre was one of the features, which distinguished the ASA from the rest of the Army. The officers recognized our basic equality as human beings. A persons 'rank', which was a major separator within most of the military, was almost a minor consideration within the ASA organization. The major and I arrived at the headquarters building and Alex was outside the building waiting for me. Evidently my timing had been perfect since he was was just starting his three-day break. It had only been a year since I had seen him but the change was immediately evident. He was extremely talkative and had planned a number of things for us to do during my two days there. First we got in a taxi and headed for the small house, which he had rented in a nearby section of the city. Having spent a year in the relative remoteness of Hokkaido I was astounded by the activity of Tokyo. The constant movement of both traffic and people was almost overwhelming. Alex mentioned that he was sharing a house and that his roommate would probably be there since he was anxious to meet me. I was about to inquire about his roommate when Alex told the driver to stop at the next corner. We walked down a small side street, went through an entry gate and then as Alex slid open the shoji door I was surprised to be greeted by a young Japanese fellow. He was introduced as Kinawara Tatsuo, in the Japanese tradition of giving the surname first. I didn't know if it was the sudden imput from my 'antenna' or perhaps the manner in which they were speaking to each other, but it was fairly evident that Alex and Tatsuo were lovers. Or at least I was pretty sure that they

were. Within the composition of the Japanese language there are various forms of 'politeness' and verbs, as well as adjectives, are all suffixed with these necessary forms. The form, which they had used, was that of very close friends. But in addition to this, perhaps more than this grammatical structure, were the tones within the words they used. Now I knew how Sven had been immediately cognizant of the relationship between Gregg and me. I guess what really surprised me was that Tatsuo looked like he was no more than about sixteen years old. Alex explained that Tatsuo spoke very little English, although he understood it rather well, so if I didn't mind we would converse primarily in Japanese. I spoke directly to Tatsuo and commented that it would be an honor to practice my poor Japanese with him. Tatsuso's eyes lit up and he immediately complimented me on the manner in which I spoke his language. At almost the same time he chided Alex, telling him that he needed work a little more to improve his manner of speaking. Actually it had sounded pretty good to me. Since it was well after mid day Tatsuo suggested we go to a nearby place for something to eat, explaining at the same time that it was just a block away from the house, or would I first like to rest or perhaps use the bathroom. Was there anything I needed or wanted? I liked Tatsuo immediately since he, like most Japanese, was so aware of making a guest feel completely comfortable. Their house was charmingly simple and completely oriental in that it had none of the clutter of the occident. When we'd entered the street gate we'd passed through a small, well-tended garden and entered the entry room where one took off their shoes. There was a large eight tatami room, about 12' x 12', a smaller six tatami room, a modest though adequate kitchen and large bath. The larger room looked out on an exquisite small side garden, which had, besides the exquisitely groomed plants, a beautiful granite lantern adorned with lichen and moss. The tokonoma alcove in the main room had a tasteful scroll of a black and white sumiye landscape and vase with a single autumn blooming sasanqua camellia. After I had freshened up a bit we went out to lunch. Coming from the cooler north, I felt the heat and humidity of Tokyo, but it was pleasant nonetheless. We ate at one of the many small counter cafes, which normally seat no more than a few people at a time. This one had a maximum capacity of about twelve persons. Normally each specialized in a particular type of food and this one's specialty was Tempuraseafood and vegetables dipped in a batter and then deep-fried. We all decided on the shrimp and vegetable tempura. As the food arrived we each in turn uttered, "itadakimasu" [ ] a ritual that began each meal, much as the words "gochissa madeshita" [ ] ended it. Curiously they were words that I had never encountered in any of my grammar or phrase books, yet was a necessary and integral part of every day living. The tempura was exquisite and much better than anything I had encountered in Hokkaido, or perhaps it just seemed that way since I hadn't eaten breakfast before boarding the plane early that morning. As we were finishing Tatsuo explained that he would have to go to work and at least put in a few hours though he would be able to return by about 6:00 and then we could all do something together. He politely excused himself and headed for the train station to go into downtown Tokyo. It was well past midday and there were only two other customers in the small cafe. Alex and I

decided to have some more tea and chat in order to catch up on what had been occurring in our lives during the past year. Now we could also speak completely in English and it facilitated the exchange of information. He wanted to know all about Hokkaido and how I enjoyed life in the north. I briefly outlined how the weather affected our lives there and a bit about my friends. We were both very cautious not to mention anything about our work, at least in public. That was a forbidden subject, kinjiru [], outside of the operations building. Then I mentioned that I was sharing a house in Chitose with one of the guys in my barracks. Alex looked sort of surprised and asked about my current relationship with Gregg. Now it my turn to be surprised, but I realized that he had misunderstood about the relationship with Len. It was getting complicated since neither of us was being completely open. I just blurted it out and asked, "Alex, just exactly what do you know about Gregg and me about our 'friendship'? He smiled, a very coy and knowing smile, "Oh, everything. Dwight explained it all to me when he was here a few months ago. But of course I'd figured it all out long before we left the Language School. Don't you remember our conversation that day we went to San Francisco together? In fact, we were in a restaurant, just like today, except the food was Russian. God, those piroshki were delicious. I was sort of fishing around for information about the two of you, but you didn't seem to want to talk about it. "It was about that time that I was sort of accepting the fact that I was gay. I'd known it probably for several years but was still pretty mixed up. Then when I saw you and Gregg together all the time, as well as the scuttlebutt about the fact that you two were lovers..... Don't misunderstand; you guys certainly weren't the only ones there at the school. I guess being there, and seeing some obviously well adjusted gay guys around also helped to convince me. "Well, I hoped we could talk about it. I just wanted to talk to someone, anyone. But, since it didn't happen I guess it just wasn't the right time. But getting back to you and Gregg, what's going on, if you don't mind my asking?" "Well its obvious," I began, "that we can now talk openly. In the first place, Len is just a buddy and we share the house in towna place where we can get away from the base and just be ourselves and relax. And actually he has a new boyfriend. More about that later Nothing has changed between Gregg and me and of course that's why I'm down here, so we can finally spend some time together." Alex smiled, "I'm really glad to hear that. I liked Gregg from the first time I met him and felt that you guys were just perfect together. Now, I know you must be curious about Tatsuo. Isn't he sweet? And then he sighed, "God, I am so in love you can't believe it."

Yes, I did have a number of questions and began by asking exactly how old Tatsuo was as a starter. Alex laughed and then explained that Dwight had asked the same thing and though he certainly didn't look it he was almost twenty-six. In fact tomorrow was his birthday. He had studied at the University of Tokyo, though because of financial problems he hadn't finished and at present he was working at the Tokyo Shimbun - a large newspaper in the city. Alex asked if I wanted to go into downtown Tokyo now or perhaps just visit the local area and we could spend the entire day in the city tomorrow. I opted for local visiting and then perhaps a rest in the afternoon since he had also mentioned that we would be going out to celebrate Tatsuo's birthday tonight. We visited several shops, a beautiful temple that had come through the wartime bombing raids completely intact and then on to an exquisitely beautiful garden which belonged to a Tea Association, the Dainihon Chado Gakkai. The garden was simple and one of the most magnificent I had ever seen. In a remote corner was the building where the tea ceremony was held. Though we were in the middle of a city, the surroundings were so perfectly constructed that we could have been standing in a wooded site remote from civilization. When we eventually got back to the house Alex immediately changed into a yukata, a light cotton summer kimono, and asked if I would like one too. Sounded like a great idea since they were certainly more comfortable than western clothes, and especially since the afternoon had become slightly overcast and very humid. We were relaxing and drinking green tea when I got around to asking Alex how he and Tatsuo had first met. His deep blue eyes sparkled and he responded, "Do you believe in destiny? Well I certainly do now and know that it was that very force that brought us together. Our meeting was so well orchestrated that it couldn't have just been chance." As he got up to pour some more tea, I commented on the fact I was sure that it was that very same element that he was talking about that had been responsible for my having met Gregg. Then Alex began the story about how he had first met Tatsuo. One day at the Operations center a couple of months after he had arrived, Alex had been invited to join several of the guys at a new bar, which they had discovered and were especially fond of because of the atmosphere. It wasn't far from the ASA Headquarters building and within easy walking distance. Alex explained that he wanted to finish a couple of letters that evening before going out, so his buddies told him exactly how to get there. After he had finished his letters he set out along on the trip, which was to change his life completely, though he certainly wasn't aware of it at the time. He had walked down the broad thoroughfare from Headquarters until he encountered the Iwakura building with its brilliant neon sign. As per instructions he turned left and walked for three blocks and then turned right and walked for another two blocks. They had explained that in the middle of the second block he would find the bar. He couldn't miss it since it was the only one on that side of the street among a number of shops and small restaurants. When he got to the middle of the second block he realized that they must have been slightly mistaken since there was nothing open but a soba

(noodle) restaurant. Then towards the end of the block he saw some guys going in a doorway and could hear music coming from inside, obviously the bar he was looking for. As he entered the doorway of the bar and began to look for his friends he realized that he was the only American there, and the music was much more oriental than occidental. Well, it was still fairly early and maybe they had stopped somewhere else first. He was greeted by a pleasant young man and shown to a small booth on one side of the room. His young Japanese host asked what he would like to drink and Alex decided that the music and atmosphere called for sake, Japanese rice wine. The young man returned shortly and then sat down with Alex in order to pour the warm sake and chat. It was a pleasant custom, which was characteristic of Japan. The only difference was that normally young ladies served the drinks. Alex then noticed that there wasn't a single female in the entire bar. The young host introduced himself in a halting combination of Japanese and English. His name was Kinawara Tatsuo. Alex introduced himself and Tatsuo had a little trouble in dealing with Alex's first name and they finally settled on Areitsuku. They continued to attempt conversation, but since neither was really conversant with the other's language it was difficult, though not impossible. Then a young man entered and Tatsuo immediately motioned for him to come over to the booth. They talked briefly in Japanese and the other young man introduced himself as Kinamoto Seiji, and in near perfect English. Seiji sat down and explained that he was a student and was in fact studying English and very happy to be able to practice it. The sake continued to flow, as did the conversation with the help of Seiji acting as interpreter for Alex and Tatsuo. Some time later Alex noticed that two of the young men in the back of the bar were dancing together and it was immediately evident why there were still no women in attendance. He had wandered into a Japanese homosexual bar, but not only did he not feel uncomfortable, he realized that he felt very much at home. All too soon the hour of curfew was nearing and he realized that he would have to return to the ASA Headquarters. Through Seiji, Tatuso told Alex that he hoped he would return soon. Alex promised him that he would. Tatsuo and Seiji offered to walk back to the headquarters with Alex and he accepted their generous offer. I couldn't help but ask, "And was that the bar that your buddies had invited you to? Did they ever show up?" "Oh, god no. I later discovered that they had told me to turn right at the Iwakura building and then turn left after two blocks. I had done just the opposite and by making that mistake I found the person I'd like to spend the rest of my life with. By the way I've already looked into being discharged here in Tokyo and it shouldn't be too difficult to find a jobI can't envision leaving either Tatsuo or this culture. I love Japan and everything about it." Alex then explained that the house actually belonged to Tatsuo's family and they had, for economic reasons, been forced to rent it after the death of his father several years ago. They had been living with a nearby aunt and the income from the rent helped to sustain them. Tatsuo had been compelled to leave his University studies and had gotten a job at the newspaper and also helped to

manage the bar, which belonged to an uncle. Later Tatsuo's mother had returned to the town of her birth to be with her mother and Tatsuo had stayed on in Tokyo. Alex continued, "So when Tatsuo and I decided that we would like to make our relationship a permanent affair I was able to rent the house and here we are. There's another reason for wanting to stay in Japan. I know that my father could never, but never, accept my being gay. This way he'll never have to know." "One of the great things about Japan is the fact that homosexuality is accepted as just another way of behavior. There's no great stigma attached to it like there is in most occidental cultures. God, the Japanese are so civilizedwell, with the exception of the war which I think we all know was perpetrated by a small group of power hungry individualsas is usually the case. Sometimes I think that politicians and the military ought to be outlawed, but then that would put us out of a job wouldn't it?" Just then we heard Tatsuo slide open the shoji door to the entry room and then he came into the room, bowing low. I got up, bowed back and said, "O tanj-bi omedetgozaimasu Tatsuo san - Happy birthday!" He smiled broadly and commented that it wasn't until tomorrow but that he was pleased to accept my congratulations. He sat down, felt the teapot and was about to get up to make some hot tea. Alex insisted he remain seated so the two of us could chat and went into the kitchen. Tatsuro told me that he had convinced his boss to give him the day off tomorrow so that both he and Alex could help to show me around Tokyo. I had to agree with Alex, that Tatuso was probably one of the cutest, saiko kawaii, and most charming young men I had ever known, with one exception of course. That night we went to the bar and it was a truly festive occasion. Nearly all of the guys seemed to know each other and had all brought a gift for Tatsuo. They were beautifully wrapped and presented in a formal, almost ceremonial manner with a low bow. As he accepted each gift he said, "Itadakimasu", the same word used for beginning a meal. A bit confused I ask Alex if he knew what it was all about, and he explained that it meant "I humbly accept" and when used at the meal was in reference to accepting food from one's host, or the gods perhaps, and now it was used as a humble acceptance from his friends. It was a word I had used for some six months and never questioned. I still had a lot to learn about this complex and elegant language. Everyone seemed to be impressed that there was another gaijin, foreigner, present and some even asked me if I knew Zuwaitu, though it took me a while to figure out that they were referring to Dwight. Soon it was well past the curfew hour for army personnel. We left the bar and decided that it would be easiest to take a taxi to the house. My day had been a long one and I was well on my way to sleeping before I had completely stretched out on the comfortably soft futon. Tuesday was spent playing tourist and we passed the entire day in the downtown area of Tokyo. It seemed to have grown considerably in the last year and the number of things to see and do seemed limitless. At times I felt somewhat like the country bumpkin who had come to the big city. Hokkaido was nice, but this was truly exiting.

Wednesday morning we were up early and after saying goodbye to Tatsuo, Alex and I went to the Headquarters building where I would be able to get a ride to the military airport. Before leaving I told Alex how happy I was for himthat he had found not only a very special person to be with, but obviously had also found himself. Alex then handed me a small, wrapped package, felt like a book, and said that it was a small gift for me and that special person in my life, Gregg. I promised to visit again as soon as possible and at the same time told Alex that they should consider visiting Hokkaido. Adding that it might not be as sophisticated as Tokyo, but there was little to equal its natural beauty.

16 Pilgrims in Kyoto

The military plane circled and banked prior to landing to the north of the city of Osaka, about an hour from Kyoto. The cities of Osaka, and Kyoto in the distance, could be seen below, surrounded by verdant, lush greenness. Kyoto was a large valley nestled within the emerald boundaries of the surrounding mountains. Within and around, all of the Japanese cities that I had seen, there existed an abundance of greenery. It was so obvious that the Japanese people appreciated, valued, and accepted nature as an integral part of life. A part of the totality; difficult if not impossible to separate one from the other. At last I would be experiencing this singular city that, historically and culturally, was the embodiment of Japan. A city rich in so many ways; in painting and sculpture, in Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, in palaces and castles, textiles and pottery, and in gardens - Palace gardens, temple gardens, teahouse gardens, and even small family gardens. According to what I had read Kyoto also contained the one single site that expressed more fully than any other the essential nature of Japan, the ancient Imperial Palace. A quiet, elegant relic of the past amid the shimmering green moss and majestic pine trees; gardens crossed by paths of clean sand and streams of clear water from the surrounding mountains. Rising majestically on one side was Mount Higashi, with its celebrated monuments and on the other, Mount Hiei, whose slopes once housed three thousand Buddhist temples, and a number of the most important were still in existence. Most important was that I would once again be with Gregg. Our time apart had truly seemed like an eternity. Unlike my previous flight this plane, flying between two major cities, was nearly filled with military personnel. The hierarchical division was again evident. The officers had been assigned the first few rows with the enlisted ranks of sergeants, corporals and privates seated in the rear. Somewhat like a buffer zone, there were two rows of vacant seats between them. The rank of 'Specialist' was a fairly new designation and they still didn't know exactly what to do with us. Another ASA specialist and myself were the only men in the 'buffer zone'. I was on one side of the aircraft with a window seat, and he was on the other. The flight was short and uneventful, though my anticipation of being with Gregg held my pulse in a continual state of acceleration. As we stepped down from the plane and crossed to the stark air force building which served as the terminal, I was sure that I had seen Gregg's face in one of the windows, but knew that my excitement was no doubt affecting brain as well as vision since the plane from Korea wasn't due for at least an hour or so. We had attempted to time our flights so as to arrive as close to the same time as possible. In any case the reservations had been booked at the military R & R Center in Kyoto and in the case of a delay we had agreed to meet there. But then as I walked in the door I saw him. It really was him, though it was difficult for me to accept it as being reality. It seemed so ridiculous, we were shaking hands - what I really wanted to do was grab and hold him close, but it would hardly have been proper in a military installation. So far neither of us had uttered a word. Then he said, God, it's good to see you. At the time those six simple words, and the mere sound of his familiar voice, had the impact of a Bach cantata - absolute perfection of sound and rhythm, and something

which touched the very foundations of my soul. On the military shuttle bus service to Kyoto, Gregg explained that his flight orders had been changed at the last minute and he had been forced to fly out of Pusan a day early. It involved some last minute paperwork, but he smilingly acknowledged that it looked like it had been a fortuitous change. So he had taken the bus into Osaka in order to meet me when I arrived. He also explained that in arriving at the R & R hotel the day before, he'd discovered that not only were we assigned to different rooms but even on different floors. He must have noticed my slightly dismayed look for he quickly added, "Don't worry, it's all been taken care of. Fortunately the desk clerk, wouldn't you know it, a nice Italian guy by the name of Del Veccio, fixed us up. Oh, by the way, he thinks we're cousins who haven't seen each other in over three years. " Obviously Gregg had been up to his usual tricks of utilizing the confraternity of "all Italians everywhere" to rearrange his personal reality. I knew that the Slovaks were just as willing to help one another, the only problem being there weren't many of us. During my military service I'd met a couple of Czechs, but not a single Slovak. It appeared that Slovaks were definitely somewhat of a worldwide minority. As the bus continued on its way towards the hotel I couldn't help but notice that Kyoto had remained completely intact during the war. There was no evidence of any damage since the US air raids had specifically not bombed this city due to its historical significance. I guess what really surprised me was the size of the city and the amount of industry evident. Perhaps I'd been expecting an entire city exactly as it had been in the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Granted, we'd passed a number of large temple completes which seemed to carry the patina of age, and I'd seen an especially tall pagoda in the distance, but it was also a very contemporary urban scene.

We had arrived and the very military sign proclaimed the KYOTO R & R CENTER. Gregg greeted the Corporal at the desk like they'd known each other for years and began joking in Italian. Corporal Mario Dei Veccio took my papers and requested that I sign a couple of military forms. Then, in crisp military fashion, he handed me an information booklet about the rules of the center and information about the city as well as a map. He mentioned that Gregg already had a room key and then gave me another. He additionally gave Gregg a paper with a list of some sort and pointed out that the first name on the list would probably be the best choice. Instead of using the elevator or main staircase, Gregg headed in the direction of a small flight of stairs off to one side. At the first landing there were two signs which, pointing left and right, boldly announced: Authorized Personnel Only and Hotel Administration Staff. There was an additional small notice which stated that all other military hotel guests should use the main staircase or elevator. Gregg immediately turned left. It seemed that we had somehow become 'Authorized Personnel'. It appeared that Maestro Bartoni had done it again, of course being 'Specialists' and a part of the ASA always helped. As we went down the hall I began to chuckle and by the time Gregg was putting the key in the door, it appeared to be the only one on this wing, my soft, contained laughter was gently echoing in the empty hall.

The door was barely closed before we were in an embrace, which had been the culmination of a year of longing and waiting. At last he said, This past year has been the longest period of my entire life. It was almost like being sentenced to one of Dantes most inventive hells. God, I've missed you. You've no idea how empty my life has been without you. I responded with, "Me too, cousin." Then finally I saw the great big smile that I'd been expecting and his face became radiant. I finally got around to examining the room. Now this was living. There was an extra large sofa, two comfortable appearing arm chairs, two large beds, gigantic desk, table, bar and small refrigerator - even an automatic coffee pot. The double French doors led out to a small balcony, which overlooked a forested area below and beyond was Mt. Hiei, the most sacred mountain of Kyoto with several monasteries on its slopes. Gregg mentioned that at one time there had been thousands of temples on that single mountain. Gregg had evidently invited Cpl. Dei Veccio out for a few beers the previous evening and explained that he hadn't seen his 'cousin' for over three years and asked if there was any possibility of our being in the same room. The corporal mentioned that since the center was nearly full, and shifting guys around would be difficult, that he could give us an unused room, normally reserved for officers. He also explained that it had hardly ever been occupied since the officers now had their own hotel on the other side of town and always stayed there. Mario proceeded to explain that it was also policy to extend all possible assistance to ASA personnel. He then, speaking in Italian, asked Gregg exactly what our work entailed. Gregg replied, like we had all been forced to do many times, that it was something he wasn't allowed to discuss. In looking around it was evident that everything in the room was almost brand new, it looked as if it had never been used. It was also slightly incongruous. Here we were in one of the oldest cities in Japan, a city that embodied the centuries old traditions of this land, and yet there was little in the room which reflected the Japanese world outside. It could have been a hotel suite in any large city in the US. Most evident was a new bottle of Chivas Regal, which Gregg had provided, and he immediately fixed us a scotch and soda in order to celebrate our good fortune. A while later we got up, showered, dressed and decided to try the food in the dining room since it was nearing 2:00 and neither of us had even eaten breakfast. Gregg had already mentioned that the dining room was elegant, the menu extensive and the food exquisite. As we sat down I realized once again that this was just like being in one of the best hotels available in the states, the major difference being the Japanese waiters and the fact that we didn't have pay for our food. Gregg had brought a guidebook and map of the city along with him and he began talking about our stay in Kyoto, which according to the book was The Heart of Japan. During lunch he explained that he had spent the last few months reading everything he could in relation to the areas we would visit as well as general information about Japan; its history, culture, traditions and especially its literature. He hadn't changed a bit and although I might speak some Japanese, he would obviously act as our guide. But I was mistaken since he had yet another plan.

'On the short flight over from Pusan', Gregg began to explain, l got to thinking about all there was to see and experience here and realized that probably the best solution would be to get someone to guide us. Specifically someone who knew the city, its environs and hence could help to save us both time and some useless wandering around, as well as time-consuming backtracking. I remarked that it sounded like a super idea, so all we had to do was to find a guide. Gregg pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket, "I talked about it with Mario last night and he went to work this morning getting a list of possible guides. He felt that our interests would probably be served best by one of the students at the University and in the history or fine arts department. His first suggestion was one of the professors, but they will might be busy with academic preparations". I felt it was a brilliant idea and wondered why my mind didn't function like his. He lifted his cup of coffee, his eyes glistening, then quietly confided, I want to see and encounter as much as possible during our time together here, but right now my only desire is just bask in your proximity." Our telepathic communication was functioning exquisitely, since they were precisely my sentiments at that moment. After finishing lunch we went in search of our 'guide'. The first name on the list was a student at the university. Mario had written down his home address, which we gave to the taxi driver. When we arrived at his humble, though immaculate appearing home, Hiroshi was seated outside on the engawa reading a book. He seemed moderately surprised at our arrival, but when we had finished the explanation of our need he appeared more than happy to help us. The dark eyes in his round young face turned into narrow slits as he smilingly suggested that it would also give him a chance to practice his meager English. We soon discovered that he was majoring in Art History, loved literature and it appeared that he had exactly the qualifications we were looking for. He seemed astounded at the sum which we suggested for his services and reluctantly accepted the figure as being more than adequate. We were soon invited inside to have tea and met his mother, a charming, graceful lady dressed in a plain light summer kimono. Seated on the floor, we continued to talk and Gregg showed Hiroshi our tentative list of places he had picked out. Hiroshi seemed to be impressed by Gregg's thoroughness, and commented that it wouldnt be possible to visit one of the temples on the list since it had burned down several weeks previously. In discovering that we would only be in Kyoto for ten days he mentioned that it was quite unfortunate since the Kenri-mon, or south gate of the imperial Palace grounds was only open twice a year, in spring and autumn, and the next time would be in two and a half weeks. We then mentioned that the date was perfect since we would be returning to Kyoto after our trip to Kyushu and hence would be able to take advantage of that special occasion. Hiroshi felt that we were very fortunate since much of Kyoto's most important historical past lay within that enormous complex and we could see the opening of the Emperor's special entry to the Palace and we would have access to areas normally closed. Before leaving Hiroshi asked if we would mind getting up a bit early the following morning since he felt that we should begin our explorations with the most meaningful element in the formation of this ancient city, Zen Buddhism. One of the most important temples was Daisen-in located in a complex known as the Daitoku-ji and the services began at sunrise. Also, since his uncle

was the head priest of the temple he was sure that he could arrange for us to talk with him later. Hiroshi had offered to show us the way back to our hotel, but Gregg mentioned that he would first like to go to a bookstore so that he could perhaps find some books of the Japanese language and some on haiku, in English and Japanese if possible. Hiroshi became pensive and then his eyes lit up. Probably the one place where we could find a good selection of books in English was at a store near the Grand Hotel, which catered to foreign tourists and businessmen, who were just beginning to once again visit Japan. He would be more than pleased to accompany us. On the bus ride into the center of town, Hiroshi continued to speak English, and as we were becoming accustomed to his accent, we realized that his grammar was quite good and he had a very adequate vocabulary. It was fortunate that Hiroshi had thought of this particular place since from the front it appeared to be one of the souvenir-gift shops catering to foreigners that we would probably never have entered. They had a sizable number of the books in English, and several that Gregg had been looking for. It was now nearing evening and we decided to celebrate this first evening of our reunion by having dinner in a traditional restaurant, seated on tatami mats. We invited Hiroshi to join us but he declined explaining that he had a previous commitment. He did suggest that one of the finest in Kyoto was located no more than three blocks away. From the time we entered 'The Ancient Maple' [], removed our shoes and were shown to a small private room, we also stepped back in time. This was the unchanging Japan, which had existed for countless years. The 'sukiyaki' was prepared at the table on a charcoal brazier by one of the hostesses and was an exquisite combination of thin slices of meat, numerous fresh vegetables and tofu, a nutritious soy product. The various side dishes were composed of artistic arrangements of fresh and pickled vegetables, and steaming fragrant rice; all of which accompanied the meal perfectly. The thin, delicate sake cups were constantly refilled by our charming hostess. Later two young ladies came in to entertain us with music played on the samisen. We had one of the rooms with a view of the inner garden and its enchanting magic permeated the air. A few of the leaves on the delicate Japanese maples were just beginning to change color and their red and golden-orange tones glimmered in the dimly lit night; their leaves seemed to bend and quiver with the hauntingly beautiful music. Our magical tour had truly begun. It was late when we finally got back to the R & R center and finally turned in. Cuddled close, we once again talked about how charming Hiroshi was and how fortunate it was to have found him. Gregg mentioned that he was already completely enchanted with Japan and would like to stay here forever. I could hear his voice and feel the comfort of his closeness as I, content and exhausted, drifted off to sleep. We were up well before dawn the next morning and on going down to the hotel entrance we were greeted by Hiroshi, who had been patiently waiting for us. We had neglected to remember that most Japanese were punctual almost to the second. In the warm darkness, Hiroshi reached into his furoki, a typical Japanese cloth carryall, and

handed each of us each a wrapped package. Like all Japanese gifts it was presented formally, gently cupped in both hands and accompanied by slight bow. He had a taxi waiting to take us to our first destination of the day. During the taxi ride through the early morning, and as we were unwrapping our unexpected gifts, Hiroshi began to explain their significance. They were both beautifully bound books with blank pages. At first a bit baffling. He explained that they were Go Shuin Cho', or 'collection books' and a part of Japan's many traditions. It was customary for pilgrims to carry the books to each of the temples as a way to mark their journey. There they would have their books signed by a temple priest and then it would be stamped with the red stamps, or shuin of the temple, a means of collecting, and preserving, memories. We were both very impressed with this thoughtful young man's sensitivity and generosity. As the taxi left us in front of the large temple complex we noticed the silence. It was still rather dark, but we were accompanied by the first glimmer of light in the sky, which had begun to illuminate the mist on the surrounding mountains. Soft green mountains that, like guardians, surrounded this ancient and venerable city. As we walked along the gravel path we could hear our footsteps clearly, distinctly. We had entered the Zen Buddhist temple compound known as Daisen-in, one of the oldest in this city of ancient buildings, many of which had been given the status of national treasures. Far off in the distance there was the sound of a single temple bell, deep and resonant. I had previously noted that oriental bells have a harmonious sound quite distinct from occidental bells and are deeper, somehow more profound; as if capable of tapping into a different layer of the human psyche. Then the clear, cool, morning air, scented with the mysterious fragrances encountered only in the orient, was filled with the distant sound of a myriad of temple bells. Buddhist as well as Shinto gods were being summoned to the dawning of a new day. It was announced with solemn dignity, as it had been done in this glorious city for more than eleven centuries. During the taxi ride on the way to the temple complex, Hiroshi had reiterated what he had mentioned on the previous afternoon. We could not begin to understand this city, or Japan, without starting at the beginning, the influence that Zen Buddhism had on all aspects of Japanese life. Hiroshis uncle, whose last name was Maruyama, greeted us and he led us to the room where he would be offering the morning prayers. The highly polished wooden floors of the passageway gleamed with the shine of many centuries of slippered feet. We passed by an inner courtyard garden with an outstanding example of the 'dry landscape' style developed by Zen priests. Raked gravel with rocks strategically placed within the confines of the white expanse of gravel. They could very easily have been islands within this imaginary sea. We arrived at the main hail and were seated on cushions in the back while Reverend Maruyama went up the front of the room and was joined by two acolytes, also dressed in black kimonos. There in front there was a large hanging scroll of calligraphic art, an exquisitely wooden

carved Buddha, and a single vase filled with three freshly cut irises. They must have been gathered no more that a few minutes before since their petals still glistened with dew. I was a bit surprised at the starkly beautiful simplicity since most of the temples I had seen previous were filled with ornamentation. The sandalwood scented smoke from the incense brazier curled upward. Reverend Maruyama and his assistants began the sonorous chanting of the 'sutras'; the ancient sayings of Buddha, preserved by his Indian disciples, and taken to China. They had eventually reached the far distant shores of Japan, the land of The Rising Sun. The occasional sound of a small, resonant bell, actually a small brass bowl, by one of the acolytes, filled the hall with its transparent purity. It was as if some clear liquid were being poured into a crystal goblet. At the same time it entered our beings and filled that interior space with its special, unspoken message. Then the large hall was filled with the apricot tinged light of the dawn. It was the glory and the beauty of the entire universe made physically evident in that simple, unadorned ceremony. I knew that this transcendent moment had entered into my inner structure and would be a part of my being forever, and from the tranquil look on Gregg's face it was evident that he must have had much the same experience. I also knew that, however much I might try, it was beyond verbalization. Later, with the help of Hiroshi acting as translator, we talked to the Reverend Maruyama and he spoke of "the vibrant sense of tradition that flows like music through all of Japanese life. An awareness of historical traditions is how we keep our past with us always, intact. " He was pleased that we wanted to know about the substance of Japan and not just its superficial exterior. He went on to briefly outline the history of Zen Buddhism in Japan. How it had arrived from China in the middle of the sixth century and, like nearly all things which have arrived in this land, had been changed to reflect the Japanese temperament. Buddhism arrived but did not replace Shinto, the ancestral religion that holds that everything in nature is somehow alive and divine. A marvelous belief woven into the earliest consciousness of the emerging Japanese people. The philosophy of Buddhism came to this land and sat beside the Shinto gods in peace and harmony. Each complimenting the other. I couldnt help but mentally contrast this concept with that of the spread of Christianity and the other truth wielding monotheistic religions, where they had insisted on replacing any foreign thought or belief which they encountered, and all too often by brute force. Before taking leave of Reverend Maruyama, an incredibly kind, erudite man, enveloped in a robe of personal serenity, he suggested that Hiroshi obtain a particular book by Professor Takezawa of the nearby Kyoto University, a personal lifelong friend. He felt it would help to explain how the Japanese have, over the centuries, changed what they had borrowed from others, especially China. Hiroshi and his uncle chatted for a few moments and I had trouble fallowing their soft, rapid speech. Reverend Maruyama excused himself and Hiroshi explained that he was going to write a letter of introduction in the case that we might like to contact Professor Takezawa. He had also accepted our Shuin books in order to put the beautiful calligraphic signature and stamp of the first temple of these two foreigners who had begun their own special pilgrimage. How does one react to the exact and special moment which initiates a life-long pilgrimage?

As we retraced our steps on the stone pathway, we were all silent since we were still within the encompassing mantel of our recent experience. The early autumn blooming sasanqua Camellias, sasankatsubaki, filled the air with their unique beauty and musty, woodsy fragrance. Then we reached the ancient, large, wooden gateway, the ages-old carvings worn down to an exquisite, subtle beauty, which the Japanese refer to as 'shibui'. A somewhat difficult word to translate, but Rev. Shimizu in Hokkaido had explained to me that it means 'restrained elegance which carries the patina of age'. I also recalled his having mentioned that any explanation was inadequate in explaining its full significance. Then Hiroshi had yet another excellent suggestion; perhaps after breakfast we would like to go to Kyoto University where we might be able to meet with Professor Takezawa. He was now semiretired and might have the time to chat with us for a bit. Hiroshi felt that anything Professor Takezawa talked about would be a valuable lesson, on this our introductory day in Kyoto. It would help to give us a greater insight into the treasures, which we would eventually see. Although Hiroshi had a definite plan for our exploration, he was obviously flexible and not averse to changing the itinerary. On the bus ride to the University I questioned Hiroshi about the room where we had just partaken of what was obviously a ceremony to welcome the new day. Most of the Buddhist temples that I had visited contained numerous, and very elaborate religious trappings of statues and other sacred paraphernalia. He explained that his uncle, even a bit eclectic for a Zen priest, believed that the spirit of Buddha's teachings could be perceived without the necessity of exterior reminders. The word, in this case the chanted sutras, and looking within, or meditation, was sufficient. Hiroshi went on to explain that most of the large temples within the Daikoku compound that contained exactly the elaborate ornamentation that I had described, and in the next few days we would see much of that type of dcor. As we were shown into the small university office, crammed with books, Professor Takezawa rose, bowed and then greeted us in impeccable British English. As we discovered he had studied, many years ago, in England. We apologized for interrupting his valuable time and then, handing over the note of introduction from Reverend Maruyama, explained our desire to know more about the formation of the Japanese character. He commented that as an historian and sociologist he had devoted his life to a study the Japanese people. He almost immediately began discussing the curious phenomena of how his people had, through the centuries adopted ideas, concepts, and products from abroad and then in the process, changed what they had borrowed. They had in essence made it something new, had given it a Japanese flavor. It began with the first Buddhist monks from China who arrived in 600 AD. They brought with them the foundations of a more advanced culture, a religious philosophy and equally important a new and different system of writing. The Chinese writing was adopted and soon changed; elaborated upon to more neatly fit the Japanese language with the addition of a separate set of phonetic characters. As to the introduction of Zen Buddhism, that too evolved and changed, but it in turn helped to

mold and change the developing Japanese culture. They had in this unique environment ripened and matured together until now it was difficult to separate the two and of course the binding element had been Shinto, the original code of ethics. . The complex whole, according to Professor Takezawa, was subtle and difficult to dissect for examination. He had several times referred to Dr. D.T. Suzuki's works and when I mentioned that Abbot Shimizu of Hokkaido had also spoken of him, his normally serious face lit up. It seemed that the three of them had been close friends in the past. In the time that followed the professor touched upon Japanese literature, poetry, art, sculpture, ceramics, gardening and a myriad of other aspects of this culture. Though all had their beginnings in the mists of antiquity, they had also been influenced by, and had evolved, as a result of Zen Buddhism. When eventually we took leave of this humble, learned man, Gregg and I knew that it had been a rare privilege to have spent time with him; just to have been in his presence for those few short hours. We were also aware that due to Hiroshi's foresight we were now much better prepared to understand and appreciate our experiences in the days ahead. As we were leaving the building where the professor's office was located, my head was still attempting to absorb all of the information had been presented. Gregg suggested that we return to the bookstore we had visited previously since he wanted to find a book on Japanese History. We consulted Hiroshi as to this possibility and he felt that it was a good idea since he knew of an excellent sashimi restaurant close to the bookstore. It would also be an opportunity to visit some of the larger stores in that area. As we were exiting the bus Gregg asked me what 'sashimi' consisted of. I had momentarily forgotten that he was not familiar with many of the things, which were, after a year in this country, a part of my life. The look on his face was undoubtedly characteristic of the first time I was invited to eat sashimi, thinly sliced raw fish, but had quickly learned to appreciate its delicate, delicious flavor. I was attempting to explain this as he interrupted my discourse with, " Well, after a couple of beers or some sake, and the current status of my stomach, I'll try just about anything." During our late lunch Hiroshi produced our schedule for the next few days, written in precise English with copious notes in carefully written Japanese. It was increasingly obvious that our charming young guide was well organized. Gregg immediately decided that the sashimi was delicious, especially when accompanied by sufficient quantities of the excellent Japanese beer. The fresh sea bream and tuna were indeed savory delights Hiroshi had divided our tour up into five major divisions, north, south, east, west and other, explaining that we could explore each area thoroughly that way. Gregg and I later discussed how charming, and unique Hiroshi was. Other, which obviously was none of the cardinal directions, though if pressed for an explanation, we felt that Hiroshi could easily explain it. This morning we had begun in northern part of the city and though he had planned several other places in that area we had somewhat altered the original plan by visiting the University. He then smilingly and sagaciously added that the only permanent thing in life was change. Hiroshi asked if we would like to attend a performance of the Kabuki Theater, which was presently presenting several of its most classic works, and the one on Saturday evening was especially good. He then added that we should get our tickets

several days in advance. It was something Gregg and I had previously discussed and were looking forward to experiencing. Later we visited several bookstores, during which Gregg and I both added to our growing collection of books. We were now even buying books completely in Japanese, provided of course that they had lots of pictures and photographs. At one point, when Gregg and Hiroshi were busy chatting about a book of photos, I purchased a new Japanese-English dictionary as a gift for our charming guide. I'd noticed that the one he was carrying was rather small and somewhat limited. I knew that this small gift was inadequate, but hoped that it would help to show him that we appreciated his thoughtfulness. I was also aware that it was a part of Japanese etiquette and had it wrapped in a special burnished-gold paper with graceful white cranes, a symbol of friendship. We then continued on to the large department stores in the central area. I had wanted to obtain a 'kakemono', hanging scroll, to send to my mother and finally encountered a black and white sumie landscape painting that was exquisite. However I decided to get it when we came back from Kyushu since it would be pointless to have something else to carry around. Gregg saw an elaborate, Chinese design tea set, which he wanted to get for his grandmother, but also decided to wait until we returned the following week. Eventually we determined it was time to call it a day. We had begun early and it appeared that the following day's schedule was packed with more adventures.

The next few days were spent immersing ourselves in the cultural past of Japan. Each location had its historical connotations and Gregg's predilection for history, plus Hiroshi's patient explanations, helped to put each in its proper chronological perspective. We learned that Kyoto was made the capital city by the Emperor Kanmu in the year 794 AD. Although Tokyo had been the de facto capital for many years, Kyoto remained the cultural center of the country. Hiroshi attempted to explain it by stating that, "Tokyo is contemporary Japan, but the real Japan is Kyoto." Hiroshi had very proudly taken out his new dictionary in order to look up the word 'contemporary'. It was especially heartwarming to notice the broad smile on his face as he did so. Friday morning found us once again in a Zen temple. Hiroshi seemed to have a penchant for visiting places of contemplation early. We were in the renowned Ryoanji Temple, justly famous for its exquisite 'garden' of raked gravel and 15 judiciously placed stones. The somewhat stark arrangement of the large rocks in a sea of raked gravel was a marvel of simplicity and subtlety. Hiroshi quietly explained that the larger rocks were so arranged that from any vantage point some of them were always hidden - a suggestion of the mysteries of life. Like so much of what we had seen it was another marvel which defied description; a direct pointing to something beyond everyday reality. Only by experience could its essence be savored. As we were leaving Ryoanji, the 'pilgrims' dutifully having had their books stamped, our charming companion enigmatically stated that we were now going to visit a temple, which was no longer there. Soon we entered the magnificent gardens, which had previously held the 'Kinkakuji', or Golden Pavilion, it became obvious why he had chosen this site. The natural setting was perfection. There was a small lake surrounded by pines, maples and azaleas. The temple had burned down about

five years before and was now in the process of being reconstructed. Hiroshi assured us that it would eventually be exactly as it was before. Future visitors might never know that this jewel of a temple had, at one time, been destroyed. Since there was a Buddhist priest in attendance, we even got stamps in our Shuin books from 'the temple that wasn't there'. After lunch at a Yakkitori restaurant, with delicious skewered, grilled chicken, Hiroshi announced that we would spend the rest of the day visiting various artisans in their homes and small workshops. First a visit to Kawaii Kanjiro, one of several famous potters of the area. In talking to this talented potter, Gregg had Hiroshi to ask the gentleman how long it had taken him to learn this technique. He smilingly, and humbly replied that he still hadn't learned, but he was hoping to do so. We later discovered that he was 65 years old and recognized as one of the master potters of Japan. Our next stop was the home of an artist of sumie and calligraphy. Gregg and I were both impressed that these masters of their crafts were not on an official, or even unofficial, list of tourist attractions. They were all personal friends of Hiroshi. Of course majoring in Art History it seemed reasonable that he might know the artisans of the area, those creative people who were still producing the art treasures, which had been a part of this area for centuries. Hiroshi had obtained tickets for the Saturday evening performance at the Kabuki theater, located in the Gion section of the city, and we planned to start about midday and spend the entire time in that area since there were limitless places to visit Gregg and I spent Friday evening reading about Gion [], the area we would be visiting on the following day. It was an area of entertainment and artisans, not the least of which were the Geisha, or 'Geiko' as they were known in Kyoto. Countless restaurants and teahouses, and naturally a number of historical temples. The term Geisha was well known in the west, and yet the occidental world had little or no idea of what it actually meant. In fact most had the completely erroneous idea that Geisha were, by profession, prostitutes. We read that the Geisha first appeared in the 17th century, as dancers and musicians. Geisha, which means 'a person who lives by art' study tea ceremony, calligraphy, how to sing and play the samisen, to dance. They are trained in the art of conversation. They must have knowledge of literature, poetry, and history. But also have the contemporary world of business, the news of the day, and even sports. Our Japanese guidebook emphatically pointed out that the geisha is not a prostitute. If she does engage in a sexual relationship, it is as a result of an enduring friendship and is at her discretion. We read that, "Sealed lips are a symbol of the Geisha's code of honor." They are available for small parties or large banquets; a birthday party or dinners where businessmen conduct delicate negotiations. They pour the sake, entertain and keep the conversation flowing. Through discipline and talent the geisha create a life of beauty. They make themselves into the image of a perfect woman, the embodiment of Japanese culture and refinement, a living work of art.


As we stood in line waiting to enter, I looked at the sign above the theater. The previous night we had read that the word 'kabuki' was composed of three kanji characters which meant singing, dance and art. Kabuki theater, with its emphasis on dramatic stories from Japan's rich history, had been a part of the Japanese culture for centuries. It had originally been founded in about 1600 AD by a Shinto priestess from the Izumo Shrine, but soon lost its religious association. Before long courtesans were performing and evidently some of their acts bordered on being lewd. Then too the male admirers often created public disturbances in an attempt to win their favors. The government responded by banning female performers from the theater. The female roles had been taken over by a special group of male actors who became known as 'onnagata', female impersonators. But the troubles hadn't exactly ended. The 'onnagata' proved nearly as adept at creating scandal as the courtesans. They attracted both women, who found their masquerade titillating, and men who simply liked men. However, after 250 years it would be impossible to consider kabuki without the performances of the onnagata. Hiroshi had mentioned that we were to see a work by the well-known 20th century writer, Okamoto Kido, who had incorporated contemporary issues within an historical setting. The play was entitled 'Minowa no Shinju' - Love Suicide at Shinju. Suicide was a favorite theme for kabuki since it utilized a very dramatic subject. The actor who was to play the onnagata role was Danjuro Takiji. According to Hiroshi, he was considered by many to be the finest contemporary 'onnagata' in Japan. The theater was packed. Hiroshi had obtained excellent seats, and was still explaining the plot. The samurai Geki is enamored with the courtesan Ayaginu. It was a story of political intrigue and pledged love, of economic disaster, family honor and eventually a decision by the two lovers to commit suicide. The first act was well underway and Geki and his sister were discussing his decision to pawn his armor, a hereditary treasure of his family for years. It was difficult to believe that Geki's sister was in fact a man. Soon the scene changed, Geki gazed at he moon and sang about the pangs of love while awaiting his beloved Ayaginu. The musicians, seated at the side of the stage, were suddenly silent. A hush had fallen over the theater and heads began to turn towards the back of the theater. Then the musician with the wooden clappers began a soft, staccato beat. A woman was walking slowly and daintily down the gangplank, which extended from the back of the theater to the stage. She was dressed in a magnificent peach colored kimono with golden chrysanthemums. Her obi, or wide sash, was a soft, moss colored gold-green. Her face was strikingly beautiful with its stark white makeup and scarlet mouth. Ayaginu had reached the stage and began to sing. It was impossible to believe that this was not a real woman. The voice, posture, expression and movements were all completely feminine. I, along with the rest of the audience, was transfixed. I knew that any effeminate man could dress up and resemble a woman, but this was something extraordinary. The emotion projected there on stage could only come from genius. The rest of the play was as enchanting, magical and bewitching as that incredible moment. When the play eventually ended with the suicide of the two protagonists, I knew that I had just been witness to one of the most extraordinary events of my life. Gregg's silence, as we

left the theater, was mute testimony that he too was impressed beyond words. Hiroshi seemed to be aware that we were rapidly adopting one of the most prominent features of the art of conversing in Japan; the eloquence of silence. Every moment in this unique city was a learning experience. The two American pilgrims were in the process of filling their Go Shuin Cho', with more than stamps from temples. Each page was also be replete with unforgettable memories.

17 Iwatsutsuji - Wild Azaleas

Gregg and I had agreed to a quiet, relaxed Sunday and told Hiroshi, our Japanese guide, that he could spend the day with his family since we would be taking a small break in our vigorous explorations of Kyoto. We were taking advantage of our free day by sleeping in a bit late. Gregg was still asleep and I was looking in my carry-all bag for a couple of magazines which had been purchased in Tokyo. I discovered, beneath the magazines, the still wrapped gift that Alex had handed me as we were saying goodbye. Somehow in my anticipation of visiting Kyoto and finally seeing Gregg, I had completely forgotten about it. I laid it on the nightstand next to the bed and then spent a few moments looking at that handsome young man still enveloped in slumber. As was his custom while sleeping, he had a slight smile on his face. At that moment, as I continued to watch the movements from his soft, shallow breathing I felt anew the limitless love that permeated my being and had as its source that incredible person in front of me. It was an exquisite ecstasy to feel my heart's response to this nearly overwhelming emotion. How had I endured the preceeding months without having him next to me? I turned around and looked out the window, to the forest clad mountain beyond. Then I stepped out on the small balcony to get a better view. The day was overcast, yet pleasantly warm. The cover of low clouds softened everything and parts of Mt. Hiei were covered by softly swirling mist. It all seemed so intimate, much as if the exterior world was a reflection of my present interior. A moment of reflection also on how fortunate we had been in having found each other. I was making the morning coffee when I heard him stir. I went over, gave him a kiss on the forehead, mentioned that the coffee would be ready in a few minutes and handed him the small package, wrapped in a beautiful dark blue paper with lighter blue blossoms of Japanese iris. Once again the Japanese attention to detail was evident even in the exquisite paper for this small gift. It may have been Alex's idea, but his charming Japanese companion had obviously added his unique touch. I explained that it was a gift for both of us from Alex and Tatsuo and that somehow I had forgotten about it. As I was pouring the coffee, Gregg was carefully unwrapping the package and we saw that it was a book, in English and Japanese. The English title, 'Wild Azaleas', was followed by the title in Japanese characters, ['Iwatsutsuji']. Then the author's name, Kitamura Kigin, followed by the dates in parenthesis (1625-1705). I sat down on the bed and we began to examine this small, handsome book of poetry and commentary. As we would soon discover it was indeed a precious gift. 'Wild Azaleas', first published in the year 1713 AD, was a compilation of poetry completed in

1676 AD. The compiler, Kitamura Kigin, had carefully chosen some of the best contemporary poetry, as well as poetry of previous anthologies. He had also included commentaries on each of the poems giving historical notes about the place, time and individuals involved in the poem. The title of the work came from a poem contained in the 'Kokinshu', an Imperial Poetry Collection completed in the year 905 AD, and thus was the result of several hundred years of poetic masterpieces. Iwatsutsuji - Wild Azaleas Omoi izuru tokiwa no yama no iwatsutsuji iwaneba koso are koishi mono o Memories of love revive, like wild azaleas bursting into bloom on mountains of evergreen; my stony silence only shows how much I love you.

Shinga Szu

Gregg and I were both surprised by the commentary on this, the first poem and an introduction to the work. It was composed around the year 850 AD by the poet-priest Shinga Szu. The poem was inspired by Shinga's unspoken love for the handsome nobleman Ariwara Narihira. Narihira was also a famous poet of the time and the author of a book of poetry, the 'Ise monogotari'. The 'Tale of Ise' was recognized as a classic of its time for the sensitivity and beauty of its poems. In fact just the previous month I had sent Gregg a poem of Narihira's that I had found especially captivating and knew that he would also enjoy.
Tsui ni yuku michi to wa kanete kikishikado kin kyto wa omowazarishi o I have always known that at last I would take this road, but yesterday I did not know that it would be today. Ariwara Narihira

As we were to discover 'Wild Azaleas' was a collection of poetry about male love. The Samurai warrior who wrote verses of love to his young male companion, the Buddhist priest writing of his loneliness since his male friend had died..... More than six hundred years of males expressing their love for other males. Equally enlightening was the obvious fact that this homosexual love was an integral part of daily life and accepted as such. It was a component of the culture of that time. We continued to read and from our vantage point on the bed we could see the magical transformation on the nearby mountains. The previous wisps of clouds had become dense, and now enveloped the top of Mt. Hiei completely. The remaining part of the mountain was embraced with a light mist of fog. The next portion of the book concerned that very mountain. "In the year 886 AD Jogn Hshi spent some time at the Enryakuji monastery on Mt. Hiei. While there he became enamored of a fellow acolyte. He eventually had to return to his own monastery in Nara and presented his friend with the following poem:
Ukigumo ni ato mo sadamenu mi naredomo yama no ue koso tachi ukari kere Our lives are like floating clouds that disappear without a trace, but even so an unbearable sadness at leaving you and this mountain peak.

Jogn Hshi

It was the parting sorrow of two lovers which had occurred more than a thousand years before and had been preserved for us to encounter while gazing at the very mountain where it had transpired. In fact we would be visiting the Enryakuji within two days. I mentioned to Gregg that I was sure that the spirits of those two young lovers of so long ago were still a part of the mountain. After a leisurely and very late breakfast we decided to explore the area around the hotel. Gregg mentioned that he had seen a rather large park nearby and it looked like a good place to read and relax. Seated under the graceful, hanging branches of a large weeping willow we continued discussing the revelations of that morning's reading. I asked Gregg if he could explain the seeming vast difference between western views of homosexuality and its obvious acceptance in Japan. At the same time that I was posing the question I was reflecting on the fact that we truly were meant for each other. He loved to talk, I was quite adept at posing questions and besides that, I could listen to him expound until the end of time.

Gregg was quick to point out, and in his characteristic speech, that western morality was based on, "some really fucked up Judeo-Christian beliefs". I smiled inwardly knowing that I'd pressed his 'on' button once again. Gregg continued, "You see it all goes back to the very beginning, the Garden of Eden. According to that story mankind was screwed up from the very inception. In fact, we should probably begin with the Hebraic, and later Christian, concept of God, who if examined closely is hardly more rational than many human beings are." He paused briefly while watching some children playing nearby, "Now this is the guy, the Big Guy, who gets pissed off and sends a flood to wipe out everyone and nearly every living creature on earth as a punishment for their 'sins'. And of course these two 'Biblical' stories of the old Testament, of the Garden of Eden and the Flood were both lifted, almost verbatim, from the earlier Sumerian myths and hence weren't even original. It was this same god who sent plagues to kill off the Egyptians because they were so brazen as to worship a different deity. He was always getting pissed off about something and murdering someone or some entire group of people . We've discussed, more than once, how the good Christians have spent nearly two thousand years battling the bad Christians or the really bad guys, those who didn't even believe in Jehovah. The slaughter, all in the name of this jealous god, is endless." "Contemporary society may or may not believe that the Bible is literal, but the laws within western society are in fact a result of many outmoded concepts of 'good' and 'evil' and based on the Hebraic religious law, by way of the Bible. For whatever reason the Hebrews decided it was wrong for men or women to have a physical relationship with their own sex, and it became an evil act, a sin against that very god who made perhaps a tenth of all human beings homosexual. Now if it's a sin, it would appear that the old geezer has a pretty warped sense of humor." Gregg leaned back, looked up at the crystalline sky and continued, "Since I started carefully examining the western world in relation to our sexual mores, I have been absolutely astounded by the way in which any reference to homosexuality has been so carefully and painstakingly whitewashed or swept under the rug. We, 'deviants from the norm', have been, and still are for the most part, nonexistent." He paused, "Before this trip I was doing some reading in the encyclopedia there in the post library. Just general stuff. Encountered a section on Japanese theater and then went on to read about Kabuki. Somewhere, years ago I had read that female impersonators were a part of the Kabuki tradition. Do you know that that entire article in the encyclopedia, though quite lengthy, didn't even mention that little detail? It's a blatant example of a seemingly neutral source presenting information that is colored by the cultural environment. Factual, yes; it just managed to ignore a very important part, evidently for fear of offending its readers." "What we saw last night was absolutely astounding. That onnagata actor yesterday was the most feminine creature I've ever seen! But since he was dressed as a woman, and worse, just might be gay, it is obviously something that good little Christians won't even talk about. God, Christianity, and so much of what it has spawned, is just so messed up that I find it hard to believe at times."

Gregg let out one of his familiar sighs, then smiled. "I'm much more comfortable with the Japanese concept of homosexual love being a natural act and a part of certain individuals. Everyone is free to choose whom they want to play with." Then he smiled his 'big dimples' smile, leaned over and whispered, "And I like to play with you!" At that moment a young girl of about five who had been playing with a brilliant red ball kicked it in our direction and then, wide eyed, watched to see our reaction as it stopped in front of us. I noticed that her parents, seated nearby, appeared a bit apprehensive. Gregg laughed, caught the ball and sent it bounding back in her direction. She had no concept of victor and vanquished, nationalities and physical features meant nothing to her. Our features might be a bit different, but we were obviously human. She and Gregg continued to play and the little girl seemed delighted with her new playmate, who was laughing and enjoying it as much as she was. Later her father came over, picked her and the ball up. He made a special point of bowing to us and we both got up and bowed back. He smiled, then left. The silent barrier which had previously existed between us had been made less noticeable by the interchange between Gregg and the small child. Returning to our conversation, I mentioned to Gregg that what the world needed was a new god; one who didn't honor and single out special chosen groups or insist on outdated tribal or contemporary nationalistic boundaries. A god consistent with the knowledge of the 20th century and not a god based on outmoded myths and ancient tribal beliefs. Useful though those beliefs may have been at a particular time in man's development, it was well past time for a change. Gregg smiled. That very special knowing smile. We spent the remainder of the afternoon reading and chatting, watching the people and just enjoying the beauty of the moment. On the way back to the hotel we took a circuitous route and discovered several interesting shops. We both purchased a number of 45-rpm records at a small record store. When the clerk discovered that we could communicate in Japanese and seemed to enjoy Japanese popular and folk music, she shyly produced one after the other and played them for our benefit. We both bought the current favorites of Shina no yoru (China Nights) and Nagasaki as well as a number of records of folk songs and dances. The next stop was a small market where we loaded up on fruit and snack items. Gregg had mentioned that fresh fruit was very scarce in Korea and he planned to eat as much as possible during his stay in Japan. I had noticed that with each passing day Gregg was communicating with greater facility in Japanese. At times a bit haltingly, but every night he devoured a bit more of his newly purchased grammar and he was learning rapidly. Also his ability to grasp the meaning of, and remember, the complicated Kanji characters was nothing less than phenomenal. He explained that much of this was due to having learned Korean, which had also adopted the Chinese system of writing, hence the meaning of many of the characters was identical, or very similar, in meaning. This prompted a discussion of language and culture. We were in agreement that having been

raised speaking more than a single language had been beneficial for us both. In general it seemed to promote being more open minded and receptive to other cultures. We had been aware that our monolingual American brethren were not only reluctant to attempt communication, but so ethnocentric that they expected everyone to speak their language. And in learning Japanese we constantly became aware of the many subtleties of the culture, and that they were easier to grasp and appreciate as a result of our expending the effort to learn a bit of this magnificent, though somewhat complex, language. In fact many cultural concepts were comprehensible only by having a knowledge of the language used by the people. Hence many of the Americans here would always be in the dark because of their insistence that everyone communicate with them in English. That evening, munching on apples and oriental pears, we spent the time with our respective books. Suddenly Gregg emitted one of his familiar 'ah haa's' and I stopped reading the guide book in anticipation of what he had discovered. He began, "Okay, my wild little azalea, now it all begins to make sense. Listen to this..." He was still reading the "Wild Azaleas" book and had evidently encountered something special. "Here is a love poem from a young man with a special request to Monju Bosatsu. If you remember Monju, or Manjursri in Sanskrit, was one of Buddha's closest disciples. In fact he is depicted as being the left hand attendant, the personification of wisdom and purified intellect. Even considered as the font of literature and learning." I was beginning to wonder where all this was leading, but recognized that Gregg's introductions were always complete as he drew upon his seemingly limitless knowledge of just about every subject known to man. I smiled and sort of closed my eyes. He continued, "Well, according to the commentary about this poem, Monju was often called upon when male lovers had a problem. He was evidently considered, at least in those times, as Buddha's lover. Now, what do you think about that?" It appeared that Buddhism was probably the only major world religion in which at least some of its adherents felt that their leader might have had a relationship with one of his disciples. Well, some Christians might have considered the same of Jesus and his 'buddies', but had had the good sense to not voice their suspicions. It may have been in fear of being struck down on the spot; either by God himself, who, as portrayed in the 'good book', didn't appear to go in for such hanky-panky, or by their rabid homophobic Christian brethren.

Early on Tuesday morning we met Hiroshi and took a bus to the northern part of the city. Following the Takanagawa, or Takana branch of the Kamo river, the road entered the wooded area at the base of Mount Hiei,, twisting, turning and climbing to the end of the line, Yase-Yuinchi. From there we were to take the Keifuku cable car up to summit. As the cable car was clacking its way to the top, I noticed that Gregg was intently peering below, not just enjoying the spectacular scenery, but

obviously looking for something. I inquired and he smilingly admitted that he was searching the hillside for wild azaleas. I reminded him that it was September and they undoubtedly wouldnt be blooming until spring. As the cable car continued in its ascent, Hiroshi began to explain that the very existence of Kyoto had been dependent up the establishment of this monastery site, some twelve hundred years ago. In 780 AD the Emperor Kammu decided to found his capital city in the spacious valley protected on three sides by towering mountains. According to the superstitions of the time, he knew that malevolent spirits could enter through the northeast portion of the geographic area, and thus ordered the Buddhist priest Saicho to build a temple on the mountain as a protective measure. That single temple had grown and eventually there were over 3,000 buildings in the temple complex. In the sixteenth century the number was reduced to the present 125 buildings. Arriving at the summit, nearly 3,000 feet above the valley below, we enjoyed a breathtaking vista of the city in the valley and surrounding mountains. Then we started down the path to the Enryakuji complex. Set amid towering cryptomeria cedars, the first building we encountered was the Daidoko, or Great Lecture Hall built in the 17th century. Then following yet another path up the hill, we came upon the ordination hall, or Kaiden-in. Countless buildings hidden in the forested hillsides, and each reflecting the stately elegance of Japanese architecture. Masterpieces of construction with wood, historical legacies which seemed to carry their individual and collective messages. Several times we had heard the great bell, and then we came upon its majestic presence. The massive bronze bell, green with the patina of age, hanging in a crimson red structure. Visitors placed incense in the brazier, and then pulled the rope which swung the large horizontal wooden clanger. The deep tone reverberated throughout the hillsides and beyond. Gregg mentioned that somehow we had returned to that special place where we had spent time in the past. I was a bit perplexed by his statement, and waited for an explanation. Gregg mentioned that he was feeling a bit dizzy and we sat down on the steps of a nearby meditation hall. I thought that it might be the combination of altitude, heat and humidity, since the day had turned quite warm and the air was heavily laden with moisture. Then he said, rather abruptly, that it had not been a pleasant death. At first I didnt know what he was talking about, and Hiroshi seemed to be even more perplexed. Gregg continued that he had the sensation that we had both been monks here and that we had died in some sort of terrible event. I too, had felt a familiarity with the surroundings but had not responded in the same way. For me it was similar to a feeling of deja vu, or knowing that I had been here before. Nothing more. Gregg seemed to be in possession of more information. As we were walking to one of the lower temples Hiroshi began to tell us about an event he had not mentioned before. In the sixteenth century a powerful Kyoto general had decided that the Enryakuji monks wielded too much power, and in an effort to regain the power for the military, had invaded the monastery complex. His troops had burned every building to the ground, and executed every single monk. Obviously Gregg had tuned into that event. He mentioned that it was the first time that he had known of a specific past life connection in Japan.

After a delicious vegetarian lunch, prepared by the monks, we continued to wander around this special world apart; a world filled with history and it would seem, intimate memories of time gone by. Gregg mentioned that once his uneasiness had passed, he had once again felt the peace which seemed to permeate the area, and our presence there. As we were going back down into Kyoto we both agreed that we would like to spend more time here on our return from Kyushu. That afternoon was to be spent Shugakuin Imperial Villa since it was adjacent to the road we had ascended earlier in the day. When, after several buses and considerable walking, we finally arrived, we discovered that we had to apply to the Imperial Household Agency, at least a day in advance, for permission to enter the grounds. Hiroshi was extremely apologetic for his faux pas, but admitted that he had never visited there before. So we boarded another of the frequent buses in order to visit several temples and gardens further south. The Ginkakuji, or Temple of the Silver Pavilion, has long been one of the popular tourist attractions of Kyoto. It was built in the fifteenth century as a retirement villa for the shogun Yoshimasa. Though never covered in silver foil as planned, the name had remained. The magnificent gardens surrounding the temple were designed by one of the most famous of all Japanese landscape designers, Soami. The first week in Kyoto seemed to have disappeared rapidly, yet we never seemed to be rushed. Several times Gregg had commented that it was pleasant to be in the midst of a civilized country. Even though he had mentioned it in his letters, I hadn't really grasped how the prolonged war had affected nearly every aspect of life and living in Korea. When I mentioned this to him, Gregg began to elaborate, "I have learned to respect and admire the Korean people, the individual person, but have found the culture of Korea to be less rich than I had anticipated before going there. The subtlety which exists here in Japan, especially in the arts, seems to be lacking in Korea. Objects of artstatuary, pottery, paintingall seem a bit crude in comparison to what I have seen here. Personal relationships and society in general rarely reflect their supposed Confucian ideals of serenity and calm. The people are intense, visceral, impatient, factious, raucous.... Corruption exists from the top of the government down to the village boss. The position of women within the society is perhaps one of the worst in the world. Even the weather is the shits. No, I won't regret it when my time is finished there." Then he added, "Perhaps I've been too judgmental without taking all the factors into consideration. It's obvious that the division and destruction of their country has had a pervasive, and detrimental effect on every aspect of Korean society." It was Thursday morning and we were now on our way south and planned to stop and visit Hiroshima before going on to Kyushu. We had left Kyoto on a very early train and would be in Hiroshima well before noon and were going to spend the rest of the day and night there before going on to the southern tip of the main island of Honshu. There we would board a ferry for the trip across the strait to the island of Kyushu and then board yet another train. We somehow sensed Hiroshima before the train actually arrived at the station. Nine years

before the atomic bomb had been dropped on this city and its effects were still very much in evidence. Hiroshima had begun its renewal yet many of the buildings, in what had been the center of the city, remained skeletons. A reminder of what had happened on that fateful day of August 6, 1945, when with a singularly intense flash of light which lasted 9 seconds, close to 200,000 people had ceased to exist. I had read the figures but it still seemed inconceivable. I also felt that it was a barbaric act, as was the act of war itself. It seemed as if the very nature of war gave the opposing groups the right to be as savage and uncivilized as they deemed necessary. We went to the memorial square and stood in the lines with the other people. They waited to go up to the memorial tablet and light a stick of incense and silently offer their prayers to all those who had died here. The silence was one of the most impressive features. There didn't seem to be a single sound. We seemed to be the only foreigners in evidence. When a space in front was vacated the next person in line occupied it; bowed low, some knelt for a few minutes. Many carried flowers which they left at the scene. Gregg had gone before me and after bowing he placed the lit incense in the container. As he knelt and bowed his head, I could see his tears gently dropping and marking the ground below. They were of course not the first, nor would they be the last. As they continued to gently fall, the person on his right, a diminutive elderly lady with gray hair and clad in traditional kimono, reached over and placed her small, wrinkled hand on his. She turned her head slightly and I could see the moisture in her eyes as she offered him one of the white flowers she had in her other hand. He nodded his head low, accepted her gift and added it to that mound of flowers. I couldn't help but notice that the flower that Gregg placed there glistened with the mingled tears of these two strangers, united in their caring for the souls of the departedfor those thousands of human beings whose lives had suddenly been cut short. Some years later when the permanent Memorial Cenotaph was erected, containing the names of all those known to have perished here, it was inscribed with the words, "Let all the souls here rest in peace, for we shall not repeat the mistake." I remember having pondered its ambiguitywas 'the mistake' the atomic bomb or Pearl Harbor? Undoubtedly, it referred to the horror of both. Neither of us felt like spending any more time in this city of shadows, where death still stalked and continued to take its daily toll of those who remained. Instead of looking for a hotel, we went to the train station and were able to change our tickets for an earlier departure. The trip from Hiroshima south climbed through mountains filled with forests of pine and cryptomeria, a type of towering cedar. At times it presented views of the coast and beyond to the Inland Sea. The steep hillsides were dotted with pockets of Japanese maples showing the first hints of the coming autumn in their changing leaves. Splashes of orange and red within the deep green. It was lush and beautiful, calm and peaceful and helped to ease the pain of our earlier experience. It had been an encounter with man's inhumanity, and at the same time with the possibility of love as evidenced by that compassionate elderly lady who reached out and touched another human being.

We arrived at the station in Shimonseki and boarded the large ferry for the trip across the straits. It was just getting dark and the first stars began to appear in the deepening twilight. As we stood on the deck the silvery first quarter moon began to appear in the sky . It shimmered in the water below. We were both still somewhat subdued and quiet, but as the time passed we began to relax and once again live in the present. Obviously something the Japanese had also learned to do. After arriving early the next morning in Fukuoka we took a taxi to a ryokan, or traditional inn that Gregg had read about in one of our several guide books. It was even more exquisite than it had been portrayed. It was perched on a hillside on the outskirts of the city and surrounded by lush, dense vegetation. We rented a room which had a magnificent view of the hillside and through the trees we could see the ocean beyond. After settling in decided to take a bath. First I telephoned the ASA base and left a message for Dwight. Then we went down to the bath area so that we could take a nice long soaking bath, and then change into our yukatas, fresh cotton kimonos,. Since I had first introduced Gregg to the Japanese system of bathing he had become a devoted addict and loved to spend as much time as possible in the super heated water. We spent the afternoon walking around the surrounding wooded area, absorbing the peace and quiet. We had just finished an early dinner in our room when I was notified that I had a phone call. I went downstairs and it was Dwight returning my call. He had been expecting our arrival and had made arrangements for someone to fill in for him at work the next day and then on the following day he would begin his three day break. He asked me to see if there was a room available so that he and a friend could stay there also. Dwight and Raul showed up about an hour later and we shared adjoining rooms. Dwight almost immediately informed us that Raul was a 'member of the group'. We certainly didn't have to ask which 'group' he was referring to. Dwight looked super in that he had put on a little weight. He appeared to be much more joyful and outgoing. I even surmised, without voicing my suspicions, that he might forego his British accent for something a little more Hispanic sounding. We ordered some sake and began an evening of reminiscing about our days at the language school. Raul was also a graduate of the Russian department, though he had graduated some six months before we had. As the evening progressed Dwight and Raul outlined a number of places we should visit and since they would both be off work on their extended break, asked if they could join us. They suggested leaving the following day and taking the train to an area in the mountains called Sakayama, at an elevation of almost 4,000 feet, and with spectacular scenery as well as hot mineral baths. That was the magic phrase for Gregg and we decided to let them be our guides for the next few days. They also suggested going over to the other side of the island to the famous beach resort of Beppu, also well known for its mineral spas as well as vibrant night life. Our time together passed quickly and soon it was time to say goodbye to Dwight and Raul. They left on their return to Fukuoka and we headed north once again. We had planned to spend our final five days in Kyoto and perhaps go to the surrounding city of Nara, also famous for its cultural history. We arrived at the R & R hotel in Kyoto late on Tuesday afternoon and our friend Mario was at

the desk. He inquired about our trip to Kyushu and at the same time he winked and smilingly mentioned that "our regular suite" was waiting for us. As we entered the now familiar room Gregg smiled and said, "You know I've just been thinking about Mario and I believe that he is ...." and then he put his index fingers to his head and made his now famous 'antenna twirl'. I wondered why it had taken Gregg so long to come that that conclusion. I'd figured it during our first visit. Gregg opened the doors to the balcony and walked out to once again gaze upon that very special mountain. The sun was just beginning to set and was casting a special light on those magical slopes filled with cedar and pine forests and dense vegetation. Without turning, almost as if he were directing his comments to the hillside beyond, he remarked, "The wild azaleas have returned." Just then there was a knock on the door. I went over and discovered that it was Mario. He mentioned that Hiroshi had just called and learning that we had arrived, had left a message that he would be at the hotel on the following morning at 8:00. The next four days were as filled with marvelous sights as our first week had been. Before leaving we had received our necessary permits to visit the Imperial Palace. First built in 794 AD and after many bouts with fires rebuilt in its present state in 1855. Covering some 200 acres the gardens and buildings, of Heian style architecture, were magnificent. Friday was spent in nearby Nara, the first permanent political and cultural center of the newly united Japan. Established in 710 AD it has retained much of its early charm and imported Chinese atmosphere. Upon arriving at the central train station from Kyoto, Hiroshi immediately got us on a bus heading out of the city. He insisted that our visit here should, begin at the beginning. Some thirty minutes later we at arrived at Horyuji Temple complex, which as we were to learn houses the worlds oldest surviving wooden buildings. Horyuji was founded in 607 AD by Prince Shotoku, who had espoused the Chinese Tang Dynasty culture and promoted it as a way of unifying the country. Soon we were back in the center of Nara and visiting its many temples and special places of interest. At the Todaiji Temple, in Nara park, we saw the legendary Great Buddha. It is claimed to be the largest bronze Buddha ever cast and 53 feet high covered by the Daibutsuden, the largest wooden building in the world. It appeared that our Nara trip was to be composed of superlatives, and also by exquisite beauty. On the late night train back to Kyoto, we began to review our Shuin books and the various temples which we had visited during our visit. A marvelous collection of pilgrims memories. Saturday was to be spent shopping in downtown Kyoto and then that evening we were invited to Hiroshis home for a farewell party. We had previously told him that we would be spending a quiet Sunday prior to my departure on Monday. Gregg would be returning to Korea directly from Kyoto on Tuesday, whereas I had to take the early Monday morning plane to Tokyo and then get the afternoon courier flight north to Hokkaido.

Hence I would have to leave a day earlier and as Sunday morning arrived I began to feel a nagging depression invade my being. Gregg, ever attentive to my moods, noticed and began talking about our next R & R. "What do you think about meeting next year in Tokyo? We could spend some time there and then perhaps go north to Sendai? As an alternate possibility I could fly up north to Hokkaido and we could take the train down to Tokyo together. That way you could show me around Hokkaido for a few days first." It was a nice ploy and helped to bring me back to the reality of the fact that today or tomorrow wouldn't be the end of the world. He had always insisted that although we might make plans for the future, we had to live today. Come to think of it if he came north to Hokkaido, I could introduce Gregg to my friend Abbot Shimizu at the Zen temple since they were very similar in their manner of thinking. Sunday was spent leisurely wandering around the city, just absorbing its magic. Later in the day we decided to have an early dinner and then go back to hotel so we could just relax and spend our final evening together, as close as physically possible. We were lying on the bed and Gregg was talking about how much this visit to Japan had meant to him, and not only because we were finally able to be together. "I've been living in Korea for over a year now and have, by being able to speak the language, come to know it intimately. Strangely, in three short weeks, I've felt a greater identification with Japan and the Japanese people than I've ever encountered in Korea. Perhaps there's just something in my personality that responds to this culture, or maybe just to refined culture in general. Because what I've seen and experienced here has to be one of the most advanced cultures I could possibly imagine. The Japanese sensibility to nature, to living, to each other, is truly unique. I'm sure you must understand what I'm trying to express." I conceded that I knew only too well, and mentioned that I had tried to convey my identification with the Japanese culture in my letters to him. It certainly wasn't perfect, but my inner being resonated to all of the beauty and sense of tradition that the Japanese seemed to radiate. Then he acknowledged that he hadn't really been able to understand it completely when I wrote about it, but now, having intimately experienced it, he too felt the same identification. Once again our different personalities and often different ways of viewing and experiencing the world, were in complete agreement. We continued to talk, murmur and chatter until the late hours of the night. We both commented on the fact that these three weeks had been some of the most precious moments we had ever spent together. We continued to chat, as if our conversation could somehow negate and nullify my departure within a few hours, at six o'clock that morning. On Monday morning, the 27th of September, at 6:10 AM, in front of the R & R Military Hotel in Kyoto, we said our farewells as I boarded the bus for the airport. I can close my eyes and still see his twinkling, misty glance, his broad beaming smile as he waved goodbye. I can even recapture the sound of his voice as he said, "Sayonara Iwatsutsuji!"

What would I have done at that moment if I had known that this was the last time I would ever see this incredible individual who was my very life? With an echoing, impassioned plea could I have called upon the universe to stop the inexorable passage of time?

Yo no naka wo Nani ni tatoemu Asaborake Kogiyuku fune no

To what shall I compare this world? To the white wake behind a boat that has disappeared at dawn!

Ato no shiranami

The Priest Mansei (c. 720 AD)

18 Blossoms That Fall

The flight from Tokyo to Hokkaido was uneventful and the plane landed in Chitose late Monday afternoon. The area was in the midst of a 'heat wave', undoubtedly the last of the season. Of course having spent three weeks in the south, to me it seemed like nothing more than a moderately warm day. On entering the barracks, and before going to my room, I poked my head into Len's room to say hello. He leaped off his bed, grabbed me and gave me a resounding, back slapping hug. He picked up one of my bags and carried it down to my room. Fred was on his bed reading when I entered and he repeated Len's salutation with his glittering golden smile. I stowed my things, rummaged around in my carryall and gave both Len and Fred several mementos from Kyoto and then headed for the shower. After eating the three of us went to the club to have a few drinks so that they could hear all about the trip. Fred was disappointed that Gregg and I hadn't been able to meet Duane, but understood that Sasebo was a bit out of the way of our other travels in Kyushu. They were most intrigued to learn all about my friend Alex and his new 'roommate', as well as Dwight and what appeared might be a new affair of the heart. It was pleasant to be back with these two very special friends. I was sipping my scotch when I suddenly realized that earlier that very same morning I had been in Gregg's embrace and now we were hundreds of miles apart. On Thursday I got a letter from Gregg, one which he had written and mailed from Kyoto previous to leaving. He reiterated much of our last conversation about how our time during those three weeks had been some the most perfect moments we'd ever spent together. In his words, "it could not have been more exquisite and was worth waiting those many months to experience." I entered once again into the now somewhat mundane world of work at the Operations Center. Randy was especially glad to see me and commented that Jim, who had been filling in for me while I was on R & R was, besides being a lazy slob, less than competent. Then several letters arrived from Gregg after he got back to Korea. He obviously couldn't wait for the next twelve months to pass as rapidly as possible and even mentioned that it had turned cold and he was seriously considering a long hibernation. I answered and told him that it appeared as if we would have an early winter in Hokkaido also. We were already having frost nearly every night. Suddenly my world suffered a severe rupture. Normally letters from Gregg arrived a couple of times a week, but then two weeks passed and I received nothing. At first I attributed it to the vagaries of the military postal system, since it had happened a couple of times before. Then the last of my letters to Gregg came back and had been stamped NOT DELIVERABLE. Perplexed I wrote to the commanding officer of Gregg's unit for clarification and anxiously awaited a reply. It was the day before one of the long breaks, five days of rest. Len and I had planned on a quick

trip to Sapporo. He wanted to pick up a few records and then we would spend the rest of the time at our house in Chitose, talking, cooking, reading, writing. Fred had been sent down to Tokyo on temporary duty the week before. I'd already received a short note from him explaining that he had had to do some work with 'Bertha' and that no one else there had any experience with her. He mentioned that he'd probably be back within a week or so. We had our own little code and I knew that 'Bertha' was his favorite term for a new encoding machine that our group had been the first to receive. For unknown reasons Tokyo had received their machine after our station and had had numerous problems. It become increasingly colder with each passing day. As we walked back to the living compound from Operations, the leaden gray skies gave promise of the first big storm of the long winter season. When the members of our shift got back to the barracks there was the usual merriment and scramble to clean up and get out of the compound as soon as possible. To enjoy to the utmost the next few days of break before the onset of winter. On opening the door to my room I saw the letter on my desk. At first I thought it was from Gregg, but the address was typewritten. It was from a Major Stanton with Gregg's army address. Must be Gregg's commanding officer. Well, at last this little mystery might be cleared up. Maybe Gregg had been shipped to a new unit. The reply was terse, military. A brief introduction, then,
Normally all information of this nature is reserved for the members of the immediate family, but since, as you mentioned in your inquiry, you had been friends since your induction into the military, I regretfully have the duty to inform you that Specialist Gregory T. Bartoni was killed in a jeep accident the 28th of October. His body and personal effects have been shipped to his family in Quincy, Massachusetts.

I stared at the letter. I read it again and again, but I couldn't understand the words. They didn't make any sense. There were no tears, how could I cry over something that couldn't possibly be true, that had nothing to do with reality? I had just been with him a few weeks ago. I could still see his smile, hear his voice, smell his warm fragrant body. Finally, letter in hand, I went to Len's room. Mike had opened the door and was just leaving. I silently gave the letter to Len. He read it, gasped , "Oh my god," and got up to close the door. He grabbed me, held me for a few moments, and suggested that I take a shower and the two of us could then catch the seven o'clock bus into town and go to the house. He suddenly changed his mind and added, "No, better yet, let's go grab some of your clothes and your shaving kit. We can still get the bus that's leaving in ten minutes. It's just too noisy here in the barracks." As we stepped out the door and hurriedly rushed to the bus, I realized that it had begun to snow. Just the first few soft flakes of drifting snow. So white, so softso soft and pure. But cold. Much like the chill that was beginning to enter my being. During the bus trip I stared out the window at the gently

falling snow. Several times Len reached over, touched my shoulder, and asked how I was doing. "Fine. Just fine," I replied in a voice that seemed to have little contact with the person who was uttering the words. I continued to stare out the window at the whiteness. How amazing. I'd never noticed that each snowflake carried with it a musical note. In fact if I considered them collectively, put them together, they even comprised a harmonious composition. I listened carefully and realized that I'd heard this before. Of course, all of those soft snowflake notes could be put together and they became Chopin's Nocturne in F minor. Beautiful swirling snowflake music. How was it that I'd never noticed it before? It was that very same Nocturne that Gregg and I had listened to on that night long ago when we had quietly fallen in love, now turned into gently falling snowflakes. We got off the bus and then walked the four blocks in the light snowfall. Len slid open the shoji door, commented on the coolness of the room and turned on the electric heater; it warmed faster than the wood stove and was a recent purchase in preparation for the coming winter chill. The chill had arrived. Len put on water for some tea, then changing his mind poured two brandies. I felt the warmth of the brandy in my throat, but somehow it wasn't sufficient to warm my body. He put his arm around my shoulder, held me close and told me that I had to cry, had to let it out. But I knew that I couldn't, I wouldn't. It was so cold and I began to think about Hawaii. That beautiful warm, tropical climate. I was telling Len about how Gregg and I had planned to... No, I couldn't use the past tense. It just wasn't right. Gregg and I were planning to live in Hawaii or some other tropical area when we got out of the service. Gregg had discovered the fragrance of the flowering gingers in Hawaii and taken a bath in their perfume. He had stood next to their flowers and claimed that their aroma was penetrating his being. I could see his smile. His effervescent joy, which radiated from his body like an aura. I continued to talk about our future plans. Though not consciously aware of it I was coming very close to stepping over the edge, as many have done, and perhaps never returning to this world. Forever entering that void which contains a comfort and reality of its own. Len kept pouring the brandy and having pulled out one of the futon beds, insisted that I needed to get some rest. It was sometime later, Len was still holding me, under that warm futon blanket, as he had been all night. I was in a semi-conscious state and realized that I was trying to listen to the snow again. To recapture the music. I knew, sensed, that the snow had stopped falling. The music of the snowflakes was fading, dissolving. I tried to retrieve it; I silently pleaded for the melody to come back. Then the silence, an intense deafening stillness. Within that silence I heard Gregg's measured tones saying, as he had so long ago, on that very first day that we had met, "Sometimes it's good to cry. Release it, let it go, but also know that love offered or accepted can never die, it will always be a part of you." Then came the torrent, a flood of tears and sobbing. The stabbing relentless pain of anguish. Len still holding me, woke up to hold me even tighter, and knowing, feeling my pain, couldn't help but sob with me.

After our three day break, that somehow had never existed, and yet was also a nightmare of torment, Len and I returned to the base. Len of course had a bit of sage advice; I, for the next few days was going to adopt a bit of southern paraphernaliaa mask. Might as well make it one of the 'smiley' masks. That way no one asked too many questions. According to Len, they would just say to themselves, "Well, there goes ole Smiley Sue and there's no need to get into a conversation with her since it will obviously be so syrupy sweet that it will just make me want to vomit. That's all there is to it. Now let's see if you've got your mask well placed. That's it, that's it. Well almost, except that a smile is with the corners of the mouth pointed up dear, not down. Ear to ear. Much better." There was a letter from Sven. He and Gregg had been in different units, at opposite ends of Korea, for over six months and Sven had just learned of Gregg's death. Sven was also devastated and wrote that suddenly his world had been diminished, reduced. He had lost something that was very precious to him, one of his dearest friends. Sven also included some lines from one of Shelley's poems:
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep He hath awakened from the dream of life.

Sven added, "Fortunately, 'the dream of life' which was Gregg's included you, was you, and I know that eventually you two will, in some sphere of existence, be reunited. If it can be any consolation, remember that the two of you experienced the profundity of a love which many people will never know." But the joy and meaning of life had abruptly been stripped of my being and little remained but an empty shell. I retreated more and more into myself and spent the minutes, hours, and days lost in a private world of memories; of attempting to read and not understanding the words, endeavoring to listen to music, although usually I didn't hear anything. It was that and staring at nothing and being enveloped in the silence. I existed in a swirling eddy of memories, holding them tightly. Almost as if I were afraid of losing them also. When mom received my letter with the news of Gregg's death she made what was, at that time, a very expensive long distance phone call. I didn't know exactly why since she said very little and spent most of the time sobbing. Perhaps she just wanted a negation, to be told that it wasn't true, and that her "Handsome Son #2" would someday come home, hug her in his arms, smile, and softly sing her a Greek lullaby. I knew that I could give her no such words of comfort. Nor, in her pain, was she able to comfort me. It was another of those gray days. Overcast and cool. Melancholy in its very being, and now after several days of relative internal peace, the anguish had returned. It became more intense as evening fell. That time of day when the mail usually arrived and I knew that there would be no letter from Gregg. Not today nor ever again. Len had gone to Chitose early in the day and Fred still hadn't come back from his temporary duty in Tokyo. The barracks was quiet. Most of the guys were still out on break. I felt more alone than ever before. I was sitting at my desk, not so much writing as just putting down the words as they tumbled out from deep inside:

this heart empty and longing to be filled, permeated once again with your being. a constantly throbbing ache devouring that which would remain whole. now shattered, void and cold. how long must it wait? how long can it wait? before, like the blackness of space, it collapses in upon itself. nothing will remain. nothing more than a cry in the darkness. in the void, that was a heart. having known your love, complete and all encompassing joy beyond belief, wholeness can this now empty vessel settle for less? a plea echoing through eternity, reverberations that know no end.....

I'd gone to the base infirmary several times during the past few weeks complaining of an inability to sleep and received some pills to help relieve my 'insomnia' Rather than being used, they had been carefully guarded for the proper time. Obviously the moment had arrived for their use, all at once. Strangely, I didn't really consider the concept of suicide, I just wanted to sleep forever, to still the ache that was consuming my being. I'd just gotten up from my bed, put on a recording of Beethoven sonatas and was headed for my closet where I had stowed the pills. At that moment the door opened and Fred arrived. His smile and sparkling eyes told the story long before he opened his mouth. Obviously all had gone well during his duty in Tokyo and he was glad to be 'home'. Fred gushingly told me all about his time in Tokyo and obviously the most important piece of news was that Duane had managed to come up on one of his breaks and they had been able to spend the time together. They had finally had their first physical relationship and Fred commented that he didn't

know why he had waited so long. He was bubbly and continued to jabber, at times almost incoherently. The symptoms of love no doubt. Then he showed me his hand and pointed to a new ring with the announcement, "Just like you and Gregg, we made it official." I looked down at my hand and realized that I had been, during the last few weeks of torment, never aware that I was still wearing that physical symbol of my relationship with Gregg. The ache began anew and I began to cry. At Fred's questioning I unfolded the whole story and realized that he was sobbing with me. Like Len had done so many times during the past few weeks Fred was holding me close, trying to comfort me and I knew that he shared my pain. At the same time I realized that I was pleased for Fred and Duane and the fact that they had each other. In some inexplicable way their budding love for each other also helped me. I knew, felt, was aware of the fact that though Gregg's physical presence would not be with me, his limitless love would always be a part of my being. Len and Fred, who had obviously adopted the role of protectors and guardians, had, during the next few weeks, an endless list of activities in which they absolutely needed my help. They in essence helped me to reenter the world of living, of doing and being. Winter eventually passed and the first buds of spring began to appear. One day Fred suggested, "Why don't you visit your friend the Buddhist abbot, Shimizu-san at ... what's the name of that temple?" I told him its name was Chosetsu and was in the process of explaining that it meant "Listening To Snow......" Suddenly it dawned on meof course, the Zen monks also knew that one could listen to the snow and that it contained messages for anyone who would take the time to be attentive to its special voice. Yes, I really wanted, needed, to talk to Shimizu-roshi, perhaps he could help me to make some sense of what, at times, still seemed to be incomprehensible. A few days later I took the now familiar bus ride to the Chosetsu temple in order to spend a few days with my friend Reverend Shimizu. I arrived in mid-afternoon. It had just rained and suddenly the sun burst forth from behind the clouds. Everything was sparkling with an intensity and brilliance that bordered on the unreal. As I entered the temple complex I was greeted by Teijiro-san, one of the novice monks that I had become especially fond of. His smile and sparkling eyes were as brilliant as the surrounding landscape. Teijiro explained that Reverend Shimizu had gone to Sapporo and wouldn't be back until early tomorrow but that I was welcome to stay. After I put my things in the small tatami matted room where I usually stayed, Teijiro asked if I would like to join them for the late afternoon zazen, or meditation practice. Seated on the traditional meditation cushion I realized that my mind was busy with a limitless number of thoughts; they seemed to go on in an endless succession. I attempted to focus, to enter into the ritual. My mind was still a jumble and I knew that it had been exactly like that since learning of Greggs death. I kept trying to still the internal chatter, but without much success. Then from outside, I heard the melodious song of a bird. A sweet lyrical song that was repeated a number of times. That and nothing more. It seemed to embody the wholeness of life, all of creation. I slipped, effortlessly

into another place, perhaps into the very melody of that joyous bird. It was a place I had never entered before. It defied verbalization. It merely was, as I was. It also became a place of healing. That evening, after our usual meal of rice, tofu and vegetables I spent some time talking to the monks. During the meal, as was the custom, there was an attention to eating with no unnecessary speech, though I knew that later we would spend some time in relaxed conversation. It was comforting to be with them, to laugh and chatter. I enjoyed being a part of this close knit community and conversing once again in Japanese. Then my attention was drawn to Shiro and Matsuo who, as usual, were busily chatting with each other. I thought back to the volume of poetry, 'Wild Azaleas', and saw within their special glances and sparkling eyes, smiles which were reserved especially for each other. With a flash of recognition, it became evident that they probably were lovers. Did the other monks know, were they aware? More important, was it of any special significance or was it just accepted as a part of life and living? Abbot Shimizu arrived shortly after noon the next day. In his reserved way he seemed to be as pleased to see me as I was to be with him once again. I relayed the salutations from his friend Professor Takezawa and he seemed both surprised and contented that I'd had the opportunity to meet and converse with his old friend. Since he had various obligations to attend to, he excused himself and suggested we continue our conversation after the afternoon meditation. I mentioned that I had joined the zazen yesterday and would like to do so again today. Though his eyes hinted his delight that I would be joining them for the meditation, he merely bowed slightly and said that I would be more than welcome to join them. That evening in his quarters we talked about my visit to Kyoto and Kyushuhow much I had enjoyed actually seeing and experiencing the history of this country. I recounted the various places I'd visited and my personal impressions. Then suddenly I was talking about Gregg and his death. I was even talking about our relationship, not knowing how Shimizu-roshi would respond to my revelations. He was silent. Then he began to gently explain that it was normal to love and expect our relationships to last forever, but it was this very aspect of human behavior that the Buddha had pondered and attempted to comprehend. The message of Buddhism was that all of life was impermanent, transitory, and whenever we attempted to hold on too tightly, we were bound to suffer the consequences. Reverend Shimizu sighed ever so softly. We had been speaking in English, but he suddenly reverted to Japanese and said, "Hardest of all to love are the cherry blossoms." Then, as if to make sure I understood, he repeated it in English. He gazed out of the open room, the shoji had been left open to let in the gentle night air. He looked to the verdant hillside beyond, now bathed in the light of the nearly full spring moon. In the foreground there was an old cherry tree and even in the pale moonlight, petals could be seen drifting to the ground below. I knew that his phrase held a special significance, but had not yet grasped the meaning. He continued, "There is a seventh century collection of poetry, The Monzen, which begins with the

lines, 'Time passes and nothing endures, the delicate cherry blossoms least of all' ". The pauses in his conversation were obviously as important as the information within the words, phrases and sentences. "The blossoms in spring, the song of the nightingale in summer, the red maple leaves in autumn and the first snow of winter are the most moving of all beautiful things,.......... but which of them lasts forever?..........Human life is no different." "Perhaps most important, and difficult, is to learn an appreciation and acceptance of the moment. Like the refreshing breeze of summer your young friend has moved on. Your life was enriched by his presence, inspired by his knowledge and comforted by his love, and now you are faced with the ultimate reality that nothing physical lasts forever." He continued by quoting the entire poem of that anonymous author of so long ago. Someone who, it appeared, had faced the same emptiness that had gripped my being.

Time passes and nothing endures, the delicate cherry blossoms least of all.

A storm in the night and we are parted from the blossoms; They are gone in the morning. These few words and tears alone remain.

Love them, those blossoms that fall so quickly. Realize that the ancient pine too, After a thousand years, will wither.

I was aware of how much I come to love this unique, elderly man seated in front of me; how fortunate that my path had led me to the Chosetsu temple. He had enriched my life immeasurably by his instructional method of 'non-teaching'. Never once had he suggested that any particular dogma or belief held the answer to salvation or the big 'Truth'. He had never blatantly stated, 'Here is the answer to your question'. He had always shown me a method of arriving at my own answers. Just like Gregg.

Once again I reflected back to the 'Wild Azaleas' book and the disciple of Buddha known as Monju, the personification of wisdom. I felt certain that I had encountered two manifestations of Monju during my life, Gregg and Shimizu-roshi. At that very moment I heard the monks in the central part of the temple begin their harmonious evening chanting. "Gyatei, gyatei, hara gyatei, hara so gyatei boji sowa ka" Tonight they were doing the Heart Sutra. I knew that this was no coincidence, but part of the totality since in Sanskrit, the Heart Sutra can be condensed into a single written syllable, the top part being 'wisdom' and the bottom part was the character representing Monju. With the passage of time, I continued in my return to life and living, but it was never quite the same. A vital part of my very being had been removed and that unbridled joy had been replaced by an undercurrent of persistent longing. A desire for what might have been. Rev. Shimizu may have intellectually pointed out the folly of tenaciously clinging to the things of this life, but my emotional side had not yet wholly accepted it. It was also somewhat contradictory for I had recently both gained and lost. I had lost the most important person in my life and yet in arriving in, and knowing Japan, I had gained an added dimension that would, like the memories of Gregg, be with me for the rest of my days. By this time I knew that I was in actuality rediscovering Japan. Making connections with what, I was positive, had been a previous lifetime there. Though not exactly a Buddhist, I certainly accepted the validity of reincarnation. I also remembered Gregg's intimate identification with Japan. It would appear we had both lived here before. Yes, I knew that we had been here together. Just like two wild azaleas, growing and blooming together. These two things, Gregg and Japan, were intertwined, connections which reverberated throughout time. Eventually I began to smile and even laugh again. To look forward to tomorrow. I had consciously preserved a sufficient quantity of beautiful memories. Like those memories of my father, Gregg's carefully guarded repository in my mind could be opened at any time just by remembering his special smile. However, I couldn't open it just yetit would have to wait for some other day.

Omoitsutsu Nureba ya hito no Mietsuramu Yume to shiriseba Samezaramashi wo

Thinking about him I slept, only to have him Appear before me Had I known it was a dream, I should never have awakened. Ono no Komachi (Ninth century)

19 The Wandering Road To Eiheiji

"The months and days are the travelers of eternity" [Bash] During my last summer in Hokkaido I decided to take my month long vacation with two companions, one a long dead poet and the other a recently departed soul mate. To make that proposed trip south which Gregg, whose life had tragically been cut short the previous year, and I had planned on our last evening together in Kyoto. The poet friend was Matsuo Bash, who had lived in the 17th century and I packed his travel-journal Oku no Hosomichi [ ] in my knapsack as a rough guide for the places to be visited. I had vowed to leisurely pass each day as if it were complete, and wherein the only future plan consisted of my next footstep, subsequent train or bus station, or inn by the roadside. I meant to become, at least for a month, a henro or wandering pilgrim [ ], whose destination might easily change from moment to moment. Some months before my friend Shimuzu-rshi [ ], the abbot at the Zen temple in Hokkaido which I visited regularly, had suggested that I read Bashs record of his travels "Oku no Hosomichi", The Narrow Road to the North. The journal of a special traveler and composed of delicate prose as well as some of the most evocative haiku poems ever penned. With his help we read it together in Japanese, I made copious notes, and in the process came to realize that I had encountered one of those precious jewels of literature. The Narrow Road to the North is not just an ordinary travel diary interspersed with poems. The poetry is as integral a part of the book as is the sparse, hauntingly beautiful prose with each complimenting the other. An incredible and delicate balance rarely achieved in literature. It has the unity of a sublime musical composition. Like melodies introduced and expanded, coming and going, thought patterns and images introduced in one part later recur. For example, the last haiku in his journal, with its sadness for departing autumn echoes the theme of departing spring in the haiku with which the journey begins. Japanese literature has a special term for the type of sparse, lyrical prose employed by Bash in his journal, and is known as haibun [ ]. Haibun can be said to be haiku prose, or prose written in the spirit of haiku. Short prose pieces involving the same set of topics and viewpoints as haiku. And now

the poet Bash was in a sense journeying with me so that I might see the rugged beauty of this sparsely populated northern part of Honshu through his unique vision. It was also a journey back in time. The train trip from Sapporo, in the middle of the northernmost island of Hokkaido, to the ferry crossing at the busy seaport of Hakodate, on the southern tip of the island was relaxing and uneventful, as was the actual ferry crossing itself. The usual number of quizzical glances at this solitary gaijin, foreigner, since the people were used to seeing Americans in small groups and rarely alone. Now landed on the major island of Honshu, and in the city of Aomori I could actually begin the first part of my journey. The general plan was to go south to Hiraizumi and Sendai on the eastern side of the Honshu, pick up Bashs 250 year old trail, then cross the central mountain range, often referred to as the Japanese Alps, to the western side, and follow his ancient path south. Several weeks before I had phoned friends Alex and Tatsuo telling them that I would be visiting with them in Tokyo sometime during my last week of vacation before flying back to Hokkaido. Until the late 18th century the northern area known as Tohoku had been relatively unsettled by the Japanese, although there were several exceptions. The main city on the northern tip of Honshu was the busy port town of Aomori, which had almost been destroyed during WWII. From what I could see the reconstruction had been primarily utilitarian. And it was for me little more than a boarding spot on a train heading in the direction of Sendai, about 300 kilometers south. As the click-clack of the trains wheels marked the passing kilometers I began rereading Bashs tale of his journey. Shortly before leaving I had acquired an English translation, so I could now easily switch between the two since my knowledge of Japanese was certainly not adequate for the many archaic Japanese words and numerous phrases that were unknown or just quite incomprehensible. This book had several photos of the now yellowed pages of a ancient copy of his original work. Yellowed with age, but still alive with poetic images by this master wordsman. Bash had been an errant monk-poet, and in the fall of 1689, set off on foot from Edo, later to become Tokyo, on a journey north. He had heard wondrous tales about the rugged beauty of the mountains and valleys, had read reports of the fabled Bay of Matsushima, near the town of Sendai, as well as other stories about this land to the north and wanted to experience it for himself. So he and his faithful friend Sado, began their walking journey, which would, with the passing of the years, become one of the classics of Japanese literature. As the train continued along its way south, passing through vast plains and rugged mountains the scenery was some of the most spectacular I had ever witnessed. Expanses of virgin forest and the occasional solitary house with characteristic stiffly peaked roof in order to protect against the heavy winter snowfall. People, as well as structures, that had changed little in the vast sweep of the centuries. Friend Bash had written in his cursive, flowing script: "The months and days are the travelers of eternity. The years that come and go are also voyagers. Those who float away their lives on boats or who grow old leading horses are forever journeying, and their homes are wherever their travels take them. Many of the men of old died on the road, and I too for years past have been stirred by the sight of a solitary cloud drifting with the wind, to ceaseless thoughts of roaming."

His journal contains lyrically smooth prose, and is perhaps most renown for the number of haiku composed during his travels. Haiku, that most Japanese of poetic forms of a mere seventeen syllables, in which experience is reduced to its most simple, basic statement. In short, it becomes a distillation of the very essence; a Zen experience, one made manifest without the necessity of superfluous words. Knowing that I would undoubtedly be visiting temples along the way I had carefully packed my shuin book [ ], now filled with memories and replete with calligraphic flourishes of the temples I had previously encountered. In Japan when a temple is visited, the pilgrim, or visitor, presents the presiding Buddhist priest with a special bound book of blank pages. The priest then signs the book in calligraphy which has been raised to the level of sublime art, and stamps in vermilion ink the seals (shuin) of the temple. I briefly thought back to that pre-dawn Kyoto morning of the previous year when Hiroshi-san, our thoughtful young guide, had presented both Gregg and me with our shuin books and explained that they were a necessary part of every pilgrims knapsack. A profound moment when we had suddenly been awarded the title of pilgrim. A gift which had, over time, become a treasure trove of memories. It was in the spirit of someone on a pilgrimage that I carried little more than the basic necessities on this special trip in honor of two special friends; the spirit of Gregg who would be with me to experience it through my being, and the recently discovered Bash, an adopted friend from a time long past. Arriving at the small country town of Hiraizumi in mid afternoon I was suddenly propelled into the past. Buildings and homes that seemed to have been standing in place for countless years, patiently waiting for this very moment of recognition. They were comfortably nestled in a valley surrounded by densely forested hills and mountains that radiated peace, tranquility and timelessness. And the feeling of Bash was in the air, since he had stepped on the very stones my feet would soon be trodding. I could actually sense his bent, robed body, pilgrim's cane and simple straw hat, appearing and disappearing in the mist between the towering trees. And long before Bash had ventured by, Hiraizumi had been the proud capital of the Northern Fujiwara, a clan that had ruled and grown rich on the gold found in the area. This outpost in northern Tohoku had evidently been a city producing art and architecture to rival even the capital of Kyoto far to the south. I soon found myself in a local Ryokan, a traditional inn, and a central location for exploration. After settling in my room, I went out in search of, and had soon entered the Chusonji temple [ ], dating back to 850 AD, a marvelous complex of exquisite buildings and for the first time my feet were treading the same ground where Bash had walked. The long approach to the temple had passed through an ancient stand of cryptomeria, the Japanese cedar, cool and dark towering overhead. And now I was in the Benkei-do, a thatched house where Bash spent time resting and in this very spot had composed one of his many haiku. natsugusa ya tsuwamono-domo ga yume no ato

The summer grass Tis all thats left Of ancient warriors dreams.

It was in reference to those who had futilely resisted the advance of the southern armys conquest of the area. An area rife with the 12th century history of feudal Japan, battles won and battles lost in bitter defeat, as well as nights of viewing the passing moon and dreaming never to be realized dreams. The fragments of those dreams still lingered in the air, settling as soft swirling mist on the fragrant earth. Returning to the ryokan at dusk I was greeting by the now smiling proprietress, with a bow even lower than was necessary. Unlike when I had arrived earlier in the day, she now seemed to accept my presence amicably. Our initial encounter had suffered a few strained moments. When I first inquired as to whether they had any rooms available she had replied that she was very sorry but they served only Japanese food. I assured her that I was used to eating, and particularly enjoyed, Japanese food. Then she continued by adding that they only had chopsticks and no western utensils. I hastily made a chopstick gripping motion with my fingers and assured her that I was a pro with o-hashi . Next I had to assure her that I did indeed know how to use a Japanese benjo type toilet. Hardly pausing in her litany, she retorted that she was so very, very sorry but they only spoke Japanese. Undaunted, and now fully armed, I suggested that since we had been speaking Japanese for the last few minutes, that we might just as well continue since I felt rather competent to do so. Then it was time for me to deliver the coup de grce as I mentioned that I still encountered a few linguistic problems and in point of fact, much of the vocabulary in Lady Murasakis Gengi Monogotari was a bit perplexing. And with that reference to Japanese literatures most famous novel, the gaijins admittance was secured. I knew that her concerns were in some ways valid, in that many foreigners were indeed not familiar with Japanese customs and it could cause possible problems, or misunderstandings, and a loss of face on both sides. It certainly wasnt the first time I had encountered this resistance, but had learned to combat this bit of reluctance with glowing smiles, any available tool such as Lady Murasaki, and an ample number of honorific bows. In point of fact it was more than presumptuous on my part to claim that I could easily read Tale of the Genji, but it served its purpose. The simple, yet elegant room, might well have seemed sparse by western standards. It was approximately 9 by 12, the floor was covered with fragrant rice straw mats (tatami), natural wood throughout, and the light was gently softened as the passed though the paper-covered shoji windows. An exquisite lacquered table with cushions on two sides. On one side of the room was the traditional tokonoma, an alcove with a lovely hanging scroll of calligraphy and vase filled with a single flower. The sliding doors on the opposite wall opened onto a narrow veranda and a charming inner courtyard with the most manicured of gardens and a ancient, lichen covered stone lantern. Suffused with 'wabi', that sublime Japanese concept of something which is elegant, simple and carries the patina of age. There by the sliding door where I had entered was a folded blue and white yukata robe. After a leisurely soak in the large hot tub, and properly attired in the yukata I retired to my room.

Soon the door slid back and I was served a delicious dinner in the room. All based on tradition and rituals as old as the land itself. Later, this sitting, dining room became the bedroom. The charming maid placed the table to one side and from a closet extracted the futon, or bedding. The shiki-buton, or quilted mattress is covered with a down-light cover, the kake-buton. I had long since learned to replace the buckwheat chaff filled device which served as a pillow, and was not very comfortable, with one of the softer zabuton cushions used for sitting on the tatami. Comfy and cozy in the warm futon, I realized that on this day of my journey, which I had come to refer to as the 'Bash trail', had been a complete success. I wished my two unseen traveling companions oyasuminasai, good night, briefly considered what joys and discoveries tomorrow's footsteps might bring, and was soon fast asleep. Sendai, , on the eastern seacoast, and the largest town in the Tohoku region had been almost completely demolished during the war by repeated Allied bombing. Within the intervening years it was once again becoming a vital, growing center of trade and commerce. It was now a bustling city filled with construction, but this was not my destination and I quickly boarded a bus for the trip to the nearby, and celebrated, Matsushima Bay. I had read, and heard, that it was an enormous bay with countless pine-covered islets. When Basho, who had spent his life capturing the exquisite beauty of Japan with consummate skill, and turning that beauty into poetry, had seen this area, for the first time in his life he was nearly without words but had managed to write, "O great creator of the Universe, what man could presume to describe this place in words?" As the bay came into view, I immediately knew why this master of verbal images had never put brush to paper about Matsushima. Hundreds of pine covered islands dotted the bay. It was an experience that rendered all possible words inadequate. I innately knew that not even my expensive and trusty camera could not do justice to the experience itself and was aware of why, in a land brimming with natural beauty, it had been named one of the country's Natural Treasures. At that moment I silently thanked Basho for having led me to this spot of earthly magnificence. I also knew deep within, like my poet friend, that this was a unique experience that transcended all words. After two days at a charming ryokan in the small town of Matsushima, where I had been immediately received as an honored guest with no questions raised about my chopstick ability, I retraced my steps to Sendai and then headed west by train into the mountainous center of Honshu. This dividing mountain range known as the Japanese Alps would lead my journey first to the town of Yamagata, deep in the high mountains, and from there by bus to the quaint town of Yamadera [ ]. Basho had written: There was a temple called Ryushakuji
in the province of Yamagata. Founded by the great priest Jikaku, this temple was known for the absolute tranquility of its holy compound. . . I changed my course at Obanazawa and went there, though it meant walking an extra seven miles or so. When I reached it, the late afternoon sun was still lingering over the scene. I climbed to the temple situated near the summit. The whole mountain was made of massive rocks thrown together and covered with age-old pines and oaks. The stony ground itself bore the color of eternity, paved with velvety moss.

Ryshaku-ji Temple was founded in 860 AD by the priest Ennin, and the monks here have spent the thousand years since digging holes into the mountain, and erecting precarious appearing shrines. It was a steep 1,110 steps from the entrance of the complex all the way to the magnificent Oku-no-in sanctuary at the top. With each step I realized that Bash, though unseen, was by my side as we climbed those well worn steps of granite on a mountain of granite.

And it was here that Basho plucked those now famous seventeen syllables from the forested mountain air:
shizukesa ya iwa ni shimiiru semi no koe The silence The voice of the cicada Penetrates the rocks.

This ancient town, looking like a perfectly preserved piece of the past, seemed to be enveloped in a soft air of stillness and mystery. The monastery was perched on the side of a steep, forested mountain side and reached by an ascending rock path. The main temple itself was composed of the most beautifully weathered wood structures that I had ever encountered, and many of the outbuildings were perched precariously on rock outcroppings. I couldn't help but look down at my feet, knowing that Basho had also tread these very same steps and now we were ascending them together. Inside the temple was a sacred flame, which according tradition, has been burning continuously for a thousand years. And being late summer the numerous shrill, yet musical, cicada's calls did indeed seem to penetrate the very mountain granite. An apparent contradiction and yet the cicadas near constant cry seemed to be an integral part of the stillness. And not only were they penetrating the granite, but they bored deep within my being. Since I first arrived in Japan some four years ago, I had often become aware of a pervading sense of 'dj vu'. It was often as if I was not seeing and experiencing this land for the first time, but rather that I was rediscovering it. Deep within my being, inside my 'gaijin' [foreigner] exterior there lurked a ghost of the past. A part which was slowly awakening and joyously proclaiming its affinity to these cherished islands of The Rising Sun. The vibratory humming of the 'semi', or cicada, had once again touched a spark that appeared to awaken long forgotten memories. And yet, much like the experience in Matsushima, it could never be adequately be described in words. Any attempt at words, with a conveniently packaged logical explanation, came up short of the actuality. After a number of days I came to realize how liberating it was to travel with no specific plan, no need to arrive. As Basho mentioned on the first page of his travel narrative, the spirits of the road beckoned....". I too was learning to heed that inner voice, the voice of the spirit. When comfortable I stayed, when the time to move on arrived, I inherently knew. And indeed, though separated by centuries, we were journeying together. I had passed through vast areas of towering mountains, rugged beauty which was sparsely settled and punctuated by gentle green valleys. There were small towns that had changed little with the passing of the years and it was not unlike stepping into the shadowy world of the past. Eventually I found myself far west and south from my starting point, in the town of Niigata, facing the Sea of Japan and looking across to the unseen continental land mass of Asia. A major port, gateway to nearby Sado Island with its ancient gold mines, but there seemed to be little else to merit a prolonged stay. My small travel guide, prone to effusive descriptions of sightseeing tips, listed it only as 'an industrial town and important seaport.' Like Basho before me, I didn't linger long and continued south along the coast. In fact Basho may not have lingered here at all since this particular town was not mentioned in his journal. But in Niigata's meager defense, it may not have even existed in the 17th century when my long dead traveling companion passed this way.

I arrived in the small coastal town of Kashiwazaki. It was so small that it also didn't merit mention in my guide book. Completely ignored. As was my custom I was staying at a quaint, but small ryokan, the only one in town. It was also quite charming and proprietress exceedingly friendly. I immediately had the impression that I didn't have to be adept at using chopsticks, and could probably have used my fingers, since she seemed to feel that anything I did was worthy of a titter and a fleeting glimpse of her shiny gold teeth. It appeared that there were actually two of us staying at the inn. That evening, in conversing with Mr. Ueda, an Osaka businessman, heading north to Niigata, he suggested that in my travels I should make a special point of visiting the Eiheiji monastery. He quickly drew a map of where it was located, and the transfer point in the town of Fukui, some 300 km. to the south. In fact he drew the map several times in order to approximate the distances and various towns along the way. When I had mentioned to Ueda-san that I was following Basho's footsteps he beamed and offered that Basho had made Eiheiji one of his rest stops and had spent several days there. Then slyly added, with his dark, intense eyes narrowing, that he was sure I would enjoy doing the same. Later that evening in my room I consulted the map for the next day's possible destination and discovered that a visit to the monastery at Eiheiji, though it sounded interesting, didn't appear to be a possibility. What I hadn't admitted to Ueda-san was that my main reason for stopping in Kashiwazaki was that there was a train from this terminal which went inland into the mountains and with several connections I could arrive at Nagano. There was a large and important temple in Nagano which housed a contested copy of Basho's original travel journal. Evidently in literary circles it was continually debated as to the authenticity of the document. But no matter, I would enjoy seeing it. And from Nagano I could head south and east eventually arriving in Tokyo. It was all rather curious in that Basho had never actually visited Nagano deep in this central mountain range. Somehow I kept returning to the conversation with Ueda-san. In a fashion uncharacteristic of the Japanese, he was almost insistent that I should go to Eiheiji. I had appreciated his enthusiasm and thanked him for the suggestion all the while knowing that I had other plans and would no doubt be heading inland. An alternate possibility would be that I could go to Nagano, check out the Basho document, then return to the western coast in order to go south to Fukui. However that would mean traveling even further south before I could cross to the eastern coast and would entail a considerable journey up the eastern coast to Tokyo. The cool evening breeze carried the scent of the sea and seemed to fill the room. The number of possible routes now began rattling around in my head as I drifted off to sleep. Perhaps my last conscious thought was that I should just let the journey unfold. Arriving at the train station the next morning I was informed that the train to Nagaoka, the first transfer point on my proposed journey to Nagano, would not be leaving due to a severe mountain rock slide. It might in fact, be several days before service was restored. The alternate possibility was to take a train south for about 40 km., then take a bus inland for about 25 km., then I could get a train going to Nagano. My head was suddenly swimming with the names of towns and trains and buses and summer rockslides. So I opted for the easiest and headed south along the coast in the direction of Fukui. Although my ticket was only for as far as Kanazawa, which the train clerk insisted was worth visiting. It seemed strange that I had spent the first week with no travel suggestions whatsoever, and suddenly everyone was volunteering possible places to visit. So it appeared I would be in Kanazawa by mid afternoon, do a bit of sightseeing, stay the night and then go on to Fukui and Eiheji the next day. More unfolding. As it turned out, I spent two days and two nights at a lovely menshuku in Kanazawa. 'Menshuku' are homes that accommodate visitors in a spare bedroom and provide delicious home cooked food which is eaten with the family. My hosts were a professor at the local university and his charming wife and two

teenaged children. Their suggestions for visiting in the town of Kanazawa were a nice diversion from my pilgrims journey. Perhaps one of the most interesting was the old Samurai district of town still appearing exactly as it has for hundreds of years. When I left two days later, it was with the knowledge that I was leaving a wealth of subsequent adventures for another time. From Kanazawa it was a short trip to Fukui, my next stop. Leaving the picturesque, old fashioned town of Fukui, the small three car 'train' chugged and snaked its way up through the towering forests of evergreen pine and cryptomeria, in addition to the many species of deciduous trees, and it became evident we were entering another world. A most charming one it would appear. There were two young monks seated in front of me and I surmised that they too might be heading for Eiheiji. They seemed somewhat surprised when, at the small train station, I also boarded the bus for the short ride to Eiheiji. There were several Japanese pilgrims, or perhaps just vacationing visitors, who were also part our small group. One of the monks decided to throw caution, and the time honored tradition of reserve, to the wind and greeted me in halting English. Then, reverting to a Japanese tinged with a thick Kyushu accent, he asked if I had come to visit the monastery. When I responded in the affirmative he and his companion offered to show me the way. We passed through the small village, which seemed to be composed almost completely of souvenir shops and eating establishments. Winding our way up the hill we reached the entry to the monastery. At the train station in Fukui I picked up a small pamphlet with information about Eiheiji and it mentioned that there were two entrances, one of which was reserved for only for visits from the Emperor. When questioned the two monks volunteered to show me the Imperial entrance since it was but a short walk down the road. The worn and weathered granite steps were lined with tall cryptomeria, a Japanese type of aromatic cedar, and their broad trunks gave evidence of their great age, undoubtedly older than the monastery itself which had been established over seven hundred years ago. There was an elaborately roofed structure at the top, the 'mon' or gate. Returning to the regular entrance gate, connected to a building where visitors received information about the monastery, the monks asked me to please wait there, and they disappeared into the maze of buildings beyond. The tourists, contemporary pilgrims, began to wander off in order to inspect the grounds. For whatever reason I had been left alone waiting. Not only that, but instructed to wait there. Though mid-summer, there was a refreshing coolness to the mountain air and a pervasive, wafting fragrance of the aromatic cedar needles. The area seemed to embody absolute, perfect tranquility. Of course when translated into English, Eiheiji means Temple of Eternal Peace. While waiting I began thinking about the terminology, and implied difference, between a casual visitor and pilgrim. Though in a sense were they not the same? In English 'pilgrim' did of course suggest a specific goal, the fulfilling of a spiritual need by visiting a location singled out as being unique. And yet the visitor was also fulfilling a need to experience perhaps the same need, though not necessarily couched in those terms. And were we not all pilgrims on our personal journey of life?

My cogitation was put aside for another occasion at the appearance of one of the monks, the talkative one, and an elderly man of dignified appearance in his priestly robes. It would appear that I was to be welcomed in a rather grand manner. Certainly something I hadn't expected. Nor was I prepared for the abbot's first question after he had bowed and greeted me. "So you have arrived to ask permission to join our Zen community?", he asked in a very formal Japanese. I replied with a hesitant question of my own, and asked him if he would be so kind as to repeat what he had just said. Now, aware that I had indeed understood his original question, I replied it would be an honor to 'join' them, but I was merely 'visiting'. There was that 'visit' word again, though this time in a verbal form. He replied that I was welcome to stay as a short term visitor, and there was also a meditation training program which consisted of a week long stay. In either case, there was a small daily fee and I would be expected to observe certain rules of etiquette, eating the same simple vegetarian fare as the monks, and sleeping in a small room on a futon. I could join in the daily zazen, meditation practice, if I wished, and was free to come or go as I desired, though I would be expected to be back on the premises by 8:30 in the evening since all lights were turned off at 9:00. If I wasn't keen on vegetarian food I could find other food in any of the several restaurants along the entry road. He smiled, rather impishly, and added that life was filled with near limitless possibilities. At that moment there were the deep reverberations of a bronze bell which almost seemed to be a personal message. Since arriving in Japan I had responded to this sound as to no other. So, once again a relaxed change of plans, for at that moment I realized that I had just decided to extend my stay at Eiheiji, and spend three of days here. There was an intuitive internal chattering in my head which seemed to be in agreement with my conscious decision. I also smiled inwardly realizing that I must have misunderstood the young monk's first question back on the train platform. He obviously had asked if I had arrived to 'stay' at the monastery, and thinking that I was a new 'recruit' he had proceed to enlist the aid of the abbot for my admittance as proscribed by tradition. How curious that he had thought that a 'gaijin', a foreigner, would want to become a monk, especially in light of the fact that I seemed to be the only foreigner presently in the temple. No, I wasn't ready to have my head shaved yet. In fact it was something I'd never really considered. Somehow in my four years in Japan, I'd never given much thought to the fact that Buddhist monks here might be anything other than Japanese. On learning I would be staying for three days the abbot asked Todashi-san, the ever smiling extrovert, to show me to the small room where I could leave my carry all and backpack. It was located on a wing of the second floor of the 'daikuin' or kitchen building. Then my new found acquaintance offered to show me around the compound, and at the same time engaged in a running commentary on its history in a combination of Japanese laced with a few words in English. A grinning, effervescent chatter box. He paused frequently to ask, "wakari masu ka?", in an attempt to make sure that I understood what he was talking about. I enjoyed the softness of his southern cadence. He had explained that Eiheiji was one of the two main temples of Soto Zen Buddhism. The modifier 'Soto' indicated that their main practice was that of meditation. The founder, Dogen Zenji, was born in 1200 AD and at the age of 24 went to China to study Zen practice at the Mt. Tendo monastery. Returning to Japan after an profound satori experience he founded a temple, Kosho Horinji near

Kyoto. In 1244 AD he traveled to this very mountain hillside and established 'the Temple (ji) of Eternal (hei) Peace (ei)' - Eiheiji. His remaining years were spent at Eiheiji instructing monks in the practice of 'Shikan-taza', 'just sitting', meditation as well as the other aspects of learning to live a life devoted to zen practice. His doctrine could be summed up by his insistence that intellectual speculation was of little use in attempting to understand that which could not be verbalized. Words were a necessary and marvelous tool, but they were just that, and not the experience, the 'knowingness' itself. He believed that ultimately it had to be approached by the direct means of 'shikan taza', the meditation practice which continues to this day. Of course Todashi-san hadn't offered all this information at one time. It had been slowly presented as we visited the various buildings, most of which were connected by covered walkways, necessary because of the heavy winter snows in this mountainous area. Each revelation carried with it a smile and charming eyes that narrowed to thin slits. That evening in the small cell-like room I began to reflect on the extraordinary set of circumstances which had brought me here. At Kashiwazaki, some 200 km. up the coast, I met the friendly salesman from Osaka who was insistent that I visit Eiheiji. Then a rockslide on a rail line had confirmed that I would indeed be heading south. Had the entire detour to Eiheiji, which began several days ago, been orchestrated by some unknown force? I turned off the light and crawled under the warm futon blanket. My mind continued to play with the seeming jigsaw-like puzzle of my arrival here. Then too, there was that momentary confusion when Todashi surmised that I had arrived in order to become a novice Zen monk. Had I unwittingly touched upon a previously unknown, unconsidered possibility? My wandering thoughts were a pleasant means of drifting off to sleep under the comfortable, warm futon blanket. The pale moonlight made a soft pattern, as it passed through the bamboo grillwork overhead and down onto the floor, as I finally floated to that other world, the one of rest and dreams.

It was a year after my first visit to the Eiheiji Temple that I entered its venerable gate once again. However, this time it was for a longer visit. I had requested and received permission from the abbot to begin the process of becoming a Zen monk. Kneeling at a low table, the abbot produced an official form which would contain my personal information. First he asked for me to sign a designated box with my hanko or name stamp. Unlike in the west personal signatures are never used, rather ones family identity rests in the small, oval or square name stamp, made of wood or stone normally about three inches long and which are produced by artisans who hand carve these miniature calligraphic masterpieces. Each hanko is uniquely different and registered at a government office. I recalled the day my friend and mentor in Hokkaido, the Rev. Shimizu, had decided it was time for me to have a Japanese name. Thinking about the various possibilities inherent in my occidental family name he mentally began looking for a Japanese phonetic equivalent of the many kanji characters available, and one which would be poetic in sound and carry a symbolic meaning beyond it mere literal

transliteration. Finally he smilingly decided that kiru su tei would do just fine. I was about to become a bird nest in a chestnut tree along the Imperial Way. References to nature were always a favorite theme of Japanese names. After discussing it, I agreed to my new identity and he suggested a hanko maker in Sapporo where I could choose the style, square, oblong, or circular, and type of calligraphy. And then on to the government office to officially register it. My momentary reverie was interrupted by the abbot asking for my first name. Well, he could turn Gordon into Go-ru-dan, , in the blocky katakana letters often used for transliterating foreign words. Then he smilingly suggested that I might like to adopt a different first name, a more Japanese sounding one. I agreed and he proposed that Go-do might be a possibility. He went on to explain that it meant nostalgic crossing or voyage, and had been the name of a notable Meiji era writer and poet. And so it was that on that tranquil day that I became a Zen monk known by the name of:

Kirusutei Gdo

There was a soft knock on the door and it was Todashi-san, the monk whom I had met on the way here to Eiheiji nearly a year ago, and had mistakenly thought I had arrived to become a monk like himself. He was correct of course, just a year out of sync. The abbot explained that since Todashi spoke some English, he would be my personal companion for the next few weeks as I settled into my new life since there would many things to learn and countless rules to observe. The way to Eiheiji had indeed been a wandering one, and it had been orchestrated by many people and events, seen and unseen, known and unknown and I silently thanked my two traveling companions who had assisted in my journey by their spiritual presence and silent nudges.

20 From There To Here, Then to Now

The warm tropical rain continued to fall. Not the usual cloudburst or intense downpour, but a gentle, light drizzle, which in the language of the Aztecs, Nahuatl, had been called 'chipi-chipi'. Here, in this part of Mexico, drizzle or llovizna, which was the proper word in Spanish, was still referred to as 'chipi-chipi' and it had been in evidence for several days. The soft pervading fragrance of the balmy atmosphere filled the room; jasmine, gardenias, orchids and of course that scent which had been Gregg's favorite, the soft distinctive perfume of the flowering ginger. It was the month of March and the year was 1998. Forty five years had passed since that day in March of 1953 when I had first met Gregg and experienced one of the singularly most important events of my life. There were of course many other beautiful moments, but none had ever been so explicit in their profundity. Finally I was able to once again recapture Gregg's smile. And with it I entered that repository of deeply buried memories. I could see his mirthful twinkling eyes, experience again the sound of his unique voice. Memories which had been purposefully hidden for so many years. In those first few years following his death, the pain had been so intense that the only way to deal with it was repression. Not erasure. Not a denial of its existence; just hide it from today, from the now, and with such vigor that it did indeed seem to disappear. It seemed to be a technique necessary for survival. Upon returning to California from Japan, after a year of being a zen monk, I had plunged into my university studies. They were sufficient to help in the process of returning to life. Live today and do what needs to be done today. Yesterday all the yesterdays and days before yesterday, somehow ceased to exist. They had been secreted away. It was the summer vacation after my first year back in college. I had called Bela and made arrangements to spend a few days with her at her home in Quincy, south of Boston. When the cab stopped in front of Bela's house I had the sudden impulse to tell the driver to return to the airport. I suddenly felt that I couldn't confront the reality of entering a house which was filled with so many memories. I forced myself to get out of the taxi and rang the doorbell. Bela opened the door, grabbed me, smiled briefly and then I saw the tears begin to form. Composing herself, she had me take my bags up to the guest room and told me to then come down to the kitchen. I put my suitcase and small handbag next to the bed and went to the bathroom. I fully expected to see Gregg's cologne sitting on the shelf. He had always used 7-11 a marvelous citrus smelling cologne from Germany. It wasn't there, though its aroma had permeated time and softly lingered in the air. On leaving the bathroom I couldn't stop myself and peeked in the through the half open door to Gregg's room. Fortunately it was completely different and was obviously now used by the young daughter of Paolo and Francesca. Paolo had seen the light of Bela's rather forceful advice and married the young lady that had caused him to get his leg broken. Their daughter had been born a few months later. Bela was, as usual, busy in the kitchen. I noticed that her hair was now almost completely

white. She looked considerably older, but then it had been over six years since I had last seen her. She poured two cups of coffee, sat down and began to ask about my life and how my classes were going at college. She got up to get some cake and I looked around the kitchen. It hadn't changed and looked exactly the same. It was like stepping back in time. Then I saw the refrigerator and somehow it triggered one of Gregg's most humorous stories, about how Bela should have closed the refrigerator door on his neck.... Now it was my turn and I began to wipe back the tears. Bela, forever observant, noticed and came over and put her hand on my shoulder. "Yes, I know. There are days when I miss him so much I feel like I want to die." She took my hand in hers, then looked down at the gold band which I still wore. Without a word she went to her bedroom and returned. Holding something, she motioned for me to put out my hand. "I have saved this for you. I was sure that it should belong to you." It was Gregg's ring. Paolo, his wife and their daughter were on vacation and visiting relatives in Connecticut so it was rather quiet in the house. Bela and I had a light dinner and shortly thereafter Gina came by for a visit. She was as charming and beautiful as ever. After a bit of conversation Bela excused herself and said she was going to rest for a bit, mentioning at the same time that if she went to sleep I should just make myself at home, watch television then go to bed when I wanted. Gina got some more coffee and we began to talk. She began the conversation, "On Gregg's last visit, before he went to Korea, we had a nice long chat. Actually it was more like a marathon. He finally told me he was gay and all about the relationship between the two of you. I already knew, as did mom. It wasn't something we could talk about, but we knew. I also knew, without being told, how much you meant to him; how much he loved you." She got up to get some Kleenex. "It was nice to see him in love and that's the way I'll always remember himwith that incredibly joyous sparkle in his eyes, radiance in his being." She paused and then continued, "If during your visit you'd like to go to the cemetery I could take you. I haven't been there since he was buried, although mom goes every month. He's next to his parents, my brother Giuseppi and Carla. Mom also mentioned that you are welcome to any of Gregg's things; everything is stored in the garage. She thought you might especially be interested in his master's thesis on the troubadours. Evidently in one of his last letters from Korea he wrote that if anything ever happened to him he wanted you to have it. Do you think he might have had a premonition of what was going to happen?" It was a question I couldn't answer. Many times I had thought back to his conversation about being buried under that large rock in Carmel. That entire conversation had been so out of character for him. I was also perplexed and explained to Gina that I didn't know he had actually finished his master's thesis "Not exactly. You know he got his bachelors degree at Boston University and graduated with honors. We were all very, very proud of him. He started in the master's program and then suddenly seemed to lose interest. Shortly thereafter he joined the Army." I noticed that she was looking at my tattoo. "He told me you had both gotten them and at first it seemed so, well, so out of characterfor both of you. But now, somehow it seems to make sense.

As Gina reached over to run her finger over my tattoo she commented, Obviously he's going to be with you for the rest of your life." Gina hesitated, "Actually I would like for you to go to the cemetery with me since I want to show, as well as ask, you something. I know that it may be difficult for you as it's always difficult for me. Since I've never married and had children of my own he was much like my own son. Especially after my brother and Carla died he would come to me and confide those little secrets that he felt mom wouldn't understand. After all this time it's still difficult for me accept that one day he won't come bounding through the door, smiling his special smile and talking about a thousand things at once." By now we had both used a great number of the Kleenex. The next morning dawned cloudy, though still warm. It carried the hint of rain. Giovanna arrived about 10:00. Bela's arthritis was bothering her and announced that she was not up to going to the cemetery. I really didn't want to go though with it; I was rebelling internally but knew that for some reason Gina felt that it was important. There it was. A simple headstone: Gregory T. Bartoni 1930 - 1955 How do I love thee, Let me count the ways. . .

Gina put some flowers in the recessed container and I added a single red rose, picked from Bela's garden. I couldn't believe what I was seeing and immediately inquired as to how they had put that particular verse on the stone. She explained that it was this that prompted her question of the previous evening, "In the same letter with the request to give the Troubadour manuscript to you, Gregg wrote that if anything ever happened to him, he would like that line to be remembered as a part of him. Mom had been perplexed, but when a month later she got the letter from the Department of the Army about the jeep accident, she was sure that he had had a premonition of his own death." I told Gina that it was a line from one of Gregg's favorite poems and that it undoubtedly referred to his love of life. Though I didn't say so, I knew that it was a special message for me. Seeing it now I knew that it was something, like my tattoo, that would be with me for the rest of my life. I thought back to the day when we finally finished 'our secret script' and that was the first thing

he wrote, Elizabeth Barrett Brownings How Do I Love Thee? from her Sonnets to the Portuguese. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Then Gina pointed to the bouquet of mixed yellow flowers, which I had seen, but not really noticed. She explained that they arrived once a month and were always the same color. The only other thing she knew about the sender was that they were sent from Los Angeles. I immediately knew that they were from Bozhena. I told Gina that my mother had also had been devastated by Gregg's death and then told about how she had promised to get Gregg a yellow shirt on his return from Korea. That visit to Boston continued with the process of erasure. In order to continue living in the present, I was forced to internally negate a past that seemed too painful to contemplate. Soon I had finished my Bachelor's degree at Los Angeles State College and decided to get my Master's. I had decided to continue my studies at the State College in San Francisco. Soon that period also came to an end and I had the piece of paper, but it, like much of my life, still held no particular direction. Then I decided to completely envelop myself in the world of horticulture. Six years of preparation in order to teach and yet I had suddenly changed direction. No matter, I was relatively happy. It felt good to be happy again. During my college days there were several infatuations. First it had been Terry. Terry's companionship was the indication that I still had feelings. Emotional, as well as physical yearnings, though I wasn't able to express them. Vivacious Norman who introduced me to the joys of motorcycling. Ivan, a distant cousin from Hungary who wanted to share more than his love of our mutual European connections. During those first few years I was incapable of any response other than friendship and even that was kept at a respectable distance. When I was finishing my master's degree, I met Jerry. I had just bought a small, charming house perched on a hillside in Mill Valley and we lived together for two years. Our relationship

seemed to contain all the proper elements of a true love affair. Yet, when Jerry suddenly flew the coop, I recovered in short order and, within a few months, hardly knew that he was gone. He was followed by the handsome, plant loving Dutchman, Keith, and we spent two years in Australia. I got tired of the relationship, or perhaps it was Keith's aberrant behavior while on his frequent drug trips, and I returned to California. A year later I met Walter, a slightly bizarre though pleasant, young psychologist. We bought a home in the hills above the town of Sonoma. Three years later we had gone our separate ways. Soon thereafter it was Gary, a fellow horticulturist. We became involved and bought a house in rolling hills of western Sonoma county. Though we lived together for a nearly fifteen years, our physical relationship didn't last more than a few months. Then it was Andrs, a charming vivacious young fellow from El Salvador. Later, on a trip to the state of Veracruz in Mexico, I met Fernando, a teacher at a university in the nearby town of Crdoba. In many small indefinable ways it was like encountering Gregg anew. Our love affair was instantaneous and I soon sold my home in California and moved to Mexico. After seven years of bliss Fernando was killed as the result of an automobile accident and once again my world collapsed. Then one rainy day in March I opened the long closed repository of memories about Gregg. Almost immediately I began to see that I had consciously, and unconsciously, hidden a great deal from not only the people in my life, but most importantly, also from myself. It was a revelation to discover that I talked incessantly about Giovanni and Francesca Caminetti, the Italian couple that I knew while I was in college, and that my love of the Italian culture had been a result of my friendship with them. In recalling Gregg there came the sudden realization that he was the one who had first kindled an interest in Italian culture. The Caminetti's had certainly reinforced it, but it all began with Gregg. I had even hidden that little bit of information from myself. One day in that same month of March of 1998, seated at my desk in the small Mexican town of Fortin de las Flores, I decided to write about Gregg. It was after Fernandos death, and when I realized that I had lost Gregg for the second time. It was also the first time I'd written about him in any detail in over forty years. The more I wrote, the more I remembered. I finally recognized that I been concealing a number of things It was very revealing to see that I had spent more than forty years responding to the people and events in my life and heeding an unknown agenda. One of the most important discoveries during this process was recognizing how I had spent my life looking for 'another Gregg'; it had been reflected in each and every one of the love affairs that I'd been involved in. I could now, with hindsight, point out particular qualities of each of my 'partners' as being especially characteristic of Gregg. Naturally it was impossible for any of those individuals to be that particular person from the past, and so, sooner or later, the relationship came to an end. How could I not have realized what I was doing to myself and those involved? I silently asked their forgiveness, and where possible did so verbally or in correspondence, and in that release came to love each of them for being themselves. Something I had previously neglected, or perhaps didn't even know how, to do.

Fortin de las Flores, state of Veracruz, in southeastern Mexico. I had found this particular location in Mexico after meeting Fernando. Its climate and natural geographic features appealed to me as did the fragrance of the abundant, flowering ginger. I also seemed especially drawn to this area, as if it contained some inner magnetic force. At first I couldn't pinpoint the particular reason, which seemed to be hidden beneath the surface. Not only was I drawn to the area, but decided to make it my permanent residence. I had been living in the area for several months when one day I inquired of one of the local inhabitants about an especially large, walled estate with a tall, wooden gate and the avenue of lofty palms beyond. I had found it especially intriguing every time I passed. It was sort of a shock when I was told that it had been the summer residence of Maximillian and Carlotta in the 1860's. It was now known as 'Las Animas' or 'The Place of the Soul'. Of course, now I knew. In a sudden flash of 'knowing' everything became clear. That very house, inside those gates, was where Michele, attached to the court of Carlotta, had sat at her desk on a dark night in 1864 and had first learned of Philippe's death. It was that past event that Gregg and I had, independently, both tuned into to. The connections, mental as well as physical, and which spanned more than a century, had come full circle. And I realized that Philippe, Gregg and Fernando were in essence the same person, separated only by time. It seems rather odd the way in which 'destiny' appears to introduce new elements into our lives. We are always free to chose which of those components will become a part of a new probable future. They can then be made a part of the fabric of forming something new. Oftentimes they also contain threads which have a direct connection with the past. A friend had given me the name of an ophthalmologist in Crdoba since it was time to have my eyes checked. The receptionist showed me into Dr. Velasco's office and I immediately noticed that he had been writing in Japanese. It was soon established that he had been studying Japanese for a little over a year. It seemed incongruous that Japanese was being taught here in this remote part of the state of Veracruz, but then I had over the years learned to accept the fact that it is usually only on the surface that certain things seem to be out of place. Invariably, it's an integral part of the totality. As we began chatting, I explained to the doctor that I had lived in Japan many years ago. Dr. Velasco, who also spoke English, had just finished examining my eyes and announced that I no longer needed a prescription quite as strong as the one I had. At that moment the receptionist came in and mentioned something to the doctor. He excused himself, left the room and then almost immediately returned. There was a young fellow behind him and I was introduced to Seiji Fukushima, the doctor's Japanese teacher. Being Mexico, the doctor asked Laura, the receptionist to bring us coffee and some sweet rolls. We began chatting, a strange combination of Spanish, Japanese and English, and thus began yet another beautiful friendship. Seiji, who was employed by the Japanese government, was on a three year contract in Mexico to teach Japanese. Seiji and I immediately became very close friends and spent nearly every weekend together as well as chatting by phone during the week. It was not unlike rediscovering a long lost friend. I found out that Seiji had studied for two years in the U.S. before eventually finishing his degree in Japanese Literature in Tokyo. I was also impressed when I discovered that he had attended

and graduated from Keio University, which has much the same reputation in Japan as Harvard, Yale or Stanford does in the U.S. We spent a lot of time talking about Japanese authors and Japanese literature in general. I had, over the years, read a considerable amount of Japanese literature and he was thrilled to find a kindred spirit. We had both read a lot of Latin American literature and shared that also. In fact we found limitless items of mutual interest which resulted in conversations which were both pleasant and intellectually stimulating. I was bit astounded one Saturday morning when Seiji asked how much Russian he could learn in a year's time. It had been established that he had one more year on his contract in Mexico and he was considering the places he might be interested in for his next government posting. He had recently come back from a three week trip to Japan and while there had investigated the postings available. One of the requirements was a sound, basic knowledge of the language of the country where he would teach. I had yet another thing which I could share with him, my knowledge of Russian. It would also be a good review for me since I hadn't had any intimate contact with the Russian language for several years. So for the next year, every weekend was devoted to an intense study the Russian language. I soon discovered that he was a very adept and willing pupil. It also added yet another dimension to our conversations. Now we easily slipped back and forth between Japanese, Spanish, English.....and Russian. That year slipped by all too quickly. During that time I had begun writing about Gregg. It was something that I felt comfortable freely discussing with Seiji. And in writing about Japan I was drawing upon memories that were now nearly half a century old. I would occasionally not be able to remember the name of a temple, a town or a river. Invariably he was able to help me. With his constant stories and anecdotes he also helped to rekindle my love of Japan. A few days before he departed for Tokyo he made an marvelous comment. I was questioning him about an obscure event in the Kojiki, the ancient myths about the Shinto gods. After mentally searching for the information and answering, he smiled. His eyes becoming thin lines, he looked over the top of his glasses and said, "You know Gordon-san, you certainly don't look it, but there are times when I could almost swear that you are Japanese." It was an observation that I shall always cherish. After he returned to Japan we corresponded at least weekly by email. Then one evening he called. After our normal salutations in Japanese, Seiji switched to Spanish, "He extraado mucho el sonido de tu voz" (I've really missed the sound of your voice). It was a touching reminder of our deep ties. Then he went on to tell me that he had successfully passed the third level Russian language proficiency exam. He would be leaving for Russia within two months. My Japanese gypsy friend was packing his bags for yet another exploration. Did I, do I love Seiji? Oh yes, very much. However, this time I loved someone completely just for being themselves, and like my young friend Terry, of so long ago, my love had gone beyond the need of a physical manifestation. Now, Philippe, Gregg, Fernando, Terry, George, Seiji. . ., all of those many names and faces of the past, had become a part of the swirling, enveloping totality of time. Oh, lest I forget, after returning from Boston many years ago, those two plain gold rings were carefully buried under a very special, large rock in Carmel, California. Surrounded and covered by

tufts of native grasses and wild flowers. Every day they are the recipients of the songs of the birds in the graceful cypress overhead, the call of the seagulls beyond, the eternal, unceasing beat of the waves against the shore. It hardly needs to be mentioned that they continue to embody the nature of their previous wearers; love without end. And as young Igor discovered so long ago, eternity is indeed a very long time.

All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them. -Isak Dinesen