‘There are black guys here.’ Simon flushes. ‘Not a lot, I guess.’
‘Yeah. Not a lot,’ says Robert. ‘Try and find me one that does ballet.’ He stubs out his cigarette. ‘That cop who picked you up? Think about what he’d have done if you looked like me.’
‘Worse,’ says Simon. ‘I know.’
He likes Robert so much that he is reluctant to face the obvious difference between them. He wants their sexuality to be an equalizer; he wants to focus on the discrimination they face in common. But Simon can conceal his sexuality. Robert can’t conceal his blackness, and almost everyone in the Castro is white.
Robert lights a new cigarette. ‘Why don’t you go to the bathhouses?’
‘Who says I don’t?’ asks Simon. But Robert snorts, and Simon laughs. ‘Honestly? They scare me a little. I don’t know if I could take it.’
Is there such a thing as too much pleasure? When Simon imagines the bathhouses, he thinks of a carnival of gluttony, an underworld so endless it seems possible to stay there forever. What he’s said to Robert isn’t a lie – he is afraid he wouldn’t be able to take it – but he’s also afraid he would, that his greed would have no edges and no end.
‘I hear that.’ Robert wrinkles his nose. ‘Nasty.’
Simon props himself up on one arm. ‘So why did you come to San Francisco?’
Robert raises an eyebrow. ‘I came to San Francisco because I didn’t have a choice. I’m from Los Angeles. South Central – neighborhood called Watts. You ever heard of it?’
Simon nods. ‘That’s where the riots were.’
In 1965, when he was four, Simon went to the movies with Gertie and Klara while the older siblings were in school. Though he does not remember the film, he does remember the newsreel shown directly before it. There was the cheerful tootle of Universal City Studios and the familiar, rhythmic voice of Ed Herlihy, both of which were markedly unlike the black-and-white footage that appeared next: dim streets clouded by smoke and buildings billowing with fire. The music turned foreboding as Ed Herlihy described brick-throwing Negro hoodlums – snipers shooting firefighters from rooftops, looters who stole liquor and playpens – but Simon only saw police officers with flak jackets and guns walking through empty streets. Finally, two blacks appeared, but these could not be the hoodlums Ed Herlihy mentioned: handcuffed and flanked by white officers, they walked with stoic nonresistance.
‘Right.’ Robert stubs his cigarette out on a small blue dish. ‘I did okay in school – my mom was a teacher – but what I really had was physical power. Football was my game. In tenth grade, I was starting for the varsity team as a safety. My mom thought I’d get a scholarship to college. And when a scout came out from Mississippi, I started to think that way, too.’
Other guys haven’t talked to Simon like this. Actually, with other guys, Simon hasn’t talked much at all, and certainly not about his family. But this is how it is with most of the men in the Castro – men suspended in time as if in amber, men who don’t want to look back.
‘So did you get the scholarship?’ he asks.
Robert pauses. He seems to be gauging Simon.
‘I was real close with this other guy on the team,’ he says. ‘Dante. I was on defense. Dante was our wide receiver. I could tell there was something different about him. And he could tell there was something different about me. Nothing happened until my junior year, last practice of the off-season. Dante was supposed to leave that summer; he had a scholarship from Alabama. I figured it was the last time we’d see each other. We waited till everyone else had left the locker room, took our time putting our street clothes on. And then we took them off again.’
Robert takes a drag and exhales. Outside, Simon can still see the light of the march. Each candle marks one person. They flicker, white, like grounded stars.
‘I swear to God I never heard anyone come in. But I guess somebody did. Next day, I get kicked off the team, and Dante loses his scholarship. They didn’t even let us clean our shit out of the locker room. Last time I saw him, he was standing at the bus stop. He had his hat pulled down low. His jaw, it was shaking. And he looked at me like he wanted to kill me.’
‘Jesus.’ Simon shifts on the bed. ‘What happened to him?’
‘A group of guys on the team caught up with him. They caught up with me, too, but they didn’t get me so bad. I was taller, stronger. Defense – that was my job, you know? But it wasn’t Dante’s. They bashed his face in, broke his back with a bat. Then they took him to the field and tied him to the fence. They said they left him breathing, but what kind of dumb-ass motherfucker would have believed that?’
Simon shakes his head. He is nauseous with fear.
‘The judge. That’s who,’ Robert says. ‘I knew I’d go crazy if I stayed down there. That’s why I came to San Francisco. I started taking dance classes ’cause I knew that was one place they wouldn’t kick me out for being queer. Nothing gayer than ballet, man. But there’s a reason Lynn Swann does dance training. It’s tough as shit. It makes you strong.’
Robert scoots down to rest his face on Simon’s chest, and Simon holds him. He wonders what he can do to protect Robert, to soothe him – whether to squeeze Robert’s hand or to speak, whether to stroke his newly shaved head. This responsibility, newly gifted, is nothing like fucking: more intimidating, grown-up, so much wider margin for failure.
In April, Gali calls Simon and tells him to come to the theater, fast. Simon splurges on a cab, his dance bag in his arms. Gali meets him outside the stage door.
‘Eduardo went down in rehearsal,’ Gali says. ‘He rolled his ankle on a saut de basque. A freak accident – terrible. We hope it is only a sprain. Even so, he’s out for the month.’ He nods at Simon. ‘You know the choreography.’
It isn’t a question; it’s a job offer for Birth of Man. Simon’s heart clenches. ‘I mean – yeah, I know it. But I . . .’
What he wants to say is, I’m not good enough.
‘You’ll be at the end of the line,’ Gali says. ‘We have no choice.’
Simon follows him down the long corridor to the dressing rooms. Eduardo sits on the floor with his leg propped up on a crate, a bag of ice on one ankle. His eyes are pink, but he cracks a smile for Simon.