Sweet Dreams My Love
by Julie Lynn Hayes
2
Dreamspinner Press
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Copyright ©2011 by Julie Lynn Hayes
First published in 2011, 2011
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Sweet Dreams My Love
by Julie Lynn Hayes
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CONTENTS
Chapter I
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Sweet Dreams, My Love (C)Copyright Julie Lynn Hayes,
* * * *
Sweet Dreams My Love
by Julie Lynn Hayes
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Chapter I
The click click click of Toulouse Lautrec's cane was a
measured accompaniment to the perambulations of the artist
and his youthful companion. The streets of Montmartre were
uneven, cobblestoned, and given to steep inclines. Even the
short distance that Toulouse and Damien had to traverse was
difficult on the artist, but he never let it show, and his protege
was young and too intent upon their destination to notice.
The artist had not been born with this disability, but during
his youth he had suffered from problems with each leg which,
exacerbated by the close genetic tie between his parents, who
were first cousins, had stunted the growth of his limbs even
though the rest of him continued to grow, causing the legs to
not be in proportion to the rest of his body. Although the
stories that were told about Toulouse were quick to affirm
that nature had not shortchanged him in the areas which
were of immense interest to his lovers, perhaps by way of
compensation for his lack of stature.
"Pere Toulouse, will I be allowed absinthe this night?"
Damien leaned in toward the artist, slumping a bit to ease
communication between them, to compensate for the eight or
nine inches he towered above. For although the young man
had been raised, as were most French youngsters, used to
the consumption of wine, albeit watered, the green liqueur
had always been off-limits. Tonight was a very special night.
This was Damien's eighteenth birthday, and it was also the
night of his coming out party. And he was going to spend it
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with his twelve fathers at the infamous Moulin Rouge
nightclub.
Twelve fathers? A biological impossibility! Naturally. And
indeed, none of the twelve could claim the actual title of pere
to this beautiful young man. But spiritually, all twelve of the
artists who titled themselves the Dreammongers were his
sires, for they had raised him among themselves ever since
the fateful night, just eighteen years ago, when he had come
into this world and their lives, while the Dreammongers were
holding their annual revelry at the Moulin Rouge.
"Mais oui, mon fil," the artist said with a nod. "Tonight you
shall."
Damien smiled. He could hear the sighs of the nighttime
ladies of the Montmartre as he walked by, could feel their
eyes upon him, aware of their attraction to his pearlescent
beauty. He was very, very pale, a soft pallor which invited
touching, and his platinum hair hung in lazy waves down to
his broad shoulders, while his eyes were the green of sea
foam, with traces of gold in their liquid depths. His full, rose-
madder lips wore a perpetual smile, one which simply begged
to be kissed. Damien was a very happy boy, and he loved his
life here in Paris, and he loved his dozen fathers very much.
And now the nightclub itself lay just before them. That
infamous den of iniquity.
Electric sex. That's what came to Toulouse's mind each
and every time that he glimpsed the slowly rotating blades of
the red windmill. The Moulin Rouge. Debauchery personified.
Electric sex beckoned to him; it called his name and begged
his participation. Lithe young limbs and warm embraces.
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Passion and music. Absinthe and opium. The Moulin Rouge
was a purveyor of dreams. And Toulouse Lautrec was a most
willing dreamer. He was an habitue of the most infamous
nightspot in Paris, spending more time entangled in its spider
web of sensuality than anywhere else besides his studio. The
Red Windmill was the ambrosia with which he fed his muse,
the nectar for his passions, and the fellow dreamers who
frequented it became the impressions upon his canvases.
Toulouse paused for a moment, jostled by a pedestrian
whose path bisected his own, also headed toward the
nightclub. The gentleman in question had his head bent, his
hat pulled low over his brow. "Pardon," he muttered before
disappearing inside.
From within, the sounds of gaiety spilled into the night,
fingers of frivolity designed to ensnare the interest of the
casual passerby. Toulouse paused, temporarily taken aback.
For just a moment he had thought... but no, that was not
possible. He would not dare to show himself here. Not after
all this time.
Damien held the door for him, and the two men entered
the Moulin Rouge, intending to pay their respects to the
regulars before going to their private party.
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Chapter 2
The nightclub was alive with the sounds of people frantic
to have fun. Gentlemen garbed in their nighttime finery milled
about in clusters, alternating between gaining courage from
the presence of their friends to showing off their skills with
the ladies to those same peers. Toulouse recognized many of
them, for they patronized the Moulin Rouge on a regular
basis, just as he did. They spent their time and their money
on the colorful ladies who were eager to entice them to
dance, to drink, and to make love—all in the pursuit of that
transitory condition known as happiness. And Toulouse was
more than happy to capture them upon his canvases.
Whirling red dervishes with gartered limbs; love for sale—
and if not love, the next best thing. They shook their hips and
pursed their lips, promising everything and nothing with each
smoldering glance, with the darting tips of their moist
tongues, and the illusion of beauty they donned for each and
every potential customer.
Toulouse smiled as he spotted the bold and brassy
Emmeline pirouetting for the delight and edification of a
white-haired gentleman in a black top hat, raising and
lowering her skirts enticingly, darting just close enough to
afford a quick glimpse of what lay beneath, then backing
away before wandering hands could close upon her bright
green skirts. Or anything else. Her laughter was high-pitched
and yet contagious, and she kept her admirers on a tight
leash, which they all adored in their own frustrated way.
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Toulouse knew of the lady's charms from first-hand
experience, and appreciated them.
Toulouse was very proud of the greetings and glances
which his son garnered as they strolled through the midst of
these rollicking revelers. Sometimes he wished that he could
have him for more than his allotted month each year. But
then he realized that they all felt that way, no doubt. And
having twelve homes, although it appeared to be an odd
lifestyle, and some might say it lacked a certain continuity
which a growing child would need—well, it was also a very
diverse education that he received, at the hands of twelve of
the most celebrated artists in France.
One of the can-can girls, a brassy buxom girl with copper
tresses and over-rouged cheeks approached the duo,
sashaying her skirts just enough to hint at what might be
obtained beneath them, depending upon the color of one's
coin. "Buy me a drink, Damien," she begged, her eyes
hungrily devouring his lithe figure, her fingers reaching
toward him as if she intended to rip off every last button on
his white waistcoat.
"Non." Toulouse lightly slapped at the coquette's hand.
"Not tonight, Marie, you must work your wiles on the boy
another time."
"Oh, but Toulouse," the pouting girl protested, "tonight's
his special night. I can help him to become a man. Just give
me some time with Damien..."
With all of the grace of a trained courtier, Damien bowed
most elegantly. "My apologies, Mademoiselle Marie," he
murmured, "would that I had the time, I would indeed
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become your willing student but, alas, I must plead a
previous engagement."
The girl giggled, pinching his cheek. "You are such a
heartbreaker, cherie." She laughed before running off, turning
her attention to actual paying trade.
Toulouse gave his son a questioning glance as they walked
on. "You like the girl, non? Do you wish to have her teach you
what she knows of love?"
"Non," Damien replied, his cheeks reddening slightly, for
he found none of the women in the Moulin Rouge to his taste,
and never had he been tempted to lie with any of them,
despite the many offers he had received since the onset of
puberty. To be honest, his natural inclinations ran in other
directions. But luckily, as he had discovered over the years,
his fathers possessed the same inclinations. In abundance. He
had grown up in the company of their models, having the run
of their studios since birth, and he was used to the sight of
nudes of both sexes, who posed for the paintings with which
the artists fed their hungry public. But some of these works of
art were for more private consumption: young men with
beautiful bodies that Damien delighted in the very sight of.
And although he had never touched one of them, or been
touched—indeed he was still quite virgin, at the advanced age
of eighteen, by his own choice—he dreamed of finding a
special young man of his very own. One who would touch his
very heart and soul in such a way that no one else ever could.
If he was a romantic, blame the men who raised him, for they
were, too, and had instilled in their charge a great deal of
their joie de vivre, and a feel for all things artistic.
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Toulouse smiled to himself. He had known better, but it
was not for him to decide, it was and always would be
Damien's choice.
They paused in their perambulation across the room, this
time near the orchestra section of the Moulin Rouge. Toulouse
had spotted a familiar shining dome, whose upraised arm
beckoned to them both. The musicians were currently on
break and relaxing, but the patrons made up for the lack of
music with their own particular background noise: laughter,
flirtations, and the sounds of seduction.
"Bon soir, Toulouse, Damien." He nodded, indicating the
table where he sat with a wave. "Join us, please, let us buy
you a drink. To celebrate." At the table sat his young wife,
Sarah. They were only recently married, smitten with one
another, and obviously in love, if their intertwined fingers and
their constant exchange of glances was any indication.
Ordinarily, Toulouse would have accepted the request, for
they were his favorite people at the Moulin Rouge, and many
a happy hour had he spent in their company, sketching, and
soaking in the ambience. But not tonight.
"Another time, please," he said, and Damien echoed his
sentiments, excusing themselves as they headed toward the
hall which led to the entrance to the private area, where the
others awaited their arrival.
The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, the only illumination
slender torchieres which served as glowing guides as they
wound their way through the passage to the secret places.
Excitement coursed through Damien. He had long dreamed of
this night, of being permitted to be one among his fathers in
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their annual revelries. That day had finally arrived, the day of
his eighteenth birthday here at last—and Damien was about
to come out!
What exactly coming out entailed, Damien didn't know, but
he had a feeling it was bound to be good, judging from the
excited whispers of the artists whenever they got together to
discuss the subject. They invariably ceased their chatter when
he drew near. Therefore it must be very good. Considering
the venue the party was being held in, drinking was a given.
Absinthe was his greatest desire, and Toulouse had already
admitted to his receiving that. Dancing girls, maybe? No,
knowing his fathers, more likely dancing boys. Damien tingled
at the thought of watching pretty boys undulate for his
pleasure. Sex, maybe? His introduction to the world of men,
tutored by a lovely youth with big strong muscles, and
perhaps a major talent? Somehow he didn't see that
happening, though. His fathers might be enlightened artists,
and practicing homosexuals, but they were still fathers, after
all. Damien had already expressed his desire to pose for them
tonight and had prepared a tableau of his own choosing. It
would not be the first time he had played model for them, but
this would be something completely different.
They reached the door which led into the private backroom
of the Moulin Rouge. Toulouse threw it open with a grand
flourish. "After you, mon cher," he said, motioning Damien
inside with a wave of one hand.
As if on cue, all activity within the room froze at that
instant, all eyes directed toward the door, and the two who
now made their entrance, for Toulouse had timed this very
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well, just for this reason, to make sure that everyone else
was there and in place before them. Spontaneous cheers
arose from twelve proud fathers on beholding their beautiful
progeny, their voices joined by a chorus of the young men of
the Moulin Rouge who were set to wait upon them this night.
"Happy birthday, Damien!"
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Chapter 3
The room was a veritable study in scarlet—the favorite
color of the Red Windmill, after all, the walls simply dripping
with the color—a flocked wallpaper done in two shades of red,
which stretched from the floor to the rich cherry wood
wainscoting. Above that the walls were decorated in murals
which, had they been removed from their positions, cut into
pieces, and sold on the open market, would have fetched the
most princely of sums. For they were the work of these artists
themselves, these Dreammongers, reflecting their varied
styles and perspectives. From the ceiling hung an ornate
crystal chandelier whose prisms scattered reflected light upon
the assembled company. Done in a Neo-Baroque style which
was popular during the Second Empire, it was a copy of one
which graced the apartment of Napoleon III himself, and
Zidler had paid a pretty franc for it, but it was well worth it.
Four low tables were arranged into a quadrangle,
permitting three artists per table. Silken pillows, elaborately
embroidered in luscious lavenders and purples and blues,
were to serve as their seats for this event. Large and fluffy
and quite Bohemian. Damien, as the birthday boy, was free to
wander as he wished, able to divide his time among his
beloved peres. Upon a larger table, near the back of the
room, gifts of all sorts awaited Damien's inspection. Even
from a distance, he recognized the bottle of absinthe,
anticipating with excitement a much closer relationship with
the liqueur.
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The artists had risen to their feet at the entrance of the
pair, applauding the birthday boy. Wasting no time upon their
own arrival, each was already in a state of au natural, as
were the sweet young serving men who waited upon them.
Damien's gaze went from one to another, his love for them
fierce, his pride in them immense, for there were none such
as these to be found anywhere else in the world, and he felt
himself to be the luckiest young man ever. They were
illuminati in their fields and in his heart. In no particular
order, other than the way they were seated at the tables, he
took note of his fathers, they who comprised the
Dreammongers: Renoir, Gaugin, Degas, Pissarro, Van Gogh,
Seurat, Cezanne, Matisse, Manet, Monet, Sisley, and of
course Toulouse who, even now, was shedding his own
clothes and taking his place at the table with the last empty
space.
Two lovely young specimens of manhood approached
Damien. They were employed by Charles Zidler to cater to the
tastes of those of his clients whose preferences did not run to
females. They helped him to disrobe, and once he was down
to his bare glory, he made his rounds of the room, greeting
and hugging and kissing each and every father. All twelve of
them had brought their sketching materials, naturally, for it is
what the Dreammongers did together; brought them to a
private place where they could fully express themselves—
drinking and dining and drawing to their hearts' content on
subjects not intended for public consumption. No, the
completed drawings were solemnly bound together once the
night was done, and the finished product was available only
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for their own private enjoyment. At least until sometime after
they had all shuffled off this mortal coil, and were well beyond
the cares of public opinion. Although some of them confessed
to having arrived at that juncture already.
"Damien." Pere Degas smiled at his son. "I have some
things to show you, mon fil, a few changes I have made since
last you were home."
Damien was due to take up residence with him in a few
days time. Smiling, he suspected that the changes his father
spoke of were ballet related, as this father had a fondness for
ballet dancers. His private sketches were filled with young
men in tights and toe shoes, en pointe and in flight, as well as
in well-balanced pairs.
"The pond has missed your presence," Pere Monet said
eagerly, sipping at a fluted glass of Dom Perignon, held for
him by a very winsome young man with a most engaging
smile—and a rather huge talent. "By the time you arrive in
Giverny, I shall have added to the mural in your room." Each
of his fathers maintained a room for their shared son, and in
each one was to be found murals upon his bedroom walls,
painted by each sire.
"I have new home for you," Pere Van Gogh informed him,
his French spoken with a thick Dutch accent, "it is at Auvers-
sur-Oise. I think you shall love it, and I shall paint you new
mural."
Damien moved through the room, from father to father,
accepting their glowing tributes, their words of love and
devotion, their hopes and dreams and plans for him, the
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unexpected windfall in their collective lives. His heart filled to
overflowing with love for all of them.
"May I pose for you now?" Damien asked, once he'd duly
greeted each of his fathers, and paid them their proper filial
affection. He was eager to show them what he had planned
for them, with Toulouse's hush-hush assistance. Everything
was in readiness, having been concealed from curious eyes in
the very middle of the room by a drop cloth. Once the drop
cloth was removed by two of the pretty boys, and the
proverbial curtain raised upon the tableau, everyone in the
room oohed and aahed at the sight.
Damien had selected the birth of Venus as his theme, with
himself playing the part of the goddess—or, in this case, the
god—of love. He stood poised within a paper-mache clamshell
which Toulouse had helped him to construct and paint.
Completely nude, other than for a single strand of pale pink
tulle which looped about his neck and down his back, one
hand lay modestly across his heart, while the other arm was
outstretched, plaintively, toward his audience. Lying upon his
open palm was a large black pearl (not really a pearl, but a
reasonable facsimile thereof). A backdrop of the sea, with the
day moon a thin crescent in the background completed the
picture that he made.
"Bravo!" "Bravissima!" "C'est magnifique!" The cries of
approval rang out. Each artist hastened to his appointed spot,
where each had his implements of creation. Damien smiled at
the sight, satisfied that he had wrought it. Was Damien an
artiste in his own right? Non, he was not, not in the
acknowledged forms and styles of his devoted dozen. Yes, he
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dabbled. How could he not with such shining examples of the
best of the art world his to consume on a daily basis? It would
be surprising if he did not. And it wasn't that he was
untalented. Non. He was a fair artist, in his own way. But the
difference between him and them was that his heart was not
in it in the same way. Although they all dreamed of beauty,
the artistes brought it to life, while Damien simply wished to
live it. And this he did by being their muse, allowing them to
use his beautiful being as inspiration for their own canvases,
allowing them to use his love for them as a basis for their
own artistic endeavors. And he was very content that it was
so.
Tonight Damien was in his full glory, standing there before
them, as they drew, sketched, and painted him. Impressions
of beauty caught on canvas, on paper, or—in Gaugin's case—
on linen napkins in bold Tahitian shades. In the case of
Seurat, he drew his son as a closely knit scattering of the
tiniest dots which when perceived from the proper perspective
would blend into the colors of Damien, while Renoir's colors
were softer, his images more gentle. Each artist had his own
style, his own way of doing things. But in the end it all came
down to love.
Upon each of the artist's tables was a bottle of familiar
green drink, the infamous absinthe, distilled with the
notorious wormwood, purveyor of absinthine dreams. Lovely
young men with pert bums held glasses of the liqueur up to
willing mouths, while the talented hands of the painters were
otherwise occupied. For those who wished it, other pleasures
were available for the asking. And yes, it was quite possible
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to be artistically active while being orally pleasured. The proof
was to be seen within this very room. Not surprisingly,
Degas's choice fell upon a delicately boned young man with
soft lips, while Gaugin's was almond-eyed and golden
skinned.
As his fathers worked, Damien sent surreptitious glances
toward the bottle of absinthe, situated as it was upon the gift
table. He peeked at it longingly, wishing to taste its lovely
contents, although he never said a word of complaint, content
to stand there, basking in their admiration.
Toulouse could not help but notice his son's blatant desire.
He nodded to the young man whose hands so lovingly
grasped his own erection. "Please pour my son his absinthe."
"My pleasure, monsieur," the garcon willingly acquiesced,
interrupting his previous occupation to do so, wiping his
hands on a serviette first.
"Take a break, Damien," Toulouse encouraged the young
man, "that we may drink a toast to you on this special day."
He rose from where he sat, approaching Damien with a smile.
He handed his son down from his paper-mache clamshell, as
the server brought a tray with all of the necessities, a ritual
which was being duplicated at each of the four tables.
The comely young man poured a small glass of the green
liqueur into an elaborately beveled glass. He laid a flat spoon
upon the glass, and upon the spoon he set a single sugar
cube. Taking an ornate silver ewer, he slowly poured the ice-
cold contents over the sugar, causing it to methodically melt
into the absinthe. Finally, he stirred the mixture slowly, using
the same flat spoon.
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"To Damien!" The cry was caught up and echoed
throughout the room. Twelve glasses of the infamous green
drink were raised, Damien's making the thirteenth.
"To love!" he toasted in return. He drained the glass in one
fell swoop. It was warm and heavily saturated with the taste
of licorice, the sweetness of the sugar only slightly diluting
the strength of the anise taste.
Mmmm, this was definitely a pleasurable warmth which
burned its way through his veins, already lighting a fire within
him. Damien gave his fathers a languid smile, and they
smiled at him in return, knowingly.
"More," he demanded, holding out his glass. His server
hastened to fill it again, and Damien drank it greedily, the fire
continuing to lick through his veins. He licked at his lips and
handed the empty glass to the young man, motioning to him
to step back, in order to give him a little more room. Damien
began to dance—an impromptu solo performance which
displayed far more grace and agility than the frantic dancing
offered by the very ladies of the Moulin Rouge themselves.
Slowly and languidly, he spun about on an unseen axis,
undulating his limbs in the most sensual of poses—positions
which drove his fathers to frantically attempt to catch his
beauty for posterity.
Only Toulouse did not sketch, his hand arrested upon the
sketchpad before him. He watched Damien with open
admiration, yes, but also with a growing concern. Something
did not seem right to him. Even taking the absinthe into
account, his behavior seemed off to the artist.
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Damien crumpled to the floor in a slow-motion fall.
Toulouse grabbed the bottle of absinthe and sniffed at it.
"Poison!" he screamed. "The bottle has been poisoned. Who
brought this here?"
All sound stopped in a heartbreaking moment, the artists
looking from one to another, before they rushed to surround
their son, who now lay writhing in agony upon the cushions
which littered the floor, their dozen faces mirroring their
horror. And then one of the serving youth began to sob.
"I didn't know. I didn't know!" he cried.
Toulouse grabbed his wrist, urgently, in order to focus his
attention. "What have you done?" he asked him. "Tell me
now!"
"The monsieur. He said... he said... it was a special gift...
for the young gentleman. He said not to tell... a sur-
surprise..." the unfortunate youth sobbed.
"Who?" Monet demanded to know, a question that was
echoed by a dozen voices. "Who has done this to our son?"
But Toulouse knew. The knowledge sickened him. "The
madman," he moaned, "he has done this, the crazy bastard."
"Surely you don't mean... no, not him," the artists
protested. "But why, why after all these years?"
As if in answer to the question, the door to the private
room opened, and in stepped a strange figure with demented
eyes and elaborate curled moustaches wearing a bright purple
cape which he twirled about him like a matador about to face
the bull.
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He stalked through the room as if he had every right to be
there, standing over the unfortunate youth, whose entire
body was trembling now, sweat glistening upon his pale brow.
Shaken from his temporary inertia, Toulouse pushed one
of the waiters toward the door. "Get a doctor!" he cried. "Get
Zidler! Bring some help, quickly!" The youth set off at a trot,
skirting the newly arrived madman.
Toulouse stood before Damien, shielding him with his own
body from the intruder, while the other artists gathered about
the fallen youth.
"Dali," he snarled.
"Little prick," the other intoned in a flat Spanish accent.
"You should not have told me no. You should not have left me
out. I told you. I told you some day I get even. That day—she
has come!"
A piteous moan from the poisoned youth drew their
attention back to where it belonged. Only the vertically
challenged artist continued to defy the man with the crazy
eyes. "It was not his fault," Toulouse protested. "He did
nothing to you. It was all our fault, not his...." Tears welled
from his eyes, fell down his cheeks. "He did nothing...."
Toulouse knelt beside Damien, picked up one hand,
clasped it tight. Already, it felt cold. Too cold. His heart gave
a lurch within his breast. And twelve voices began to keen.
A blinding green light filled the room. Toulouse closed his
eyes against the glare, and when he opened them once more,
she was there—a small, but well-proportioned woman scantily
clad in chartreuse and sporting a set of wings. "It is she," he
intoned in unabashed awe.
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The Green Fairy. The small but feisty patroness of
absinthine dreams. She knelt beside the distressed youth,
helping him into a sitting position, while the others looked on
anxiously. Holding a vial to his lips, she forced him to drink.
He did so, draining the contents, before falling back upon the
pillows once more, immobile.
"Is he...?" Pere Degas dared to ask, and all held their
collective breaths, awaiting the response.
"He lives," the Green Fairy replied.
A great exhale resounded through the room.
"But I could not completely counteract the poison," she
went on.
"What do you mean?" Pere Van Gogh demanded.
"He is not dead. He is sleeping," she replied in her
enchantingly lilted voice, "and sleeping he shall stay, until...."
"Until?" they asked as one.
"Until his one true love finds him and wakens him with a
kiss."
That didn't sound so horrible, did it? The dozen artists
looked upon one another, questioningly, then back at the
Green Fairy. How hard could it be to find a young man to kiss
Damien and awaken him?
But alas, life is never that simple. And as they watched,
horrified, the beautiful young man disappeared from view.
"He must find him first," the Green Fairy commented, "and
that will not be easy. I can do no more." And in the blink of
an eye, she was gone.
For a few moments, a stunned silence reigned among the
men that remained in the room, artists and garcons alike. The
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silence was quickly replaced by panicked shouts and cries
begging that something be done. Zidler was called for and the
excitable nightclub owner quickly came, accompanied by the
even-tempered Satie. But of course there was nothing that
Zidler could do, other than to try to placate his distressed
clientele, while Satie murmured his heartfelt condolences.
The Dreammongers disbanded upon that night and never
again held another meeting, although they continued to
patronize the infamous nightspot, forever mourning the loss
of their beloved lost son. As for Dali, he slunk out of the room
immediately after the Green Fairy had made her
pronouncement, an evil smirk upon his lips, to be seen by
them no more.
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by Julie Lynn Hayes
24
Chapter 4
Jakob opened his Nokia, not for the first time. He peered
at the time in the glow from the streetlamp, shivering slightly.
A mere fifteen minutes later than the last time he'd looked.
Time literally crawled this night, despite his best efforts to
make it run. It was far too early to expect to see any sign of
his erstwhile cousin. By now, he estimated, Albert had
probably chosen his Liebling die Nacht, his little love of the
night, and was closing the deal that would make him his.
Making the same mundane chitchat he did with all his other
boy-toys, before taking them to a discreet hotel where cash
spoke volumes, and no one asked unnecessary questions.
Jakob Kohl was all too familiar with the braggadocio-filled
pick-up lines that were the heart of Albert's pathetic
repertoire. He'd heard them far too often: building himself up
to be better than he was, boasting about his important job
and the people that he knew, promising physical bliss beyond
compare in the bedroom, and emphasizing discretion above
all else. Albert's philosophy was that what his nagging wife
Ida didn't know wouldn't harm either one of them. Didn't all
unfaithful husbands say that, though? The nagging part, that
is. The attempt to rationalize what they were doing in order to
assuage the guilt. Their wives were nags, scolds, and shrews.
They didn't understand them, didn't really care about them,
didn't meet their needs. Et cetera, et cetera, and so forth,
and so on.
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25
All Albert really needed to be fulfilled was a healthy dose of
cock, on a regular basis. This was information that only
Jakob, as his companion, possessed—companion in the paid
employee sense of the word, not as a friend of the heart
definition, not by any means. It was bad enough being a paid
companion for this second cousin he barely knew, having to
give up his studies at the Hochschule fur Musik Karlsruhe, at
least for a while, without being forced to act as a beard for
him too.
Jakob being gay himself was simply the icing on the
proverbial cake, and a great boon to his cousin. Once, one of
Albert's one-night stands managed to ferret out his address.
He showed up at the house unannounced and heavily
liquored, looking for love of the Albert kind. Luckily, Jakob
was able, with a great deal of persuasion and a little bit of
Albert's money, to diffuse the situation. When it came time to
explain matters to his wife, Albert managed to pin all the
blame on Jakob, painting him as a lover scorned. He himself
emerged unscathed, reputation intact.
Life had gotten very hard for the young man since his
mother had become ill. The convalescent home where she
was slowly recovering was far from cheap. So Jakob had put
away his dreams—temporarily, at least—of being a classical
pianist, and accepted the position with Albert, demeaning as
it was, so that his mother could get well in comfort, with the
best care that he could afford. But once she did... then he
would return to school, where his best friend/confidante
waited for him, Abram Strauss by name. Abram was a
musician as well, who possessed grandiose dreams of
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26
becoming Germany's answer to Jean-Pierre Rampal someday.
And only a text away should Jakob need him.
The sound of approaching footsteps woke Jakob from his
reverie. He looked up to find a man standing before him, a
not uncomely fellow, even if he had a good twenty years on
Jakob. And an obvious question in his eyes. With a flash of
intuition, Jakob realized that perhaps standing beneath this
streetlight might not have been his best idea.
"Would you like some company tonight? You seem a bit
lost," the other began his opening gambit.
Jakob was in no mood for games. Although he knew
instinctively that he was interested in other men, he'd never
been with any. He blamed himself for that, feeling that
perhaps he was too demanding, had greater expectations
than he should have. A different idea of what love should be,
as well as happily ever after. Regardless, he was not into one-
night stands and never would be. He shook his head, gave
the man a rueful smile of apology. "Please do not take
offense, but I am not interested in anyone. I do appreciate
the offer, though." And nodding once, Jakob passed on,
continuing up the Adlerstrasze, toward the Karlsruhe Schloss,
the beautiful palace that sat at the hub of the city, everything
radiating outward from it. Perhaps by the time he once again
made the circuit of the building, which was lit to a brilliant
golden hue and most resplendent in the waxing moonlight,
and then resumed his position outside of the club where he
had left Albert, his cousin might hopefully be ready to move
on. Or he might actually decide to go home. After all, they
were leaving in the morning for Paris. A little sleep would be a
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27
nice thing. Not that Albert cared; he could sleep through the
entire journey if he wanted. But Jakob was playing chauffeur,
and he was funny that way—he had no desire to fall asleep
behind the wheel.
Jakob hoped that for tonight his cousin was unlucky in
love.
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28
Chapter 5
As close as Paris was to Karlsruhe, less than six hundred
kilometers, Jakob had never been. He'd always dreamed that
someday he'd go, hopefully in the company of the man of his
dreams, maybe even on his honeymoon. Not that he had a
lover or even a boyfriend, now or ever. His relationship with
Abram, although close, was strictly platonic. But the reality of
the situation was that he was going with Albert, and he
supposed that was better than nothing. Plus he was getting
paid for the experience. Perhaps he could return some day,
whenever he found the man of his dreams. If he ever found
him.
It had been a rather late night. Albert had gotten lucky
after all, to Jakob's dismay, and as a result he had found
himself up until the wee hours of the night waiting for Albert
to be done. And though he'd managed to grab a quick doze in
the car, it was certainly not a sufficient amount of rest, by
any means, and he was bone tired, but fighting it. He kept his
Nokia out of Albert's sight in his jacket pocket, which wasn't
all that difficult to do as his cousin was stretched out in the
back seat, sound asleep. If he had had any idea that Jakob
and Abram were texting one another, while Jakob was
driving, he would have been infuriated. Best to let the
sleeping cousin lay.
Don't forget to take pictures for me. Especially the Mona
Lisa. Jakob had to chuckle. As if he hadn't heard these
instructions a thousand times since announcing that he would
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29
be going with Albert to Paris. And don't forget the Moulin
Rouge.
No problem. Jakob had no doubt Albert would want to go
to the infamous nightclub, and dazzle locals and visitors alike
with his smooth style and rapier wit. Jakob figured he could
live with it, especially considering they never stayed together
in places like that anyway. His cousin said it cramped his
style. Such as it was. He had also received instructions from
his bedridden Mutti, whom he had visited the day before. Or
rather, a request, if her beloved Jakob would not mind. She
wanted him to bring back a souvenir Eiffel Tower for her.
Jakob promised to obtain one, although in his heart he hoped
he could return with something better than such a shopworn
cliche.
First, though, what Jakob desired more than anything else
upon their arrival in the City of Lights was a close and
intimate acquaintance with the hotel shower, followed by a
satisfying friendship with a comfortable bed, for at least a few
minutes, before he found himself chauffeuring Albert about
gay Paree in his cousin's black Audi. Not that he had any idea
of how to get around, of course. But his suggestion that his
cousin might want to use cabs to take him where he wanted
to go was met with stony impermeability—Albert was tight,
and loathe to spend any more euros than necessary, if he
could help it. Besides, that was Jakob's function: to be his
chauffeur, guide, beard, and anything else he needed or
chose him to be. Such was the lot of a paid companion.
Lovely. In preparation for this trip, Jakob bought both
Baedaker's and Michelin's guides to Paris. Luckily he was
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30
halfway fluent in French, as Albert spoke no French and very
little English. He decided that he might just survive the
experience without becoming terribly lost in the process, and
perhaps gain some enjoyment from it as well, despite his
cousin and his penurious ways.
The six-hour drive went faster than he had thought,
excitement serving to pump some adrenaline into Jakob's
system, although he was careful to pace himself on the free-
wheeling autobahn, for he was a cautious young man, despite
the fact that he was sporadically texting. But once they'd
entered the parking garage of their hotel, a midscale
establishment located at the foot of the Sacre Couer, within
easy walking distance of the infamous Moulin Rouge
nightclub, Jakob's hopes of a respite were quickly dashed. It
seemed that Albert had arranged a little rendezvous with a
young Frenchman, with whom he had corresponded over the
Internet—apparently an easy way to make erotic play dates—
and Jakob was to take him to the restaurant where they were
to have a late lunch and espresso at a cafe along the Avenue
des Champs-Elysees.
Jakob muttered, deliberately pitching his voice low, even
as he texted his woes to Abram, while his forty-year old
cousin—fresh as a daisy and ready for love—changed his
clothes in the adjoining suite. He counted himself lucky not to
have to room with him, actually, but undoubtedly Albert
considered his presence to be a hindrance to his lovemaking.
So be it.
Shalom, his friend counseled, and Jakob could envision
him saying those very words even as he texted, looking most
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31
wise as he offered his sage advice. You can't fight Fate,
bubeleh, what will be, will be.
Fate. Jakob had to snort at that. This wasn't about fate;
this was a distinct case of a man with an itch to scratch, one
who was indiscriminate about where he scratched it. Fate was
when two people were in the right place at the right time,
when something was meant to be. This was nothing but a
whole lot of tawdry going on. But he was too tired to fight it,
and too tired to change his clothes, not without that longed
for shower. He shoved his Nokia into his trouser pocket,
threw the guides into a small bag and headed for the lobby to
wait for Albert, which gave him time to question the concierge
as to directions before they left the hotel for the cafe.
Once Albert was safely dropped at his destination, Jakob
decided to fulfill Abram's request first, as it was closest. The
clipped tones of the GPS eased his search for the museum—
much easier than trying to thumb through the street guide
while he drove. He chose a parking spot not too close and yet
within walking distance. Walking through the Cour Napoleon,
past I.M. Pei's deservedly famous pyramid, Jakob paused to
admire the intricate structure. Being daylight, it wasn't lit, but
even so it was breathtaking, the sun glinting off the gold and
reflecting it back upon the tourists who stopped to gaze at its
beauty.
Once inside the museum, he quickly made his way to the
Salle des Etats, where the world's most famous painting
hung. He stood before it, gazing through the bulletproof glass
at La Giaconda, feeling his heart surge unexpectedly within
his chest. He hadn't expected to have such a reaction to an
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32
image he, and most people in the world, were quite familiar
with. "Sehr schon," he murmured to himself as he gazed.
Yes, the Mona Lisa was beautiful, there was no denying
that. Despite the fact that it was a well-known image, one
that had been the focus of varied forms of advertising and
humorous riffs over the years, not to mention uncounted
inexpensive prints and lithographs which were available from
vendors all over the world, including those at the Louvre,
there was still something about standing in the presence of
the original that was downright awe-inspiring. Jakob took
several shots—sans flash of course, as per the instructions
which had been given to him upon his entrance into the
Museum. There, that should satisfy Abram. Maybe he'd pick
him up a small knockoff in the gift shop as well. According to
the website it came in different forms, including posters,
watches, bags, and DVDs. He moved away from the painting
to allow other visitors access. Rubbing at his eyes, he stifled a
yawn while he considered his next move. Now that he had
accomplished his original mission, he still had quite a bit of
time to kill. Perhaps some espresso would not be out of order,
or anything that packed a jolt.
More people crowded around La Giaconda now, and he felt
himself moving backward, almost not of his own volition, until
he was in the next room, no longer able to clearly see the
object of such intense veneration. Maybe his cue to leave?
"She's overrated, you know." A cool voice spoke, right in
his ear. Jakob jumped, unaware that he had crossed over into
someone else's space, as he had felt nothing behind him. An
apology sprang automatically to his lips, as he turned to
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33
behold the most beautiful young man he had ever seen, and
the words died stillborn in his throat.
He was tall and lithe and graceful, platinum blond tresses
spilling onto the most perfectly proportioned shoulders, and
eyes of a beautiful green, reminiscent of the sea. He had lips
that were not red, and yet not pink, but a shade somewhere
in between, that looked indescribably kissable. And he looked
as if he had stepped from a whole other era, for surely men
did not dress quite so formally in this day and age, did they?
None that he knew of, anyway.
The beauty wore a black Highland frock coat, close cut and
obviously tailored to the well-developed body beneath, with a
matching vest and trousers. Mother-of-pearl buttons gleamed
on the vest and jacket, the top button rakishly undone,
revealing more of the simple black silk tie beneath which, to
Jakob's surprise, was not bound in a typical Windsor knot, nor
even a four-in-hand. In fact, he wasn't aware that a tie could
be tied with such a knot, for it appeared to his limited
experience to be done in a lover's knot, but there it was, so it
must be.
He shook his head slightly, in order to clear it. The
apparition, for such it was that he almost seemed to be, given
the suddenness of his appearance, never moved, instead
offering Jakob a smile of bemusement, which only served to
cause the German youth's heart to go ba-dump ba-dump as
in the way of romantic novels of the male/male persuasion.
Not that he admitted to reading such novels. At least not
within Albert's hearing; his cousin denigrated them as tripe
and smut every chance he could. Interesting double standard.
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34
"Don't you think so?" the boy continued, leaning in to
Jakob as he spoke, in a most familiar manner. "A bit of a
cliche almost. And while I admit da Vinci was not untalented,
far from it, there are others who are far more deserving of
our interest, don't you agree?"
That voice, that utterly beautiful, throaty, velvety voice. It
was doing things to Jakob, things he could not explain, in the
most perfect, yet stilted French. He had to struggle to give
attention to the words, to make some sense of them in order
to form an appropriate response.
Jakob stammered something, he couldn't be sure what,
but it didn't seem to matter. He glanced about him almost
expectantly, as if perhaps seeking another member of the
troupe, for surely this was a performer, probably one among
many, engaged to entertain the museum goers with some
sort of historical re-enactment of a bygone era? Though to
what purpose, Jakob could not imagine, but it was Paris after
all. Anything was possible. He found no one who even came
close to resembling the stranger, either in beauty or in style.
"What is your name?" the blond asked, eyeing the dark
youth up and down as if he could see through his clothes to
the body beneath.
"Jakob. Jakob Kohl." Jakob blushed, under his scrutiny.
"Ya-kob," he repeated, cocking his head as he tasted the
name upon his tongue. "I like that." The boy smiled as,
without warning, he placed his hands on either side of Jakob's
face, and brought it within reach of his own, until their lips
were mere micro-centimeters apart, and Jakob's breath was
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35
mingling with the strange young man's... closer... closer...
until their lips were almost, but not quite touching.
An electric shiver coursed through Jakob as for that split
second he closed his eyes, his entire body reeling from the
sensation. But when he opened them again, he found himself
quite alone.
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36
Chapter 6
Jakob glanced around, confused. He saw nothing out of the
ordinary, just the typical museumgoers paying their homage
to the well-protected painting.
But wait. A flash of movement caught his eye. There, in
the doorway leading into the next gallery—there he was,
mischievous smile affixed upon luscious lips, one long finger
beckoning to Jakob. And without thought or hesitation, Jakob
followed, never once questioning what it was he did, simply
following his instincts. Why not? It wasn't every day that one
came upon a beautiful and playful young man while visiting
the Louvre. He should make the best of it, nein? Ja was the
resounding answer that filled his brain.
He caught up with him in the Richelieu wing. The blond
stood before one of the paintings affixed upon the wall there,
as if mesmerized by it, seeming not to take any notice of his
surroundings, immobile. Jakob laid his hand upon the young
man's arm, perhaps with the intent of anchoring him there, at
least until he'd gotten a chance to question him, find out
something about him. But he was taken aback at what he
saw: a single teardrop, sliding down that alabaster cheek,
those perfect lips slightly agape, as if in singular awe or
perhaps in agitation.
What could have disturbed the youth so badly, Jakob
wondered, turning toward the painting upon which his
attention was so sorrowfully riveted. The name plate read
Toulouse Lautrec, and Jakob recognized it for one of his many
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37
bohemian outpourings, his slice of life scenes painted within
the confines of the Moulin Rouge. Bright, and colorful, filled
with gaiety and life and energy, but surely not sorrow. Jakob
cast a confused glance over at the young man, instinctively
reaching for his hand, squeezing it for comfort. His lips
moved, but Jakob was unable to hear the words that were
uttered in a low-pitched voice.
"Verzeihung?" Jakob asked, automatically slipping into his
native tongue, before remembering himself, and repeating in
French, "Pardon?"
The blond turned to face Jakob full-on now, his eyes
brimming with tears. "I miss them so much," he answered in
anguished tones. "Please, Jakob, help me to find my way
home. Please!"
Without warning, he pulled Jakob to him, winding his arms
warmly about him, their lips meeting intensely. Jakob was all
too aware of that muscular body which pressed against him,
felt the need and desire that throbbed against his own aching
groin. He returned the embrace without hesitation, answering
the other's need with one of his own, a hunger that he was
unaware he possessed until this moment. All thought of
where they were fled his mind, as well as the chance of
discovery. Nothing mattered but this one moment, this one
kiss.
The strange young man pulled back abruptly, just far
enough to whisper into Jakob's mouth, his wet green eyes
beseeching him, "Help me, please." And then he was simply
gone.
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38
Jakob opened his eyes, unaware that he had ever closed
them. He was standing in the same spot where he had been
before, leaning against an empty plinth. He could see the
room he had been looking into before, the Mona Lisa in its
accustomed place upon the wall, lines of tourists passing by,
paying their homage. But, how? Alarmed, he approached one
of the museum attendants, who stood respectfully at
attention, keeping a watchful eye upon the orderly throng.
"Excuse me, monsieur," he said, trying not to say too
much, nor too little, "the young man, the one I was talking to
a moment ago, did you see which way he went? A tall blond,
about so high...." He obligingly raised his hand to a height a
few inches above his own, in an attempt to be helpful.
"Non, monsieur," came the disappointing response, "I have
seen no one else with you since you came in a moment ago."
A moment ago? Jakob was distinctly confused now, as he
had been with the youth for longer than that. It had been at
least a few minutes that they had spent together, between
this gallery and the other. Yet how to explain how he had
gotten back here, where he had begun? Had he fallen asleep,
on his feet, and had he imagined the whole thing? Was it
possible to feel a dream so very vividly? He wrinkled his brow
in perplexity, turning to leave.
"Excuse me, monsieur," the guard stopped him with a
quick hand upon his arm, before stooping to retrieve an
object from the floor. "You dropped this. If you would take
care not to litter, please. We have strict rules here." He thrust
the object into Jakob's hand, his humorless eyes clearly
sending a message concerning those who littered in his
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39
museum before turning back to keep an eye on the visitors in
the adjoining room.
Jakob knew he had dropped nothing, yet he couldn't help
but glance at the flyer in his hand—a brochure for the Eiffel
Tower. Somehow he suspected this was a message meant for
him from the blond. If only he hadn't left so precipitously. If
only he'd gotten his name.
Life was full of so many "if onlys." A quick glance at his
phone served to remind him that Albert would be expecting
him soon. The Eiffel Tower would have to wait until he found
out what it was that his cousin needed him for next.
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Chapter 7
Albert kept him waiting, of course. He was extremely
inconsiderate in that way. But what did he care? Jakob was
just a paid companion, even if he was a distant relative, and
Albert was obviously enjoying himself; nothing mattered but
his own pleasure. He'd left Jakob a message as to where he
would be, and when to pick him up. In the meantime, Jakob
occupied himself, while he waited, with texting to Abram the
details of the mysterious beautiful stranger, and their single
erotic kiss.
You have to go to the Eiffel Tower. It's fate, was Abram's
expected advice. Not only was he a believer in Fate, but in
Destiny also.
It's a coincidence, Jakob texted back. Don't read too much
into this.
So, if he didn't believe it was Fate, why did he intend to go
there as soon as possible? Because his mother wanted a
souvenir, his logical mind told him. Yeah, right. Pull the other
one.
After retrieving his cousin from the hotel where he had
ended up with not one, but two eager and agile French youths
(Albert's words, not Jakob's), Jakob hoped that a nap, at
least, was in order, as he returned them to their hotel, only to
have his hopes dashed once again. Albert hopped in and out
of the shower, after quickly checking his email on his laptop,
and announcing that he had another date, this time at a small
cafe on the Avenue des Mars. No rest for the horny,
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41
apparently. Who knew his cousin was such a sexual dynamo?
He must own stock in Viagra or something. Jakob sighed, but
said nothing, obedient as always, which could also translate
to being spineless. Or it could simply mean that this was his
chance to go to the Eiffel Tower, even if he didn't believe in
so-called signs.
It was the off-season for tourists, for which Jakob was
grateful. He wasn't partial to fighting through crowds for any
reason. Once he traversed the brief line that snaked up to the
entrance, he entered with the intention of going to a gift
shop, stopping in at the first one he found on the ground floor
of the immense iron tower. He purchased a tiny replica of the
famous structure, which he stowed in the bag which hung
about his neck and rested upon his hip, along with his
traveler's guides, a couple of ink pens, some tissues, and a
few souvenirs he had acquired while he was at the Louvre.
Making conversation with the pleasant middle-aged woman
behind the counter, he made discreet inquiries as to whether
she had seen a handsome young man fitting the description
of his mystery blond from the museum, but of course she
could remember seeing no one such as he. Jakob was not
really surprised. Stifling his disappointment and dodging the
overly friendly photographer who snapped his picture in the
lobby and then offered to sell it to him for a mere French
song, he bought a ticket, then waited for the next elevator
making the ascent to the second level.
A few other people rode with him, but one quick glance
about the small car ascertained that none were the one he
sought. Naturally. Why should he have expected any other
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42
ending to his story? He was on a fool's errand. Someone had
dropped the pamphlet on the floor of the museum, a careless
gesture and certainly not an act of any misguided Fate. Was it
so surprising that a tourist might be interested in seeing both
the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower? Two of the biggest
attractions in Paris? Of course not. What was surprising was
that Jakob, who normally possessed more common sense,
had even considered the possibility that it had been a sign.
He attributed that to Abram's influence, even from distant
Karlsruhe.
At the second level, he got off. There was a separate
elevator that went to the top. He presented his ticket, waiting
for the next car to come. The elevators were self-service, but
a simple press of a button was all the complicated that it got.
This time he rode alone, arriving at the first of two platforms,
set one above the other, one enclosed, the other open to the
air and the Parisian breezes.
Jakob opted for the first, appreciating not being able to fall
off the Eiffel Tower. Not that he really believed that to be a
possibility, safety standards being what they were. But why
take a chance, right?
A few people milled about when Jakob got off at the third
level, taking in the view through the observation telescopes
that afforded close-up and personals of various landmarks of
the Parisian skyline. These paid him no attention, conversing
together in various languages, laughing, oohing and aahing at
the panorama their unique position afforded them. And none
of these were the man that he sought.
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43
Jakob felt really stupid now. At least he'd gotten the
souvenir for his mother, so it wasn't a total fool's errand. So
what now? Returning to the hotel made no sense. He'd barely
have time to do anything but turn around and get his cousin.
Certainly not enough time to get any sleep. But much as he
had always desired to visit Paris, he wasn't in a touristy mood
either, too tired to care about seeing any sights at the
moment, other than the one afforded by closing his eyes.
He moved away from the others, to a spot that offered a
rather lovely view of the Seine, and leaned against one of the
telescopes, gathering his thoughts, mentally ticking off his
options. The metal of the telescope was cool to the touch,
almost soothingly so. Not that he was warm. Not really. He
felt his eyes begin to close of their own volition.
"Hello again."
That voice. In his ear. Again. Jakob jerked away from the
telescope, and found himself falling directly into the open
arms of the mysterious blond. Too stunned to say anything,
much less move, Jakob tilted his head back to regard his
savior, his mouth falling open in surprise, before he found the
presence of mind to push himself away, despite his body's
protests not to do so.
"You!" he managed to splutter, and then the words that
insisted on spilling from his lips before he had a chance to
think them through, "I was looking for you."
"Looks like you found me," came the bemused reply. "You
found my message. Good."
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"Who are you?" Jakob blurted, unable to take his eyes
away from the other man, although he resisted the urge to
reach out and touch him. For now. "What is your name?"
"I am Damien," was the quiet reply, "and I remember your
name is Ya-kob." Hearing his name pronounced like that sent
shivers up Jakob's spine. It had never sounded as good on
anyone else's lips. "Where are you from, Ya-kob?"
"Karlsruhe. Germany." He stepped boldly closer to the
other man, as if fearful that a sudden gust of wind might find
them and throw them from this precipitate height. A
groundless fear, of course, for that could never happen. Or
perhaps it was a pretense to explain his motion to himself?
"Are you an artist?" Damien asked, leaning in to Jakob,
towering a few inches over him.
"Me? No." Jakob shoot his head. "Not me. What about
you? Are you one?"
"Not me either," Damien admitted. "My fathers, they are.
Were, I mean. I think they are all gone now, but I can't be
sure. Time... it is not right for me."
Jakob frowned, perplexed. Damien's words made no sense
to him whatsoever. Perhaps his French was faultier than he
had imagined. He could have sworn he'd used the plural word
for father, but of course that was not possible.
Suddenly, Damien drew Jakob to him and kissed him
again, and the German youth could not even pretend that
wasn't exactly what he had wished to happen. He capitulated
quickly, returning the kiss with what he considered to be
reckless abandon, there, in the open, in a very public place.
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"Ya-kob," Damien whispered into Jakob's receptive mouth,
"I need your help. You're the only one that can help me.
You're the only one that can even see me."
What?
"That's ridiculous," Jakob glanced about at the few people
who populated this level of the Eiffel Tower. A preposterous
idea. He tapped the arm of a young man and his girl as they
drifted by. "Excuse me," he said in his best French, but they
never paused, kept talking to one another as they passed
over onto the other side. As if Jakob himself did not exist. He
turned to Damien in his perplexity. "What is going on here?"
he asked in a trembling voice.
"This is a dream," Damien took Jakob's face in his hands
again. "I am but a dream here, in this world. And you have
come into my dream, somehow. Without your help, I cannot
return to the real world. You must help me, Ya-kob, please."
His eyes were wide and pleading, pleading with his entire
being for this thing, and he seemed to be in great earnest.
"We can't be in a dream," he protested, "and certainly not
the same dream. That isn't logical."
Damien took Jakob's hand, and led him up the stairs to the
higher level. Jakob allowed himself to be led, his mind
attempting to take in everything that was happening, all
thoughts of his cousin fading.
There was no one at this level, not at this moment which,
in light of what was about to happen, was perhaps
serendipitous. Damien took Jakob's hand in his, and made as
if to climb upon the railing. Jakob resisted, cold fear grabbing
him.
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"What are you doing?"
"You'll see," Damien promised solemnly, never slowing, as
he continued to heave them both upon the narrow railing.
Nothing Jakob could do would dissuade him. He kept his
arms about Damien's waist, with the intention of throwing his
weight backward, to bring them both down. But instead,
Damien took advantage of his proximity to take flight, leaping
in a graceful arc, arms entwined about Jakob, from the top of
the Eiffel Tower.
Jakob's heart pounded, his brain screamed that death was
imminent, and he never loosed his hold from the beautiful but
crazy blond who was plunging them both to their deaths. A
dispassionate side of him wondered how long it would take a
falling body to splat upon the ground and what sort of a mess
it might make. The other side realized that he would never
live to find out. Whatever the answer, it shouldn't take as
long as this. He buried his face against Damien's chest,
wondering if it were possible for them to be together in death
somehow. Albert would have to figure out how to get around
Paris on his own, and he wouldn't be too happy about it. But
that was Jakob's problem no longer.
Damien gently pulled his face back, until they were gazing
into one another's eyes once more. Jakob realized that not
only had they not plunged to their deaths, but that they were
no longer at the Eiffel Tower. He blinked about them in
amazement, his heart pounding, his pulse racing at the near-
death experience. They were now standing outside of a
sidewalk cafe. In fact, it was the same one at which Albert
had dined at this very day.
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What the hell was going on here? Jakob turned wondering
eyes toward Damien, who nodded, a very knowing look
evident in his mien.
"A dream," he repeated. "Only a dream."
"Yours or mine?" Jakob wanted to know, confused.
"Ours now, I think." Damien seemed slightly at a loss for
words. "I mean, I'm not sure. This part has never happened
before."
"What part? Part of what?"
"The part where anyone else ever sees me or talks to me.
You're the first."
Jakob shook his head, making an attempt to clear it. He
wasn't buying this dream business. But he also couldn't
explain leaping from the top of the Eiffel Tower and ending up
alive—anywhere. "I don't understand, can you please tell me
what's going on? From the beginning?"
Damien lifted one of Jakob's hands to his lips and kissed it
softly. "Oui, mon petit," he said. "I will do my best."
Jakob felt, rather than saw, the transition this time. It was
less jarring, but just as surreal. The two of them sat on a
bench facing the Seine. He gazed around him at the passing
people, those brave souls who did not mind braving the early
November cold to traverse the streets of Paris. Couples
walked by hand in hand. A mother with her brood of small
ones, clucking at them to stay together. A pair of priests, lost
in conversation, heads bent toward one another. Two women
occupied the bench beside them, their lips locked together,
oblivious to the world. No one took notice of Damien and
Jakob.
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"How can I be asleep and dreaming when I am clearly
awake?" the bewildered Jakob asked. "You... you don't feel
like a dream. You feel too real to be a hallucination." He ran
one hand in wonder along Damien's arm, felt the warmth of
it, the musculature beneath the soft skin. His lips had felt too
real to be a dream. None of this made any sense.
Damien shrugged. "I do not know how it is, just that it is."
He gazed toward the river, at the life which streamed along it,
the barges, the pleasure boats, the sounds of life all about
them—and yet not a part of their reality. "What year is this?"
he asked, almost abstractedly, as if unsure he really wished
to know the answer to the question.
"What year? Two thousand and ten, of course, why do you
ask?"
"Two thousand? And ten?" Damien echoed, a tone of
wonderment in his voice. "I have been dreaming for over a
hundred years..."
"A hundred years? That is not possible," Jakob replied. "No
one can sleep for that long." And people cannot visit one
another's dream worlds, either, but here you are, his inner
voice maintained. "Please tell me what you are talking about."
Damien rose from the bench, reaching for Jakob's hand,
and he gave it. Twining their fingers together, he led him
along the banks of the Seine, speaking softly. Not that others
could hear, but it drew them together in their singularity. His
voice possessed an otherworldly quality, as Jakob strained to
make sense of his words.
"Let me start at the very beginning. My beginning, that is.
I came into this world in a rather unusual way," he began,
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"part of the story I do not possess, but I shall tell you what it
is I do know. My mother gave birth to me on November 4,
1882, at the Moulin Rouge. You are familiar with the Moulin
Rouge, oui?"
"Ja," Jakob affirmed, "although I've not gone there. Not
yet."
"You should. It's a wonderful place." Damien offered his
companion a sad smile. "I was taken there constantly, by my
fathers. We loved it there."
Jakob replayed the sentence in his own mind. He still did
not understand, credited the error to faulty translation. "I am
not understanding you. I thought that you said fathers?"
"Oui. Mon peres." He smiled at Jakob's evident confusion,
lifting Jakob's hand to his lips, kissing the back of his hand
softly. "On the night that my mother stumbled into the Moulin
Rouge, there were twelve artists there. They called
themselves the Dreammongers, and once a year they met in
secret inside the Moulin Rouge."
"Like a club or something?"
"Oui, something like that," Damien agreed. "On this night
my mother, she had gone into labor, and somehow she ended
up inside the nightclub, and she happened upon where the
artists were having their bit of fun, in their secret back room.
That must have been funny to see." He chuckled at the
thought. "They said there was no time to call a doctor, so
they did what they had to do: they delivered the child,
myself. And when my mother said she was going to throw me
in the Seine, they stopped her from doing so, and they took
me from her, deciding to raise me themselves. So that is how
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it began. My mother left, never to be seen or heard from
again, and they became my fathers. They decided I would not
live in one of their homes, but that I would spend time with
each of them. And thus every month, I go to stay with a
different father." Damien paused. Jakob could hear him take a
deep breath. "I mean... I did. I realize that they are all gone
now. All gone." He fell silent, bowing his head sorrowfully,
unable to speak.
Thoughts swirled in Jakob's brain like confused butterflies.
He couldn't help a natural incredulity over Damien's claim to
have been born in 1882, especially as young and beautiful as
he appeared to be. Jakob was not normally one to believe in
fairy tales. And yet he also found himself torn between feeling
sorry for Damien for having been abandoned by his mother in
such a callous manner, and feeling sympathy at the
realization that the fathers he loved were no longer alive. He
put a compassionate arm about the other, offering the
comfort of his touch, the warmth of his presence. It didn't
seem like much, but he could feel Damien relax into him, so it
must be enough for now.
In a flash of insight, he realized what it was that he had
seen within the Louvre, what it must mean. "Toulouse
Lautrec, was he one of your... fathers?"
"Oui, Pere Toulouse, he was one of my fathers. A very
great man, he was, and very kind to me. Always thinking of
others, never himself." He fell silent, and Jakob held him
tightly, as if he could take the other's pain into himself.
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They stopped walking, simply held one another, while
humanity roiled about them, oblivious to their presence, but
neither cared.
"Damien," Jakob began hesitantly, for he was loath to
intrude upon the other's grief. "That does not explain why you
are here, and now, when you were here, and then..."
"I will tell you what I remember," Damien said
thoughtfully, pushing one hand through his platinum locks,
almost wearily, "from the last time that I was in my world."
He told of the night of his eighteenth birthday, of the
celebration that was held at the red windmill, doubling as a
birthday party and his officially entering the world of the
Dreammongers. "Pere Toulouse and I had had dinner at a
restaurant nearby, and we walked from there to the Moulin
Rouge. We took our time, because of his cane." Damien
paused, visualizing the petite artist in his mind, on their last
night together. "He promised me absinthe," he said softly.
"I'd always wanted to try it."
"I've never tried it," Jakob admitted. "Is it any good?"
"It was delicious," Damien admitted with a smile. "It tasted
like the best licorice, except that it was liquid. It was then
that I began to feel strange, in such a way as I'd never felt
before. Like I was falling backward, very slowly, and I could
not stop myself, and I could not move, nor could I speak.
Everyone around me was in motion, and they were speaking
to me, but I could not understand what they were saying. I
could see my fathers were upset, they were hovering around
me, but I could not tell them that I was not there, not in my
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body. I was floating outside of it. I know, that sounds very
strange," he apologized softly.
"No, go on," Jakob reassured him. Not like he hadn't heard
of out-of-body experiences before. Just not any which
involved time in any way.
"There is not much more to tell," Damien apologized,
"other than this. I saw the Green Fairy herself. I think she
saved me and sent me to the place where I awoke. Where my
body still is. But I do not know where that is. If I think about
places that I have been, in Paris, I find myself there, without
making any effort of my own to go there. But when I try to
talk to any of the people, it is as if I do not exist. Until you."
"Until me?" Jakob repeated, trying to understand.
"I think that you were the one meant to find me. You are
the brave prince who comes to rescue the helpless maiden.
Except that I am not exactly a maiden, but you are still my
prince." He cast his eyes down demurely, more than acutely
aware of his maiden status, in more ways than one.
Jakob did not believe in fairy tales or in myths or in
legends. But his logical mind wasn't giving him any
alternative solutions to the enigma that stood before him, the
beautiful enigma whose very touch was enough to take his
breath away. The one his body was reacting to, very strongly.
"Are you saying you are outside of your body now?" Jakob
queried.
"Oui, I am. My body lies somewhere else, in darkness, as
naked as I was upon my birthday, when it all happened."
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The thought of Damien naked sent a surge of energy
through Jakob, one that went straight to his cock, eliciting an
unexpected moan.
"If this is a dream, then we are both dreaming, ja?"
"Oui, we are dreaming, as I said. Together dreaming."
"Then there must be a way to reach your physical body,
also together, and bring you out of the dream state, don't you
think?" Jakob's mind raced frantically, seeking answers, even
incredible ones. He wasn't sure he believed what he heard,
but he wasn't entirely sure he disbelieved, either.
"I think you may be right," Damien said slowly. He drew
Jakob closer to him, close enough for Jakob to feel the
warmth of his breath. "There is something I wish to tell you.
Something I have never said to another person." His lips
hovered near Jakob's ear.
Jakob said nothing, frozen by the desire to hear the words
which Damien seemed so anxious to say.
"I want you, Jakob. I want to be with you. I want you to
be my first." He brushed his lips against Jakob's outer ear
gently, instinct guiding him where knowledge did not yet
exist.
Jakob melted at the other's touch. Unsure what to do, he
found that he wanted to do it all. But how? Where? He closed
his eyes, as Damien nuzzled his neck, pressing closer to the
soft blond, who was hard in all the right places. Another moan
arose in the back of his throat. He knew that he wanted
Damien, too, wanted Damien to be his own first. But
shouldn't they be trying to get to the bottom of this
perplexing riddle they were faced with? Seriously?
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Or perhaps not.
The city of love had cast a spell upon him, and he gave
himself over to its tender clutches.
Damien pulled back, his head raised, his eyes wide. "No,"
he protested, "not yet, please not yet."
"What's wrong, what's the matter?" Jakob demanded,
clutching at Damien as the trembling blond cast an imploring
glance heavenward.
"No, please no," he murmured, trying to hold on to Jakob,
as if by so doing he could anchor himself there. But already
they were slipping through one another. Damien knew what
that meant. He didn't want it to be so.
Jakob gave a dismayed cry as Damien grew misty, losing
substance, his body seeming to shimmer and shift. "Don't
go!" he cried, reaching around his rapidly diminishing form.
"Don't go, Damien!" Too late. Jakob reeled, hitting his head
on something hard. Opening his eyes, the cold metal of the
observation telescope pressed against his temple. He stood
on the platform at the Eiffel Tower. Quite alone.
Obviously he'd fallen asleep on his feet. Or had he? He was
so very confused. And so very tired. What had happened to
Damien? Where had he gone? And would he ever see him
again? What was going on here? A quick glance at his watch
confirmed what he feared: it was Albert time. He would have
to ponder the mystery later, as he hastened toward the
elevator, praying that he would make it on time, thoughts of
the beautiful blond filling his mind, and his heart.
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Chapter 8
Jakob was exhausted. He couldn't think clearly, and what
thoughts he did have were disjointed and bizarre. His eyes
were bloodshot, and his body weighed a ton, his arms and
legs responding in slow motion to the commands which he
gave them. Falling asleep in public and dreaming of a
beautiful blond man was proof that he needed to slow down,
at least a little bit, and collect his thoughts on what was
actually happening to him. Whatever that might be.
Luckily, Albert rather haughtily declared that Jakob's
presence this evening was not required, as he was being
picked up by tonight's lucky escort, and Jakob was free to
sightsee however he wished. Jakob didn't delve into details or
comment on which of them was actually the lucky one. At
that point in time, he truly didn't care. All that he heard was
that he didn't have to be at his cousin's beck and call, even if
sightseeing was not exactly on his agenda. Rest was the last
thing on his mind, with the mystery of Damien looming large
in his memory, his touch still lingering upon his skin, his scent
clinging to his nostrils. How could such a thing be a dream?
And yet how could it be anything else?
So Jakob did what he invariably did in times of trouble—he
pulled out his Nokia and phoned Abram.
"So tell me, how is gay Paree? And the mystery man with
the great lips, how is he? Tell me you went to the Eiffel Tower
to meet him, or I'll be very disappointed in you, Jakob!"
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Jakob laughed, welcoming the release of built-up tension
he'd been holding in. "Shut up for a minute, and I'll tell you."
Abram listened silently as Jakob told him everything that
had happened from the moment he first met the mysterious
and elusive Damien until his return to the hotel.
He left out nothing, and when he was done, he heard
Abram let out a long low whistle. "Am I crazy, Abram?" Jakob
almost wished the answer were that easy. But somehow he
didn't think that was the case.
"Jakob Kohl, you are the most un-crazy person I have ever
met," his friend reassured him. "I don't think you have that
kind of imagination, you know? Not that I'm saying that's a
bad thing, mind you. You're a wonderful musician. I know
someday you will give Liberace a run for his money, God rest
his soul. You're a very practical person. If you tell me this
happened, then I believe you. Now the question is, what does
it mean? And what can we do about it?"
Jakob breathed a long sigh of relief, fraught with worry at
the same time. He was definitely out of his league here, up to
his ears in things far beyond his ken. But he knew that he had
to do something to help Damien. It appeared that he was the
blond's only hope; he didn't want to fail him. For many
reasons.
"I wish I knew. Abram, he's counting on me."
There was a moment of silence between them. Jakob
found that he could not keep from yawning.
"It seems to me that if dreams are the key to this mystery,
then you need to dream again, my friend," Abram said at last,
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"and not on your feet, standing in public places. That's what
they make beds for, you know."
Jakob smiled at Abram's unfailing common sense.
Although he really didn't understand how he had fallen asleep
standing. But then Albert had been running him pretty
ragged. Perhaps he should take advantage of his cousin's
propitious absence, put out the Do Not Disturb sign, lock his
door, and get some real sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream.
"In the meantime, I think I shall consult with my rabbi.
Dreaming is serious business, my friend. We don't want to
schmutz this up."
"Thanks, Abram." Jakob yawned uncontrollably, which
made his words come out a bit garbled.
Abram chuckled good-humoredly. "Go to sleep, Jakob, call
me in the morning, whenever you awaken, or whenever your
Casanova of a cousin drags you out of bed."
"I will, Abram." Jakob managed to get out a mumbled,
"Good night," before he clicked off. He set his phone's alarm,
not for morning, but for an hour. He didn't know how to meet
Damien on purpose, but if his first dream didn't succeed in
finding the troubled blond, he could wake up and try again.
Stripping, he laid his clothes neatly on a chair beside the
bed, then loosened the tight corners of the sheets which
suffocated the mattress. He hated that tightness, hated the
way it made his legs and feet feel imprisoned, as if they were
attempting to prevent him from rolling over in his sleep.
Satisfied that it was loose enough, he slid beneath the cool
sheets, turning onto his side, the pillow sandwiched between
his head and his hand, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
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When he opened his eyes again, he stood on a wide
boulevard. Probably the Champs-Elysees, but he couldn't be
sure. He could see no street signs, and when he tried to stop
one of the passersby, they ignored his question, as if they
hadn't heard. They were all shrouded in dark cloaks, their
faces blank, pushing past him and around him, completely
ignoring his presence there.
From behind him, Jakob could hear a gleeful cackle. He
whirled about to see who was there, who was laughing at
him. He saw no one. No one other than the silent-moving
masses. Where was Damien? He searched the faces as they
filed around him. Their features began to melt together into a
disturbing homogeneity, nothing to distinguish one from the
other. Suddenly, they changed direction en masse and began
to converge upon him. Their mouths moved, but he could
hear nothing. And yet their very silence was deafening. He
covered his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to make
himself small and unnoticeable so that they would leave him
alone.
They grabbed at him. Their fingers poked, prodded, and
pinched, surrounding him, cutting off all avenues of escape.
He screamed, and even his scream possessed no resonance.
Jakob sat up with a start, bathed in sweat, brought to
awareness by the rhythmic beeping of his phone alarm.
Reaching for it, he pushed it off and lay in the bed, breathing
hard. It hadn't worked. Not that time. Good thing he'd set the
alarm. He still had time to try again.
Assuming he could get back to sleep. But that didn't take
long. He closed his eyes, thinking about Damien, seeing the
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blond's lovely features before him, and before he knew it, he
was locked in Morpheus' embrace once more.
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Chapter 9
The pressure of another body upon the bed woke him. The
dip of the mattress, the peeling back of the blanket and
sheet, the warmth of that body pressed up against his. Jakob
opened his eyes to find himself staring into Damien's.
"How did you find me?" he breathed in amazement. "You
must have been here before, yes?"
"Never," Damien asserted with a shake of his head. "I
would remember if I had. But I was still able to find you,
somehow. I don't know how. Does it matter?"
"It might," Jakob said softly, trying to think, to put this
new information into some sort of perspective. "At least we
know if we get separated, that you can find me again. I'm
guessing that's how this works. At least that is my theory."
"Good." Damien kissed him lightly, propping himself up on
his side. "Then I like how this works, as long as it leads me
back to you."
Jakob dared a covert look. Not that that was actually
necessary, as Damien was far from shy, and made no
attempt to cover himself in any way. Jakob could see that the
other man was as stark naked as he was. Quite gloriously and
visibly so. Considering that he was a dream phantom, he had
the most beautiful body Jakob had ever seen, lean and
muscled, with a pleasing uncut cock, thinner than Jakob's
own shaft, but longer. It lounged indolently against one pale
muscled thigh, and Jakob had to force himself to look away,
back to Damien's eyes, lest he betray his lust.
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"I want to help you," he told Damien, reaching out to
stroke the long platinum tresses, silky smooth to his touch.
"There must be a way to get you out of there, to bring you
out here." With me, he added mentally, afraid to speak the
words aloud.
"As soon as possible, please, Ya-kob," Damien whispered,
almost fearfully. "I'm afraid this place is changing."
"What do you mean?"
"Sometimes I think I hear someone else. Someone other
than us, I mean."
"Someone else? How? Who? Does this person speak to
you? What does he say? He or she?" he hastily amended, not
wishing to assume the presence of a potential rival. Hoping
the contrary.
"No words, just laughter. Strange laughter."
Jakob's blood froze, as he recalled the laughter from his
own dream. Coincidence? Somehow he didn't think so. "That
doesn't sound good." He frowned. "Do you feel like you might
be in danger?"
"Maybe," Damien admitted, with a slight shiver. "The
laughter... it doesn't sound normal."
Jakob instinctively drew the other man closer to him,
protectively winding his arms around him. Their bodies
touching intimately. Leg against leg. Chest against chest.
Warm skin touching warm skin. He could feel himself
hardening at Damien's closeness. He wished he knew what to
do, how to proceed. All he had were gut feelings to guide him,
and he couldn't be sure that they were right or that Damien
felt the same way about him, had the same desires. But then
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he recalled his words as they held one another, the moonlight
glinting off of the Seine, and he knew that Damien wanted
him too.
The flow of Jakob's thoughts was interrupted by the
pressure of Damien's mouth against his. He responded
without hesitation. Everything about Damien felt right. How
could this be wrong? Perhaps it was simply meant to be.
Perhaps that was the reason that Damien had found his way
to Jakob's hotel, and into his bed. This must be their Fate,
and who was he to fight against such a thing?
Jakob had never been in such intimate proximity to
another man before, certainly not while naked, and the most
indescribable sensations were coursing through him, flooding
his nerve centers. He could feel the warmth of Damien's body
against his, and he never stopped to question how that could
be, or to consider that this was but a dream. It felt too real
not to trust it. But of course, is that not the reality of dreams?
They make the unreal seem real, thus the power which they
possess.
As Damien's mouth passionately crushed his own, Jakob
had no doubt as to just how much the other man must want
him, too, Damien's need rubbing against his own. His own
cock stirred, rising to the occasion, even as he felt a low
moan in the back of his throat, signaling his great need. What
should he do? Should he touch Damien, or wait to be
touched, or what? Then he remembered that the blond was
just as innocent and clueless as he. But perhaps, having had
the fathers that he did, they had given him some counsel on
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the subject? Not that it mattered. Jakob wanted to be with
him, regardless of who knew what.
The demands of their lungs dictated that they pause to
take in air, lips reluctantly parting, though not distancing
themselves from one another. For a few moments both were
too occupied with breathing to speak. Jakob slid his fingers
through Damien's silky locks. He couldn't get enough of
touching him. His hand gravitated to him. His own hair was so
uninteresting in comparison: a warm chestnut, cut almost in a
pageboy style, his bangs covering his forehead, but not long
enough to be in his way. He had brown eyes. Not much to say
about them—they weren't the sort that poets yearned over.
They were just there. And sensitive lips. Maybe a little
feminine. Certainly not as lovely as Damien's.
"Did your fathers...?" he began softly, as he caressed. "Did
they... say anything...?"
"Say anything, mon petit?"
"You know. About... that is... I mean, did they ever tell
you how to make love?" He spoke almost hesitantly, as if he
were afraid of breaking this enchanted spell that had been
woven between them, torn as he was between their
lovemaking and the desire to save the other man. When
Damien broke into a smile, Jakob's heart fluttered in
response.
"Alas, in some respects they were a little prudish," he
admitted. "I've caught them with their lovers before.
Touching and kissing one another in..." He giggled slightly.
"In rather intimate places, let us say. I think that's when I
realized that men's bodies can be very beautiful. But when I
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asked them questions, they told me I was too young, and
none would explain." He pushed aside the hair that covered
Jakob's ear and began to nibble softly, which elicited a moan
from the dark-haired youth. "You and I, we must do as we
feel," he murmured, "and let l'amour be our guide."
Jakob felt the warm and tender lips as they began an
eager exploration of his body, beginning with his ear, and
continuing along the line of his neck, kissing and licking and
sucking by turn. Jakob fairly vibrated with pleasure, attuned
to every little move that Damien made, wishing to reciprocate
and hoping he would be able to, and that his attentions would
be received as favorably. He softly stroked along the length of
Damien's back, tentative pats at first, but as he grew bolder,
he began to experiment, allowing his fingertips to gently glide
across the surface of the smooth skin beneath them.
He explored the contours of the blond's shoulder blades
with fascination, marveling at the strength which lay beneath
his touch; he followed the ridges of Damien's spine down,
down, down his back, until he came to the dip before his ass.
Damien nuzzled at Jakob's neck, performing his own
inquiries there. When Jakob paused, unsure for a moment of
his right to do what he was thinking of doing, Damien kissed
his lips softly, and whispered, "Touch me anywhere, mon
coeur, anywhere you like."
In tandem accord, the two young men rolled a bit,
maneuvering themselves in the best way to facilitate their
mutual explorations. Jakob was still on the bottom but both
arms were now free to reach around the body of the gorgeous
Damien, whose weight rested so lightly atop him. He slid his
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hands over his buttocks a shade more confidently, admiring
both their roundness and their taut musculature. Damien
proudly flexed his muscles, and laughed at the surprised look
on Jakob's face when he felt the movement beneath his
hands. Damien shifted his weight to his knees, placing one on
either side of Jakob's hips.
"Go ahead. I like the way that feels," Damien encouraged
him, having no inhibitions where his body was concerned. As
Jakob alternated between squeezing and stroking, Damien
was licking his nipples, slightly darker than his own, against
the pallor of Jakob's pale skin. Their cocks rubbed together as
they moved.
"We have to decide something," Jakob, ever the logical
one, found the breath to say, even after his fingers slid
between those inviting twin globes and lightly brushed across
Damien's perineum, across his hole.
"What's that?"
"Um, which one of us is going to do what? Know what I
mean?"
"Um hmmm," Damien responded, mouth full of one taut
nub, his fingers rubbing the other stiffening soldier.
Jakob was rapidly coming undone, so turned on by what
they were doing that he wasn't sure how to maintain any sort
of control. He could feel seepage from his cock, and having
experience in self-love, he understood what that meant. But
he also realized that knowing what was going to happen was
not as important as living in the moment. It wasn't always
necessary to think ahead, simply to feel.
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He wasn't sure what he felt for this beautiful blond, but his
heart told him there was something, and he wanted the
chance to explore these feelings that were so very new to
him. See where they led. But that could only happen if he
brought Damien safely into his world. Assuming he could. He
pushed the negative thought aside, concentrating on the
gorgeous blond above him. He would find a way somehow.
Hungrily he reached for Damien's lips and took them into
his own. Their tongues tangled gloriously between their fused
mouths. Jakob arched up into Damien, so that their cocks
were pressed tightly together, the friction of their movements
only serving to fan the flame of his desire.
He reached between them, his fingers fluttering over that
sweet skin, brushing across his pebbled nipples. He knew
what he wanted to touch, but did he have the nerve to do it?
Gazing again into Damien's eyes gave him the answer. He
found that he did have the nerve, as his hand snaked
downward, continuing its exploration of Damien's smooth
body until it reached the object of its desire and boldly closed
around it, surprising both of them.
His fingers wrapped naturally about that slender girth, as if
he were touching himself, but better. It was slick to his
touch—between them they were both leaking a good deal of
pre-cum. Jakob found that that slickness facilitated the
passage of his hand along that length as he pumped it. He
could feel Damien's moan through their joined mouths, and
the sound pleased him.
Jakob wondered how Damien would taste, wanted to
explore him with his tongue and lick all his juices dry, but his
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desire to find out was held in check by his desire to hold on to
what he now had—literally.
They paused to breathe again.
"You feel so good."
"You too," Damien whispered, his own hand joining
Jakob's, and encompassing his cock as well, in one slippery
meat sandwich.
Jakob released a breathy groan, their joined hands
inducing the most glorious sensations. His body was on fire
with desire for Damien, to the point where all rationality was
taking a back seat to sheer carnality. He didn't have long, and
he knew it. He could feel the familiar tightening in his balls,
feel them shrinking back against his body, preparing to loose
their load. He didn't know the protocol here—if he should
announce his intentions or make some attempt to back them
down. He knew that last was a losing battle, though. Should
he ask Damien if he were close himself?
He didn't have time to debate the matter; Damien's hand
was too good at what it was doing. It was ripping sensations
from him he didn't know he was capable of. He didn't have
the self-control to stop it. Or the desire. This reminded him of
when he was a young boy first learning to masturbate,
experimenting in the privacy of whatever home he was in at
the time, possessed of a tendency to go off without warning
until he gained mastery over the feat. Now, as then, his cock
began to spasm, his body to quiver as he tightened his own
grip about Damien, still working that beautiful cock for all it
was worth. He stained their hands with his fluids, splattered
them on Damien's chest, before effecting a cease fire.
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Damien's own release came but a couple of minutes later.
Jakob was enchanted at the feel of the other youth's orgasm,
and continued to hold on to him, even once his flesh had
ceased its spastic dance inside his grasp.
"I'm going to get you out of there, Damien," Jakob
promised him, reaching for his lips. They kissed sweetly,
passion momentarily spent, tenderness claiming them for its
own. "But you've got to help me find you. You must know
something about where you are, some little clue that can
guide me."
They shifted positions once more, spooning together,
Damien's strong arms circumnavigating Jakob's chest, holding
him tightly. Damien lightly kissed one bare shoulder.
"Go to the Moulin Rouge," he said at last. "That is where
everything began. Maybe there is a clue there."
That made some sort of sense. As much as anything did in
the situation in which they found themselves.
"I have to leave you," Damien announced suddenly.
"What? No, please stay. At least a little while longer,"
Jakob pled.
Just then they both heard it. The sound of laughter.
Disturbing laughter.
"I can't let him find you," Damien whispered. "I'll find you
later. I promise. Go to the Moulin Rouge."
Their lips met once more with a feverish urgency. Jakob
knew Damien was being logical, but for once logic held no
interest for him. He wanted them to stay together, just like
this, for as long as possible.
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But again Damien vanished. And all that was left behind
was the warmth of his kiss upon Jakob's lips.
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Chapter 10
Feeling more refreshed than he had since he'd first arrived
in Paris, Jakob called Abram as soon as he woke. His voice
reflected his more than happy state, which earned him a
chuckle from his friend.
"Sounds like somebody got lucky," he teased Jakob, "and I
don't mean your cousin."
"Never you mind," Jakob laughed, before turning serious.
"Did you get a chance to talk to your rabbi? What does he
think? Does he even believe us, or did he tell you to call the
men in the white coats for me?"
"Jakob, please, have some faith in me. And my rabbi. He is
taking this very seriously, I assure you. He wants to look up
some things before he offers an opinion. He's very careful
that way. But as soon as he does, I will let you know. Okay?"
Jakob took a steadying breath. "Okay, Abram. I trust you."
Words which Jakob did not use lightly.
"What is on your busy schedule for today?"
"I won't know till Albert gets up. Who knows when that will
be?"
"Well, then, here is my suggestion for you," Abram said.
"You should do some research on your end, look up your
friend, and find out all you can about him, historically."
"Oh, you mean like at the library?" Jakob asked.
"Exactly. Perhaps you can find something which will give
you a clue as to where he might be. I'll call you back when I
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learn something. Feel free to call me first if you find out
anything."
"That sounds like a good idea. I'll have my phone with me,
no matter what, and no matter where I end up." The phone
on his bedside table began to ring, almost imperiously.
"That can't be good. I gotta go," he said. "Talk to you
later."
"Later," Abram agreed as they both hung up.
Naturally it was Albert. Who else would call Jakob there?
Although for the space of one moment, Jakob's heart had
jumped, thinking it might be Damien, but that was a forlorn
hope at best. Then Albert's instructions gave him a new belief
in Fate, as his cousin told him that they were to dine that
night at the Moulin Rouge, and to arrange for two tables. One
would be for himself and a guest, the other for Jakob. As
Abram would say, "God forbid they should be seen at the
same table. What a putz."
But for once, Jakob didn't mind. He couldn't help but feel
that he was getting one step closer to saving Damien. He was
trying not to think beyond that, not right now. First things
first.
Jakob took a long, hot shower, the memory of Damien's
touch imprinted upon his mind. And on his body. He was
surprised to discover how much he missed the blond he had
known for such a short time, how much a part of his mindset
he had become. How much he wanted him to be there with
him, wanted to talk to him, longed to delve into the other
man as deeply as possible. He had never felt this way about
anyone before. Could it be love? Was that even possible? He
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didn't honestly know. Perhaps there was more of a romantic
nature hidden beneath his practical exterior than even he had
imagined?
While waiting for Albert, Jakob called the Moulin Rouge and
booked the requisite tables. Dinner was served at seven, and
the nightclub was not open before that time, naturally. He
then called down to the front desk and received information
on the National Library of France, the famed Biblioteque
nationale de France. There were two branches: the Richelieu
library and the Francois-Mitterand library.
His desire to delve into history was held up, however, by
having to attend upon his cousin in his usual lackey
performance. Albert had gotten it into his head that he
needed new clothes for the dinner at the Moulin Rouge, and
nothing could dissuade him otherwise. And nothing Jakob said
made any impression on him either. He was adamant in
having his company, if not his advice. Of course, Jakob didn't
dare to speak a word to Albert about Damien. He was sure
that would produce only the crudest of comments from his
cousin. So he had no decent excuse for not going, plus he
was only too well aware that he was there on Albert's euro.
Anyway, if he didn't go, Albert would be unable to converse
with the shopkeepers, as he spoke no decent French.
On the plus side, Albert insisted on buying Jakob
something to wear tonight as well. On him. That was a bit of
a shock, coming from Mr. Miserly. Perhaps Paris had managed
to loosen him up, in more ways than one.
They visited three salons in the space of just a couple of
hours, beginning with one that catered to those with deep
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pockets and a desire to appear trendy. Jakob quickly
discovered that expensive did not equate to good-looking. He
managed to maneuver Albert away from some very grotesque
suits. One was checked. Surprisingly, his cousin did not
complain, acquiescing to Jakob's taste. The second salon was
better, but had nothing which either of them liked. The third
shop was a surprising choice: a re-sale shop specializing in
vintage clothing. They each found what they wanted there,
with a little bit of digging through the huge selection. Jakob
was even able to haggle the price down to something rather
reasonable. After all, that was the European way of doing
things, unlike the Americans who simply paid what was on the
tag without question.
Albert got an armful of nice-looking clothes for a decent
price. He was pleased. And Jakob was pleased, both with his
new suit and with the not unpleasant morning spent with his
cousin. He thought for a brief moment about telling Albert
about Damien, but in the end he held his tongue, preferring
to err on the side of caution. The suit which Jakob had chosen
for this evening at the theater was a vintage, three-piece,
black zoot suit with thin white pinstripes. It had a matching
hat. At first, Jakob was reluctant to get the hat, thinking it
would be too much. But then he tried it on. And once he'd
done that, taking a peek at himself in the full-length mirror,
he found that he couldn't not get it. There was a certain
magic to it that he couldn't explain. It seemed to add a
certain panache, upping his desirability quotient, at least in
his own eyes. The tail of the tape would be what Damien had
to say when he saw it.
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Assuming he saw it. Assuming he got to see Damien again.
It was silly to worry, he told himself, just because hours
had passed with no sign of the blond. That meant nothing. He
had to believe that he would see him again. And that
everything would work out well. Which meant that at some
point, Albert needed to do something other than shop,
because Jakob had things to do.
Relief came at lunchtime. Jakob dropped Albert off at
another hotel, where he had arranged to meet someone for
lunch. Interestingly, the same someone from the day before.
The one that had monopolized his entire day. Jakob was
curious, but he didn't stop to analyze the situation, hastening
to the Rue de Richelieu and the National Library there.
If Jakob had had more time, he would have loved to roam
about the Rue de Richelieu, gaze in wonder at the beautiful
stone houses with which the street abounded, the various
shops it was home to, not to mention the Academie de
Musique itself. How his heart yearned to enter that building
and plumb its musical depths. But he held fast to his intent
and went straight to the library instead.
From the outside, the edifice wore a foreboding look, but
once he'd entered its portals, his first impression changed.
The older of the two libraries, it still housed important
collections of great interest. The reading room was
wondrously immense. It possessed nine terracotta domes as
well as a glass ceiling, giving it the air of a literary cathedral.
Jakob was overwhelmed by its beauty as he walked into the
room. Apparently the French were very proud of their
heritage, and their library, and access was not restricted.
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Jakob wasn't sure where to start first. The oval room was
ringed by a series of iron arches, inset with decorative leaves,
behind which could be seen several floors of book stacks. He
decided that first he should ask someone who knew the
library where he might find either books on the history of the
Moulin Rouge, or perhaps even old newspaper articles from
around 1900, the period in which Damien said that he lived—
and disappeared.
However it was not quite that simple. The austere older
woman at the Accueil desk informed him, almost icily, that his
request was impossible. Access to the stacks was strictly
forbidden. If he wished to fill out a research request,
however, that would be permitted. She handed him an overly
long form, which seemed to be several pages long. The look
on her face told him he should find somewhere else to fill it
in. And by the way, permission would take anywhere from a
week to a month to be granted.
"I do not have that long, Madame," Jakob protested. He
found it difficult to be very vehement in a tongue which was
not his own. "It is imperative that I gather some information
today. As quickly as possible."
"It is a matter of life and death?" she asked sarcastically,
her eyebrows arching so high they seemed to touch her
bouffant hairdo.
Jakob started to nod yes, before his common sense took
over. She would not believe that any research into the 1900
Moulin Rouge could possibly be so urgent. And yet it was,
very much so. "For a research paper I am writing," he
amended his statement, crossing his fingers surreptitiously
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behind his back, hoping to offset his lie of necessity. "I do not
know how long I shall be in Paris, and my professor told me
he would give me honors points if I were to do my research
here."
"Then your professor is an idiot." Obviously the woman
was not going to be swayed into sympathy. "He should know
that that is not allowed, unless perhaps he set you up for
failure?"
Jakob had no comment ready regarding his imaginary
professor, so changed the subject. "I am looking for
information regarding the Moulin Rouge, and an incident
which happened there in 1900, involving some sort of
mysterious disappearance."
The librarian eyed Jakob sternly.
"Are you having fun at my expense?" she asked. "Do you
take the National Library to be some sort of book depository
for supernatural stupidity?" She glanced about him
suspiciously. "Are you filming us for one of those reality TV
shows? Ghost Seekers or Ghost Finders or whatever they are
called?"
Jakob had no idea what she was going on about, but he
could see that he would get no cooperation from her
whatsoever. He opened his mouth to offer another
suggestion, which would probably only have upped her
paranoia quotient, when someone caught his attention. A
pretty young girl about his age with long, straight dark hair,
and bangs which almost fell into her eyes, was gesturing to
him from behind the older woman's back. She placed one
finger on her lips in the universal gesture for silence, then
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pointed toward a row of nearby tables, some of which
contained computer monitors, only half of which were
currently occupied.
"I am sorry to have bothered you, Madame," Jakob
amended his statement, giving the older woman a polite nod.
He turned away and made his way down the row of tables.
Once he felt he was out of view of the librarian, he picked a
table at random and took a chair. And waited.
He felt a rush of air as the chair beside him slid back and
became taken. Jakob glanced inquisitively at the occupant,
waiting for her to say something. She was the one who had
beckoned to him, after all. Surely she had a reason for doing
so. He was not disappointed.
"Monsieur, I must apologize for Madame. She is very
protective of the library. She meant no disrespect to you, I
am sure. You are German, yes?"
"Ja." Jakob nodded. His accent invariably gave him away.
Not that he was trying to hide it.
"I heard you ask about the Moulin Rouge. You are doing
research on it, for a paper?"
Jakob hesitated. Lying did not come naturally to him. It
had been hard enough to lie to the older woman, but this girl
seemed nice, and was making every effort to be helpful. "Not
exactly," he admitted. "Wait." He laid his hand upon her arm,
afraid she was going to leave at his admission. She didn't
move.
"It is very urgent that I get some information about
something that happened at the Moulin Rouge. I don't have
an exact date, but I think it was in the fall of 1900 some time.
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It involved a group of artists who once frequented the
nightclub. They called themselves the Dreammongers."
The girl scrunched up her nose in thought, her brows
drawing together in concentration. "I'm sorry. I am not
familiar with that name."
"There is more. A young man, an associate of theirs,
maybe a protege, disappeared about that time, without a
trace. His name is... was... Damien. I do not have a
surname." Jakob tried not to hold his breath, waiting for her
reply. Again she shook her head.
"No, monsieur. I am sorry."
So this was a dead-end. He couldn't get access to the
books to do any research. He couldn't even find someone who
knew what he was talking about. He felt the beginnings of
panic inside his soul, swallowed hard, letting the momentary
disappointment roll through him, willing it to pass. He would
just have to find another way to rescue Damien. No matter
what it took, he vowed to do just that.
He began to rise. This time, it was she who kept him there.
"I cannot promise anything, but I do know someone who
may know something of that time."
Jakob sat back down, listening intently.
"My Grand-mere. She has stories of Paris from around that
time, stories told to her by her grand-mere. I do not know if
she will know of your story or not, but her memory for things
is remarkable. And she enjoys talking."
Jakob's heart skipped a beat. "You think she would talk to
me? How soon? Perhaps now?" he asked hopefully.
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The girl checked her watch. "You are in luck. She is still at
the cafe and will be for a few more hours. It is just down the
street. If you like, I can take you there, and introduce you to
her. But first, you must tell me one thing?"
"Anything, anything," Jakob hastily promised. "What is it
you wish to know?"
"Your name," the girl laughed. "I can't very well introduce
you without having that, now can I?"
Jakob chuckled at her words, blushing. "You are right, of
course. Forgive my manners. My name is Jakob Kohl. And
you?"
"Lisette Perrot." She smiled at Jakob. "Wait for me outside.
I will tell that I am going to lunch now, and I will meet you
there. You have a car, yes?"
"I have a car, yes," he replied, thinking that of course it
was Albert's car, if one wished to be technical and correct.
She arched her brows at him in a question. "You are going
to go now, yes?"
"Oh, ja, I'm going." He pushed off from the table,
wondering where his mind was. With Damien, of course, as
he exited the beautiful reading room without further delay.
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Chapter 11
Jakob waited on the sidewalk for only a few minutes before
he was joined by the young librarian. They walked together to
Albert's Audi. Jakob was hoping that he was not wasting his
time on something that might end up going nowhere. But at
the moment he had no other leads. An iffy lead was better
than nothing.
Lisette gave him directions to the small cafe which, as it
turned out, her grandmother owned, and still worked at,
although now she worked truncated hours. It was situated on
a quiet side street, and the lunch rush being over, the diners
that remained were enjoying their meals in a leisurely
fashion.
Lisette led him to a small black wrought iron table which
enjoyed just enough sunshine to be comfortable, with the
proper amount of cool breeze upon one's face. An older
woman sat there. She wore a bright, blue flowered dress,
which fell gracefully to the ground, from beneath which lacy
ruffles peeped. A lavender shawl lay across her shoulders,
demurely covering a surprisingly low decolletage. Jakob was
surprised, having somehow expected a more grandmotherly
image—the proverbial old lady swathed in black, with
matching finger gloves and fingers busily engaged in knitting.
Lisette greeted her grandmother with a hug. Jakob hung in
the background while they exchanged greetings and kisses.
Finally, Lisette motioned him forward, crooking her finger at
him.
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"Grand-mere," she said, "I would like you to meet a friend
of mine, Jakob Kohl. He would love to talk to you about the
old Moulin Rouge. I told him you have stories your
grandmother told you that you will share with him."
Grand-mere Perrot smiled in welcome at Jakob, giving him
an unabashed appraisal, top to toe, before turning to her
granddaughter with a look. Lisette flushed and laughed.
"No, Grand-mere, he is here to talk to you, just you. I
must go back to work."
The woman motioned to Jakob to take a seat at her table.
"Do you have time for a latte, Lisette?"
"Non, sorry, I will be back later to take you home, Grand-
mere." The petite brunette bent, kissing her grandmother's
cheek before turning to Jakob. "I wish you luck, Jakob. It was
nice to meet you." She gave him an unexpected kiss on the
top of his head before dashing off.
Grand-mere chuckled at the youth's blush.
"So, you wish to hear stories of the old Moulin Rouge, do
you?" Her eyes searched his face piercingly. She raised one
hand in a beckoning gesture. A young garcon approached
them quickly.
"Yes, madame, there is something you wish?"
"What would you like to drink?" she questioned Jakob.
"One cannot talk without a beverage. It is uncultured."
"Tea, please. And thank you."
"Bring us two cups of the lemon zinger, please," she
requested of the young waiter, "with a plate of madeleines."
The garcon bowed, and left them.
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"It is very kind of you, Madame," Jakob began, unsure of
just what to ask now that he was here, and unsure of just
how much he dare to reveal. But he had to offer something,
surely, in order to direct his inquiries, and her storytelling.
Much as he would love to hear all of her stories, time was at a
premium.
"I love to talk about the past. Call me Grand-mere, please.
Here I am everyone's grandmother." Grand-mere's eyes were
a piercing blue, her smile was warm, designed to make her
guests feel at home.
"Yes, Ma—Grand-mere," Jakob agreed. He glanced about
the cozy cafe. People chatted together at the intimate tables,
drinking, and snacking upon sweet pastries. It was a pleasant
day to be outside, although he could see other patrons make
their way inside as well, in a fairly steady stream. The waiter
soon returned, and a few minutes were spent in setting up
their tea and dessert, before he took his leave.
"Have you been to the Moulin Rouge?" she asked.
"Not yet. We have dinner reservations this evening."
Grand-mere picked up the delicate china cup, sipping at
the hot liquid, as she glanced at Jakob over the rim. "So how
do you know my granddaughter?"
"To be honest, I don't know her. Not really. We just met at
the library, and she was kind enough to help me," Jakob
admitted, hoping that his honesty would not get him
summarily dismissed.
"Lisette is a very sweet girl and prone to champion the
underdog. So tell me, Jakob, what is your interest in the old
Moulin Rouge, and what would you like to hear about?"
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Jakob held the cup of tea between both hands, welcoming
the warmth of the brew that permeated the china,
considering his words. He didn't wish to reveal too much,
afraid he would alienate her. Yet too little information would
not help his search either.
"I am doing research for a friend," he said cautiously.
"Have you ever heard of a club which met once a year at the
Moulin Rouge? I believe they called themselves the
Dreammongers?"
Grand-mere gazed off into the distance, replacing her cup
on its saucer. She reached for the creamer, added a small bit
to her drink, and stirred it thoughtfully. "I have not heard that
name in many years," she said. "The Dreammongers. My
grand-mere spoke of them to me. A very long time ago that
was. Very long."
That was a beginning. And a hopeful one.
He picked up one of the madeleines. He wasn't really
hungry, but it seemed rude not to eat at least one, since she
had gone to the trouble of ordering them. He took a small
bite, washing it down with tea. "Very delicious," he was quick
to compliment the pastry, although he barely tasted it.
"The Dreammongers," she repeated softly, as if she hadn't
heard him. "They were the artists, weren't they? Yes, they
were. My grandmother knew them. Her father worked at the
Moulin Rouge. He led the orchestra there."
What amazing good luck. He hardly dared believe it. Dare
he hope for more? It seemed too fortuitous to be a
coincidence. At that moment, he didn't know what to believe,
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but he found himself crossing his fingers and taking a deep
breath.
"His name was Satie," she went on, "so he would have
been my great-grandfather. I never knew him, of course. He
died before I was born. Grand-mere doted upon him." She
brought the cup up to her lips, glanced at Jakob. "They were
an unusual group, you know? The Dreammongers. Very
talented, but also very wild."
"That is what I have heard." Jakob nodded. "Did your
grandmother meet them, then?"
"I do not believe so. Perhaps some of the artists,
individually, yes. But as a group... non, I do not think so."
She took a sip of the tea, set it back down. "I have heard
stories about that, but sometimes it is hard to know what is
true, and what is just a fantasy. People do like their fairy
tales, don't they?" She smiled at Jakob. "Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Do you believe in fairy tales, Jakob?"
"Not really," he admitted. "Usually there is found to be
some sort of a foundation for the stories in fact, but the
details are generally very much embroidered to suit the
audience."
"Indeed," she agreed, nodding, "much in the way of a
painting. What it contains is not perhaps what the world sees,
but it is what the artist sees, and by sharing his vision, in the
form of his painting, he is drawing us into his world, so we
can see as he does."
"That is an interesting way of looking at it, yes." He took
another bite of the madeleine, trying to couch his next
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question. "Do you believe in dreams? I mean, that they can
be real? Or do they exist only in our minds?"
"I do believe in dreams. They are the threads of our
existence, but upon another plane. When we sleep, we cross
over from one reality into another."
"Do you think it's possible to bring something back from
the dream world to this world?"
Grand-mere gave Jakob a sharp glance and made no
immediate answer.
"Tell me," she said at last, "what exactly you wish to know
about the Moulin Rouge? And dreams?"
Jakob flushed. He hadn't meant to be so transparent, but
the older woman had seen through his inept questions. He
might as well ask what he really wanted to know. "Have you
ever heard a story," he began, slowly, "of a boy, a young
man, who belonged to the Dreammongers, a protege, or son,
even?"
"Ah, you have heard the story of the disappearing boy,
have you?"
Jakob's reaction gave him quite away.
"Why do you ask about that? It's an old story. Very old. My
grand-mere told it to me. Her father knew the boy. I believe
he was an adopted child. But one day he disappeared."
"D-disappeared?"
"Disappeared," she repeated, lifting her hands up and
outward in a gesture of emptiness. "Gone. Vanished. Without
a trace, and never an explanation of what happened to him.
No body was ever found. They say the artists were
inconsolable, and never met together again."
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"Did... did the police look into the matter? Would there be
records of their investigation?"
Grand-mere shrugged. "There was little that anyone could
do. Satie said that the artists swore he was taken away by
the Green Fairy, but the authorities... they said maybe the
artists were a little crazy... too much absinthe. So they were
not believed." She reached across the table, and took Jakob's
trembling hand in one of hers. "What is this boy to you that
you seek these stories? Have you seen him in your dreams,
perhaps? And that is why you asked me about dreams?"
The easiest thing to do would have been to deny it, to stick
with his claim of having to do research for a college paper. Or
even a newspaper article. Anything but the truth. But the
truth is what came tumbling out. "He has been in my dreams
and I in his, and all I know is that I have to find out where his
body lies and rescue him." Even to himself, knowing
everything that he knew, his words sounded crazy. He waited
to be told that he was crazy and demented and on a fool's
errand, at the very least. But she said none of these things.
Grand-mere squeezed the hand that lay so helplessly
within her own. "I wish I could help, mon petit, but these are
just legends. Stories handed down from one generation to the
next. What is the boy's name?"
"Damien."
"I wish I could tell you what happened to this Damien. He
seems to mean a great deal to you. Do you love him?"
Jakob nodded, mutely.
"Love. It is a very powerful thing."
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Jakob's phone began to ring. He had no choice but to
answer it, withdrawing his hand in order to do so. It was
Albert, of course. Ready to be picked up and taken back to
the hotel. Reluctantly, he rose from the table.
"Forgive me. I am afraid that I must go. You have been
very gracious. I appreciate your hospitality very much." He
stood there for a moment, forlornly. He watched as the older
woman rose, as well, coming around the table and hugging
him.
"Believe in yourself, Jakob. And believe in Damien."
He returned her embrace. Attempted to smile. He turned
with the intention of leaving, when suddenly he was arrested
by the sound of the grandmother's voice.
"Wait! One moment. I just remembered something else. I
do not know if this will help you or not, but when they met,
these Dreammongers, at the Moulin Rouge, they had a special
meeting place, private, inside the nightclub."
Jakob digested this bit of information. He pursed his lips in
thought. "Private, as in members only? Or secret? Like no one
else knew about it?"
"Both, I think. A secret room where only certain people
were privileged to go. I don't know if that will help you or not,
but Godspeed, cherie. I hope you find your heart's desire."
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Chapter 12
Albert was in unusually good spirits when he got into the
Audi. In fact, he took the shotgun position in the front of the
vehicle, beside Jakob, rather than his usual place in the back
seat. Was he actually humming to himself? Jakob wondered.
He didn't ask, afraid that he might inadvertently spoil his
mood.
On the way back to their hotel, his cousin volunteered
information about the young man he had met. More
information than Jakob had ever thought of asking for. Or
wanting or needing. By the time Jakob left Albert at his room
in order to get some rest for the evening ahead, he could
practically write Philippe's biography. That was the man's
name. Philippe. And Albert was seeing him again tonight. At
the Moulin Rouge. Jakob was almost tempted to tell Albert
about Damien, as a sort of tit for tat, but he suppressed the
desire, deciding that discretion was still the better part of
valor.
Jakob felt a bit overwhelmed by everything that had
transpired that day. It had given him a great deal to think
about, and to tell Abram. But his excitement at the knowledge
he had acquired—and it remained to be seen how useful this
information actually was—was tempered by his not having
seen Damien. Not even once. That worried him. Worried him
very much.
He stretched out on the freshly made bed, kicking off his
shoes for now, as he called Abram. He described his entire
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day to his friend, step by step, omitting nothing. Other than
an occasional question, Abram said nothing, simply listened.
When Jakob had finished speaking, Abram cleared his
throat. "It sounds like the Moulin Rouge is at the heart of
everything, doesn't it? It can't be a coincidence that you are
going there tonight, I think. Hopefully you will be able to
solve this mystery and rescue your fair beauty as quickly as
possible."
There was something in Abram's voice that set Jakob's
nerves on edge. A sense of urgency that hadn't been there
before. "Is something wrong?" he asked. "You make it sound
like a matter of life and death. Do you know something that I
don't?"
There was a moment of hesitation. "I didn't want to
unnecessarily alarm you, but I've had a long talk with my
rabbi. He explained to me many things about dreams and
their importance. He believes that Damien is actually caught
up in an intermediate Dream World, one that is neither our
own, nor the actual place of dreams. A place where time has
stood still for him."
Jakob was relieved to know that Abram and his Rabbi both
believed Damien to be real. It bolstered his own sagging self-
confidence. And yet... "So why are you telling me to hurry? Is
something wrong?"
"Maybe so, yes. I told him about the crazy laughter, and
he thinks that it isn't necessarily another person, but it may
be indicative that this world is collapsing. The sooner you find
Damien and get him out, we think, the better, my friend."
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A shiver ran along Jakob's spine at his words. That did
make sense, though. Rather than somebody else simply
wandering into this place, threatening Damien's existence, it
was the entire structure of the world he temporarily
inhabited. The infrastructure was suffering the ravages of
time perhaps. Unless it was maybe tied to the sudden activity
of its sole occupant. There was just so much he didn't
understand about this rather unique situation.
But he also didn't have the time to learn everything about
it. Not now. His first priority had to be saving Damien before
it was too late.
"I've been worried about Damien," he blurted out his
confession with relief. "I'm afraid that something is wrong
with him."
"That isn't good," Abram clucked. "Do you have a reason
to be worried, something you haven't told me? Or is this more
of an intuition thing on your part? Which would be surprising
coming from you, but then again, not surprising, considering
the bond I think that exists between you now."
A bond. There definitely was a bond of some sort between
them. Of that Jakob was convinced. Whether he understood
the nature of it or not. And whether he understood his
feelings for the lovely blond young man or not. But that was
food for future ruminations, first things first.
"No, it's because I've not seen him all day. Not since he
left me last night."
Jakob was quite surprised when he heard the chuckle. And
more than a little disconcerted.
"It's not funny, Abram, why are you laughing at me?"
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"I am not laughing at you, Jakob, I promise you. It's so
refreshing to me to hear you show such feeling for someone.
It does my heart good."
"I'm happy, Abram, but that still doesn't explain why I
haven't seen or heard from Damien," Jakob protested.
"I'm sorry. I should not take such a cavalier attitude,"
Abram apologized, "not when you are so obviously worried.
Why do you think you've not seen him?"
"If I knew I wouldn't ask." Jakob couldn't help sounding
just a little testy.
"What did you do last night, after Damien left?"
"Do? I didn't do anything, of course. I was sleeping."
"You were doing what?"
"I was sleeping. You know, that thing that you do when
you climb into bed and close your eyes and—" Suddenly
Jakob understood what Abram was driving at. "Aaaaaaaaaah,
I see what you mean."
"Yes, you were sleeping. Real sleeping, in a real bed. Deep
sleeping. That is why you've not seen him today. You have
been too awake to fall asleep on your feet. Do you know what
they call that, what you were doing?"
"No, what?"
"Micro-napping. That's the fancy name for it, anyway.
Being so tired that you fall asleep without realizing it. My
rabbi believes, and I concur, that it was because of your
micro-naps that Damien was able to find you. Somehow you
were able to blur the lines between your world and his. You
see? It's meant to be, bubeleh. You and him. I rejoice for
your good fortune."
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"Don't you think you're getting a little ahead of yourself?"
Jakob felt obliged to protest, although in his heart he felt the
same way. Plus it helped to make sense out of everything
that happened so that he didn't think he had gone crazy.
"Then I must wait until tonight, when I go to bed, to see him
again? Is that it?" He was assuming nothing.
"Yes, tonight when you go to sleep. Perchance to dream."
Another chuckle. "Tell me something, my friend, when you
catch your little bird by his tail, so to speak, what will you do
with him then? You might just have to make a decision—to
stay with him there, in Paris, or bring him home with you, to
Karlsruhe."
Jakob hadn't thought that far ahead, but he could see the
validity of what Abram said. For now, he simply wanted
Damien safe. He would worry about their future—if they were
to even have a future—after that.
"I don't know, Abram. I really don't know. I'll call you after
I get back tonight from the Moulin Rouge. If you're still up, of
course."
"If I'm not, my voice mail will be," Abram laughed. "Don't
worry about the time. Call me anyway. Call me from there, if
you think I can hear you over everything that's going on."
"I will," Jakob promised.
"And Jakob? One thing...."
"Yes, Abram?"
"Try to have fun tonight, enjoy yourself, and don't spend
every waking moment worrying about your Damien. Just half
of every waking moment."
"I'll do my best."
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Jakob clicked off with a final farewell. He couldn't help but
worry about what this night might bring.
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Chapter 13
When Jakob had originally made the reservations at the
infamous nightclub/restaurant, he had been tempted to call
his cousin and confirm that that was what he really wanted.
The meal which he had specified that Jakob order, the Belle
Epoque, cost 180 euros! Granted, it was a very fine meal—
beginning with a lobster bouquet, Parisian style, it included
scallops, as well as a choice of turbot or lamb, with the
possibility of chocolate panacotta for dessert. Plus it included
a half bottle of champagne. And an assortment of wines to
choose from. Not to mention the world-famous show. But this
was behavior rather unheard of from the penny-pinching
Albert. Jakob was at a loss to explain the change.
On the other hand, he only stood to benefit from it, so why
argue?
It was a beautiful night, the threat of rain having been
pushed off into the wee hours of the morning. Since at that
time Jakob planned to be long abed, he was more than
content. They walked from their hotel, as it was so close to
the Moulin Rouge. Jakob suspected that it was a ploy meant
to show off their newly acquired finery but he didn't mind.
The cobblestones echoed with their footsteps. The two men
maintained a companionable silence, until they came in sight
of the infamous red windmill. Brilliantly lit, it beckoned to
them.
"It's really rather beautiful, isn't it?" Albert commented.
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"It is," Jakob agreed, his thoughts going to the beautiful
Damien. He would never again be able to hear a reference to
the Moulin Rouge without having him come immediately to
mind. They were inextricably tied together now, and always
would be.
People were already trickling into the restaurant in a
steady stream. It was still early. They had made sure to leave
the hotel with time to spare. The closer they got to the
entrance, the more animated Albert seemed to become. More
alive, even. Friendlier. Something had certainly gotten into
his cousin, and Jakob blessed it, whatever it might be.
And then he understood.
A man in evening wear stood apart from the other diners.
As soon as Albert saw him, he moved away from Jakob,
toward the man, as if he'd forgotten that his cousin was
there. The two men quickly closed the gap between them,
kissing lightly. As Jakob came abreast of them, they had just
linked arms. Jakob was shocked to see the enormous smile
upon Albert's face. So this must be Philippe.
Albert made the introductions, pleasantries were
exchanged, and the three men entered the fabled Moulin
Rouge. Jakob was prepared, based on what Damien had told
him, to be impressed with what he saw. What he didn't
expect was to be completely bowled over.
They were guided into the restaurant/theater area which
comprised the bulk of the Moulin Rouge. Canned music issued
from speakers overhead—"Le Marseillaise", the French
national anthem. Red and gold were the order of the day,
with striped canopies overhead. Rows of tables for two were
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pushed together into lines which formed arrays in the dining
area. The tables were covered by linen tablecloths of soft
gold, and on each sat a pink-shaded lamp. The rounded red
chairs were reminiscent of a bygone era, perhaps even from
when Damien and his fathers were frequent guests. Although
Jakob suspected that the establishment had undergone
extensive changes since that time.
The tables were all angled toward the immense stage at
the front of the room. The various sections were separated by
iron rails worked with hearts, while old fashion street lamps
dotted the floor, perhaps reminiscent of the atmosphere
which once prevailed in this notorious nightclub/brothel. All
seats had a splendid view of the huge glistening wooden
dance floor. On the stage itself was a backdrop of the Moulin
Rouge and the shops which surrounded it, waiting for its
dancers to emerge and begin the next show.
And over all, a deep dark canopy above them, the ceiling
rose, a myriad of twinkling stars to complete the setting of
the scene. Jakob was moved to silence at the enormity of
what he was seeing. He couldn't help but think of Damien,
wishing he were here to share this moment with him.
It turned out that tables were actually assigned on a first-
come first-served basis, so they ended up sitting near one
another. Before moving to their own table, Albert and Philippe
stood and spent a few minutes chatting with Jakob.
Philippe appeared to be in his mid-twenties, which put him
about fifteen years younger than Albert. They were a study in
contrasts. Philippe was slender, and graceful, with wavy black
hair that barely touched the top of each ear, and dark eyes.
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Not handsome in the classical sense, he could easily be
considered cute. Albert was about five-ten, carried a little
extra weight on him but not overly so, with light brown hair
just beginning to recede, and brown eyes. Yet together, they
seemed to almost make a cute couple. And they were
obviously very much taken with one another.
To his surprise, Jakob found Philippe to be bright, witty,
and possessed of a great sense of humor. The obvious
question was: what was he doing with Albert? But Jakob
forbore from asking him that. It was apparent they were very
much into one another, even in the brief time which they
spent with Jakob. He had never seen his cousin laugh quite so
much, highly amused at everything which proceeded from
Philippe's lips. And Philippe seemed to enjoy touching his
cousin as much as possible. He constantly stroked his arm,
patted his hand, or left sweet kisses upon his cheek.
Jakob had not forgotten the true reason that he was at the
Moulin Rouge, of course, which wasn't dinner and dancing,
but was to try and learn the location of the secret room which
may or may not be there. The one in which the
Dreammongers once met, so very long ago. What if Damien
were there now? What if his lover were actually that close,
the victim of a heinous near-death experience, caught in a
world which was not quite this one, not quite the other? The
thought both excited him and induced an anxiety attack. This
was so far outside of his usual experience, that he felt
overwhelmed. His intention never swayed, though—to find
Damien and bring him home to him. But he wasn't sure quite
how best to accomplish his goal.
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The Moulin Rouge was filling up now. Jakob was seated
closer to the back of the floor. People flowed around him
seeking closer seats. He heard the rustle of skirts behind him,
and he automatically stood for the woman who was seating
herself beside him. Regaining his seat, he glanced in her
direction. To his amazement, it was Grand-mere. She wore a
red organza dress, styled in a manner that might have been
popular when the Dreammongers were alive. The neckline
was scalloped, trimmed with gold and silver threads. The
same threads wove an intricate pattern in the overskirt, while
the ruffle was done in hand-tatted lace. Delicate finger gloves
completed the picture. A true vision from another era. She
grinned at his baffled expression.
"You did not expect to see me here, did you, Jakob?"
"No, I did not," he admitted, giving her a polite bow in
deference to her years and their recently having become
acquainted. "It's a pleasure to see you, Ma—Grand-mere," he
hastily amended.
"A pleasure to see you as well, Herr Kohl." She inclined her
head briefly in response to his bow. "And your next question
is to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
"A gentleman never questions the presence of a lovely
lady." Jakob had very good manners. His mother had
schooled him well.
"Well said, well said. I will tell you why I am here then. To
have a lovely dinner with a lovely gentleman, to dance with
that same gentleman on the dance floor of the Moulin Rouge.
But only once, I fear. At my age it isn't good to overexcite
oneself. I mean overexert, of course." Her sparkling eyes
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belied her flirtatious words. "Ask me what then, young
Jakob."
"What then, Grand-mere?" Polite, but definitely curious.
"And then I shall take you to meet the current owner of
the Moulin Rouge, and ask him to show you the secret room."
Jakob thought at first that he had misheard the woman.
Heard what he'd wanted to hear. Or perhaps it was worse
than that. Perhaps he was actually dreaming, and hadn't
realized it yet. In that case, shouldn't Damien be here
somewhere? A brief pinch upon his hand convinced him
otherwise. She was all too real. And she had pinched him.
"You are not dreaming," she assured him, as he carefully
rubbed his hand. "I am real. You are real. This is real. And
hopefully the room is real. And still there."
Jakob's heart began to thump, almost painfully. His first
impulse was to jump up immediately and go to see that
worthy gentleman, now, to demand that he show them the
hidden room where he was convinced that his love lay. The
man he realized he would do anything for. Anything to save
him. But his common sense told him that that was not the
way it would work. He visualized Abram, wagging a lean
finger at him, and giving him one of his patented looks, telling
him to relax and enjoy the journey.
Grand-mere patted his hand sympathetically. "Soon," she
promised. "Very soon."
The dinner began promptly at seven. The service was
excellent, with a flavorful wine to complement the diner's
chosen dish. Jakob decided against the wine. He wanted to
keep his wits about him. He barely tasted the food. Not even
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the lobster. His stomach was too agitated, churning at the
agony of being so near and yet so far from Damien.
Grand-mere enjoyed her food with great gusto. Jakob
suspected that was the way in which she lived her entire life.
She flirted outrageously with their waiter, and conversed
easily with the people around them. Laughter flowed as freely
as the wine. A small band took its place upon the stage while
everyone ate. Their music was soft and melodious, a fitting
accompaniment to the meal, as well as a contrasting prelude
to the energetic show that would follow them.
As couples finished their meal, two by two they made their
way to the dance floor. What was a trip to the Moulin Rouge
after all without being able to say you actually trod the
infamous boards? Once Grand-mere had eaten and drunk her
fill, she nodded to Jakob, who rose to pull back her chair,
before taking her hand and leading her out upon the dance
floor.
Albert catcalled good-naturedly as they passed by his
table. Jakob knew he should stop and introduce them to one
another, but not right now. He was afraid of what might be
said, and time was too precious. Perhaps later. If there was a
later.
The older woman moved easily. She was more graceful
than Jakob. He knew that. He was a passable dancer, no
more. To his credit, he never stepped on anyone's feet. He
held her in the proscribed method for a gentleman and lady,
one hand held out at shoulder height, the other delicately laid
against her back.
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Jakob was surprised to see his cousin also take to the
dance floor moments after they had. He and Philippe danced
unabashedly close together, oblivious to the people around
them. This Albert was a far cry from the unfeeling cousin he'd
arrived in Paris with. He suspected he knew the cause.
Philippe. It had to be. But even if that were so, would Mr.
Hyde turn back into Dr. Jekyll once they left the city? Even if
the analogy weren't a perfect one?
"My granddaughter thinks you are cute."
Jakob was surprised by her words. He hadn't really
thought of Lisette since she had left him at the cafe. Sure,
she was nice and all that. But not quite his type, even without
taking Damien into consideration.
"Oh," he said, unsure just what to say, but her laugh told
him that she was teasing him.
"I told her about your young man. She thinks it's very
romantic."
Jakob blushed. He didn't know what else to say. He felt
time slipping away from him, and he didn't know what else to
do. He felt helpless, and he hated feeling that way.
"Come," she said, interrupting their dance. She took his
hand and led him from the dance floor, off to the right of the
stage. They moved past the tables, and the people dining
there. Ahead of them he could see a hallway. On either side,
public restrooms were situated, people in a constant state of
flux, in and out. At the end of the hall was a door. A light was
visible through the frosted glass.
Grand-mere took the initiative and knocked at the door. A
gruff voice called out, "Entrez!"
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Jakob played gentleman and opened the door, as they
walked into the office of the manager of the Moulin Rouge.
Unlike the theater, it was more utilitarian, surprisingly so for
being part of the Moulin Rouge. But one glance at the walls
gave little doubt as to its patronage. Sandwiched between
original Toulouse Lautrec posters were photographs of some
of the women who had once danced on the very stage they
had just left. The man behind the desk appeared to be in his
fifties, grizzled yet handsome, in a very leonine way. He held
a pen in his hand, taking notes upon a ledger. At their
entrance, he glanced up and immediately laid the pen down.
"Madame!" he cried, rising. "Why did you not tell me you
were coming? I would have arranged something special."
"Not necessary, Henri," Grand-mere protested, submitting
to his kiss upon her cheek, and waving away the chair he
offered. "I am here tonight, not to see the show, I'm afraid,
but for another reason." She turned to Jakob. "This is my
friend, Jakob, from Germany. Jakob, this is Monsieur Henri,
manager of the most infamous nightclub in all of Paris."
"Enchante, Monsieur. Any friend of the Madame is welcome
at the Moulin Rouge." He glanced at the older woman
curiously. "If you are not here to see the show, might I
inquire what has brought you out?"
"Henri, you know the old stories of the Moulin Rouge, from
back in the days when my great-grandfather, Satie, led the
orchestra here?"
"Which old stories do you mean?" he asked, spreading his
hands wide. "There are many, as many as the bottles of
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absinthe that have been consumed within these walls." He
winked at Jakob in a friendly manner.
"The ones about the Dreammongers. You remember. The
artists that came here? The ones with the, shall we say,
unusual proclivities?"
Henri chuckled at her words. "That's one way to say it, but
yes, I do know. What about them?"
"Do you know the story of the young man who
disappeared from the Moulin Rouge, their adopted son, or
something, I believe?"
"But of course, there are some who say he haunts the
premises still." He shrugged in a typically Gallic manner.
"Have any seen him?"
"Non, no one. But that does not keep people from talking.
You know how people are."
"I do." Grand-mere nodded. "My great-grandfather Satie
told my grandmother of a secret room hidden inside the
Moulin Rouge, a room where these Dreammongers were
allowed to meet, in secret. And where their ward disappeared.
What was his name again, Jakob?"
"Damien," Jakob quickly replied, intent on the exchange
between the other two.
"Are you familiar with that story?" Grand-mere asked,
again politely refusing the seat he offered to her.
"I have heard of it," he admitted. "I understand that the
original owners made sure that the story never reached the
press. Not so much fear of bad publicity for the club. It would
probably have brought in more traffic than it kept away. But
rather because of the artists involved." He shrugged again,
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glanced shrewdly at Jakob, then back to the older woman.
"Might I ask as to what your interest in the matter is? Are you
a student, monsieur? Are you wanting to write a paper on the
ghosts of the Moulin Rouge?"
"Nothing quite so esoteric," Grand-mere replied for Jakob.
"We would like to know if we may visit the secret room where
the young man disappeared? It's very important to Jakob, for
reasons I am not free to discuss. You may take my word for it
that I find them to be very compelling reasons."
"Madame, I trust your word implicitly," Henri replied, "and
I believe that it is very important to this young man. But alas,
I cannot comply with your request."
Jakob forced himself to remain calm, even in the face of
such blatant rejection. "Please, monsieur, I beg of you. It is a
grave matter of life or death. We will cause no harm to the
room or its contents, I assure you. That is not our intention."
"It has nothing to do with your word or your intentions. It
is beyond my scope to do anything." He gave a small moue of
apology. "As I said, I've heard the stories, and I do not know
if they are true or not. But what I do know is that after the
disappearance supposedly occurred, Zidler had the room
sealed, and shortly thereafter it was demolished during some
renovations that were made to the original structure. So you
see, I cannot help you, as the secret room ceased to exist
long ago."
Jakob stood there, stunned, as the words echoed in his
brain. The room does not exist. The room does not exist.
Does not exist. What did that mean? That he was on a fool's
errand? That this whole thing was a figment of his demented
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imagination? Or was it something far more sinister? That
Damien was somewhere else, somewhere beyond his ability
to help?
He heard the voices of the man and woman as they
conversed, but the words held no meaning. He was trying to
think, but his mind refused to cooperate. What was he going
to do now? What could he do to find and save Damien? In all
the scenarios he had envisioned for what he was doing this
night, this had not been one he'd imagined, the room no
longer existing.
"Damien," he whispered to himself, the name a mantra he
needed to hold on to. "Damien."
He barely felt the woman put her arms around him. For
the first time in his life, he felt as if he might faint, actually
lose consciousness, let the world mercifully go to black. But
he managed to hold on and pull himself together.
Apparently she had asked him a question, and was waiting
for an answer. He stared at her, not comprehending.
"Your hotel. Shall I take you back to your hotel?"
Good idea. He could call Abram. Yes, a very good idea
indeed. He nodded at her offer.
Jakob politely thanked M. Henri for his time, thinking now,
letting his logical mind take over, setting his emotions aside.
He had to call Abram, tell him what had happened. And then
he needed to go to sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream.
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Chapter 14
Jakob's memory of leaving the Moulin Rouge would always
be vague. He couldn't recall any of the dancers who filled the
stage, some of them topless, all of them moving and
shimmying to roisterous music. He never noticed that there
were topless men as well. Nor did he care. He moved through
the crowd but was not a part of it. He did remember that he
found Albert and Philippe, told them he was returning to the
hotel, saying that he was unwell. His cousin expressed
concern, actually offered to go with him, but Jakob insisted
they stay. He'd be fine. Grand-mere insisted on driving him
the short distance and told him to please call her the next
day. He thought that he promised her he would.
Once inside his room, he pulled out his Nokia and called
Abram. Luckily his friend was a night owl and still awake. Not
that it mattered. Jakob would have called anyway.
"Isn't is early for you to be home?" Abram asked. "Tell me
you had a wonderful time, and you have news for me?"
"Yes, I have news. The Moulin Rouge was a dead end. The
room I was looking for is gone." He filled Abram in on the
dismaying events of the evening. When he was done, Abram
was unusually silent.
"Abram, I can't fail him. Just because that was not the
right place, doesn't mean the right place doesn't exist. You do
believe me, don't you?"
"Of course I believe you, Jakob. I do. I'm just thinking,
that's all. Trying to make sense of things. You know what? I
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think that the most logical thing for you to do is to go to
sleep."
"To sleep?"
"Yes, to sleep, so that maybe you will see him again, and
you might be able to find a clue. Or maybe he can give you a
better one. Maybe there is some detail about where he is that
he is overlooking. But yes, sleep."
"I'll do that, then."
"And set your alarm again. When it goes off, call me, and
tell me what happened. Promise?"
"Promise," Jakob solemnly agreed. "I'll set it for an hour
again, then I'll call you. Thank you, Abram."
"Don't thank me yet," the other man warned as he hung
up.
Falling asleep on command isn't as easy as it sounds.
Despite his desire to do so, sleep would not come. Jakob tried
counting everything that he could think of, from stile-leaping
ovines to naked blonds that looked like Damien. Nothing
worked. He was still awake when Albert returned to his room.
His cousin knocked discreetly at the connecting door
between their rooms. "Jakob, are you feeling any better? Is
there something I can get for you?"
Jakob shook his head, tried not to show surprise at his
cousin's concern. "No, thank you. I think I just need to get
some sleep."
Albert nodded. "I'll keep this door unlocked. If you need
anything, just knock. I'll see you in the morning."
Jakob stared at the closed door, once Albert had gone. It
felt so weird to have him asking as to his comfort. Nice, but
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weird. He returned to his prior occupation, determined to fall
asleep, and find Damien. He kept having to reset his alarm,
though, as he continued to find himself awake. Thoughts of
Damien ran through his mind, images of the blond, like
watching a reel from an old home movie. No matter how he
tried, he could not get his mind to turn off enough to allow
him to sleep.
Suddenly Jakob found himself in utter blackness. He sat up
carefully, alert and listening, his eyes attempting to adjust, to
find the least bit of light to allow him to see by. Feeling
disoriented, he stretched his hands out, feeling about him for
something with which to orient himself. He was not in his bed.
The surface that he sat on was hard and unyielding. It gave
no clue to where he might possibly be.
"Damien? Damien?" No reply.
Jakob rolled to his hands and knees. Cautiously he began
to crawl, using one hand as a feeler to prevent himself from
running into a wall, or coming to a sudden drop off and
tumbling into an abyss. Or something worse.
The velvety blackness he moved through was a palpable
energy. It clung to him, enveloping his senses in an almost
sensual way. Like a lover's kiss, it caressed his body and held
him tight. He felt a searing warmth in his loins, which spread
upward, through his limbs. He knew he had to release himself
from its grip and find his way out of this darkness to
somewhere. Anywhere.
He continued to crawl, calling out Damien's name at
intervals. His voice died away into the blackness. There was
no return cry.
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It felt like he had been crawling forever, but he refused to
give up. He was convinced that Damien was here somewhere,
and he was determined to find him. Wait. Did the blackness
seem less dense ahead? Was there a little light, or was it
wishful thinking on his part? He crawled with a little more
purpose toward the lessening of the blackness. Small but
distinct now. Hope at last.
By the time that Jakob reached it, he saw what appeared
to be a shaft of light coming through a small circle. It was just
a little bit over his head. Cautiously he stood, putting his eye
against the circle. From this new vantage point, he could look
inside.
What he saw was amazing.
It was like watching an old-fashioned vintage film, except
for the fact that it was in color—vivid, heart-wrenching color.
And the most colorful, most beautiful object in the room was
none other than Damien. His Damien. Jakob's heart pounded
at the sight.
Damien stood in the middle of what resembled a
bacchanal. Something about the pose he had assumed
seemed familiar, but Jakob couldn't quite place it. He stood
serenely at ease, bare among a group of likewise nude men
who were seated at tables surrounding him. Younger naked
men in the guise of waiters appeared to be offering food and
drink, as well as sexual services.
Of course. The Dreammongers. This was undoubtedly
them. What he was seeing so vividly was the very night which
Damien had described to him. Damien's last night in this
world. He focused his attention on Damien. So beautiful he
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was, standing there, holding on to his black pearl. So
heartbreakingly beautiful. He had the most beautiful smile.
Even from here, it made Jakob dizzy with desire.
As he watched, Damien spoke to an older man, whom
Jakob surmised was the artist Toulouse Lautrec. He watched
the two men converse, in fascination. Until one of the young
waiters brought the bottle of absinthe to Damien and poured
him a glass.
"No, no, Damien!" Jakob cried. Poison, don't drink the
poison! But no matter how loud he screamed, he couldn't
make himself be heard. The actors in the tableau on the other
side were oblivious to his presence. And no matter how he
struck it with his fist, this wall that was between him and
them would not budge. He could do nothing but watch
helplessly as Damien was poisoned, witness the chaos that
ensued with his grief-stricken fathers and their panic at their
son's fate. The arrival of the Green Fairy seemed surreal,
relatively speaking. She enveloped the room in a chartreuse
glow. And then Damien was simply gone.
Jakob sat back on his haunches, willing himself to breathe,
forcing himself to stay calm. What he had just witnessed were
events from the past. They were immutable. There was
nothing he could do about what had taken place so many
years ago. What he needed to focus on was the here and
now. The Damien of today. To find and rescue him was his
urgent imperative. Nothing else mattered.
The darkness he sat in was rent by a shaft of light, like a
spotlight, which was centered upon Jakob.
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And suddenly he was there. Damien. His Damien. Where
he'd come from, Jakob didn't know, but he didn't care. The
important thing was that he was there. Damien's arms
enveloped Jakob in an urgent embrace. Their lips sought one
another of mutual accord. And nothing needed to be said. The
kiss said it all.
When they came up for air, they clung together.
"I missed you so much," Jakob breathed into Damien's
neck, his fingers tangling in those platinum locks. "I've been
trying to find your body, so that I can bring you home, to me.
I'm still looking. I haven't given up. I love you, Damien. I
want to be with you."
The words had been given without hesitation, heartfelt
words which asked for nothing in return. He knew he loved
Damien because of the way his heart leapt whenever he saw
him, the way he longed for him when he wasn't there, the
hole in his life which Damien's absence caused. He knew he
loved Damien and always would, and he wanted to spend the
rest of his life getting to know him, being with him, and loving
him. He had to believe that Fate had brought them together,
despite the fact that they were born into different eras,
different times.
Fate was when two people were in the right place at the
right time, when something was meant to be. His being with
Damien went beyond chance or luck or a simple toss of the
dice. The odds against their ever meeting must be
astronomical. And yet here they were. Together. It had to be
Fate.
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"I love you, too, Jakob. I want to be with you." Damien's
lips caressed Jakob's forehead.
"Have you heard the laughter anymore?"
"Yes, it's been haunting me, until just a short while ago.
Jakob." He tilted the brunet's head back, looking into his
eyes. He wasn't smiling. "Jakob, if something should happen,
please don't forget me. And please know that you are the
only one I have ever loved. The only one."
"Sssh, don't talk like that." Jakob stilled the blond's words
with a kiss. "I'll find a way for us to be together. Please, don't
worry."
"I used to be afraid," Damien said, hesitantly. "For a long
time. I was afraid that I would never see my fathers again,
never find my way home, never leave this place. I know now
that I will not see them again. But I have found my way to
you. Your heart is my home now. And I know that I shall
always live inside of you."
A wrenching pain pierced Jakob's heart. Why did he sound
so final, as if this was the end? It couldn't be. He refused to
allow it to be. No matter what he had to do, he'd do it. He'd
sell his very soul just to have Damien with him, safe and
happy. No matter what it took.
"This isn't over," Jakob protested, wrapping his arms about
him more securely. "Not over. I won't lose you. I won't. I
need you, need you too much to let you go."
"I'm afraid we don't have a choice," Damien whispered.
"Something or someone is working against us."
Their lips met in protest of what was happening. Jakob
tightened his fingers in Damien's hair. He refused to accept
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what the other was saying. He would fight for Damien with all
of his life; as long as he lived and breathed, he would fight for
him.
"Jakob, it's happening again," Damien murmured against
his mouth. "I can feel it. Do you hear? Can you hear the
laughter? I'm afr—"
"NOOOOOO!" Jakob instinctively clung to Damien, as if by
sheer dint of will alone he could hold him there. He could feel
him, so solid beneath his embrace, so warm, so wonderful.
And then he was gone, and Jakob was left with his arms
dangling in empty air.
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Chapter 15
Jakob opened his eyes at the sound of his alarm to find
himself in his bed at the hotel once more. The blankets and
sheets lay in a tangled snarl at his feet. And he was quite
alone. His heart beat wildly. His time with Damien had been
so short. That couldn't be good. He had to act, and he had to
act now.
He grabbed for the Nokia, flipped it open and pressed 1 for
Abram. His friend answered quickly.
"Jakob, what is wrong? What has happened?"
"Abram, it's getting worse. I have to find him now, or I'm
afraid I'm going to lose him forever."
"Alright, let's not panic." Abram's voice was the calm in the
midst of Jakob's storm, soothing and serene. "Hold on a
moment. Let me get my notes." There was an interval of
silence, before Abram returned. "Sorry, I had to turn on my
lamp so I could see."
"That's okay. What notes do you mean?"
"Notes from my talk with my rabbi. He says what we need
do to is to perform a hatavat halom."
"A what?"
"A hatavat halom. It's a Jewish ritual. It means making the
dream better."
"How do we do that?" Jakob asked.
"Normally you would need a rabbi, but in this case I think
we must improvise, in the interests of time."
"Improvise how? I don't understand?"
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"Well, a traditional hatavat halom would involve the rabbi
changing the interpretation of the dream, to give it a good
meaning. But in your case, we need something a little more
physical. Have you ever seen a movie called Nightmare on
Elm Street?"
That was one question Jakob hadn't expected. "With
Freddie Krueger and his finger knives? Sure, who hasn't?
What of it?"
"Do you remember how the girl brought Freddie back into
her world from his dream world?"
Damn. He hadn't seen that film in a very long time. Jakob
racked his brain, trying to remember. It didn't help. "No, I
don't remember."
"She grabbed hold of him, and she held on to him, and she
had her friend wake her up while she was still holding him,
and he came back to her world with her."
"Sounds fascinating, Abram, but this isn't a movie. What
am I supposed to do, look for some finger knives?"
"No, Jakob, use some of your famous common sense,"
Abram admonished him gently. "You're letting your emotions
take over. Something, I might add, I've not seen before with
you. Think. She brought him back to her world from his by
holding on to him...."
"And having someone wake her. I get it," Jakob finished,
catching on at last. "There's only one problem with that,
Abram. I'm the only one here. I don't have a friend close
enough to help, since you're in Karlsruhe. Not exactly a hop,
skip, and a jump, you know?"
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"Not a friend, no," Abram agreed, "but a cousin in the next
room." He let the inference work its way into Jakob's brain.
"Albert?"
"You got another I don't know about?"
"No, I mean, I know you mean Albert. I just mean, Albert?
Seriously?"
"Seriously, my friend, do you see an alternative? You don't
have time for me to get there, which I would if I thought it
would help; I'd leave right this minute. But I'm afraid I would
be too late."
Jakob couldn't help but see the wisdom in Abram's words.
"Ask Albert. Didn't you say he was decent last night?
Maybe he's softening in his old age. What's the worst he can
do, throw you out of his hotel room?"
Jakob reluctantly agreed. "He did leave the door unlocked,
'in case I needed him', he said."
"There you go! Go, ask him. See what he says. You don't
have a lot of choice."
"You're right. I don't," Jakob sighed, shifting the phone to
his other hand, as he sat up in bed. "So, assuming he agrees
to do this, and that's a big if: I go to sleep, find Damien, and
give Albert some sort of sign to wake me up, never letting go
of Damien so he has to come with me?"
"That sums it up rather well, I think."
"How can I be sure of going to sleep, and then finding
Damien? It took me forever to fall asleep this time, and I had
trouble finding him as it was." Jakob's doubts were making
themselves manifest in his protestations. He wanted to
believe, but he also wished to be realistic. And logic was
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telling him that there were some rather open-ended variables
here.
"Believe," Jakob told him. "Have some faith. In him and in
you. And in the powers that brought you together. I believe
you will find the way. Call me when you come back, and let
me know how you are. Both of you."
"I will, Abram. And thank you. You're the best friend a guy
could have." He felt tears stab at his eyes, as he closed his
phone. He rubbed at his eyes. No time for this now. He had
things to do.
Pulling on a pair of trousers over his boxers, as he had no
wish to offend his cousin through inappropriate dress, he took
a deep breath, his focus being completely on Damien, and
knocked on the door that connected the two rooms. Without
waiting for an answer—and in his defense, he normally would
have been more patient, but the urgency of his mission was
driving him to be a bit more forceful than usual—he plunged
into Albert's room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He
looked toward the bed, seeking Albert. What he found were
two lumps where he'd expected to find one. On reflection, he
really wasn't surprised. Albert and Philippe. Oops. No time for
social niceties now, though, this was a matter of life and
death.
"Jakob?" Albert sat up in his bed, pulling the sheets around
him, and over his companion. "Is something wrong? Are you
worse?"
"Albert, I need you to do something for me. I'm sorry to
wake you, but I have a situation that I cannot handle alone.
Please, please, please, do this for me. I'm begging you. I've
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never asked you for anything, ever. I'll never ask again. But
this one time, I need you. Please."
Jakob had approached the bed as he spoke, on Albert's
side. He fell to his knees, his hands clasped in supplication, as
he implored his cousin's assistance. He half-expected Albert
to tell him to get the hell out; he was talking crazy. Or maybe
just laugh at him, ridicule him. But he did neither.
Philippe was awake now, too, and he offered Jakob a
reassuring smile, as he snuggled against Albert, not
discomfited in the slightest by his appearance in their room,
nor at being discovered in Albert's bed. Jakob saw him
whisper something into Albert's ear, but it was too low-
pitched for him to hear.
"What do you want us to do?" Albert asked.
Jakob said a silent prayer of thanks, and then he gave a
brief recital of the events leading up to this moment, the
CliffsNotes of sorts, for his cousin's benefit. Albert listened
silently, without comment, until the end.
"Jakob, if it were anyone else, I'd say they were crazy. But
you? No. I believe you. We'll help, and hope that it works, for
both your sakes."
Jakob returned to his room, and they followed him, after
throwing on their own trousers. Jakob lay on the bed, waiting.
"Here's what we need to do. I have to go to sleep first," he
said, "then I need to find Damien. When I do, I'll hold on to
him and signal to you to wake me, then I'll bring him back
with me."
"Signal? What kind of signal?" Albert asked. He and
Philippe pulled two chairs together. They seated themselves,
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waiting for Jakob. "Something that I can't confuse with
twitching in your sleep, hopefully?"
"Good point. Maybe I could start singing or something?
That's something I don't do in my sleep, as far as I know. Or
maybe just set the timer for ten minute intervals or
something?"
"But if you do that, how will I know if you're ready?" Albert
pointed out.
"True too," Jakob moaned. "Let's try the song first, then."
"What song?"
"I dunno. Any song. It doesn't matter. If you hear me
singing, wake me up. Okay?"
"Okay," Albert agreed. "I got you covered, Jakob. Go to
sleep now, and go get your man." He slid a protective arm
about Philippe, who nestled against him contentedly.
Wow, what a difference a few days could make.
He settled himself in the bed. It felt funny, having two
other people there in the room. He forced himself to focus,
telling himself it was no different than being at camp, and
sleeping in a room with other boys. Same principle. And quite
doable.
He lay on top of the blankets, still dressed, pulling the
sheet up for a little warmth. Closed his eyes. Damien's image
appeared in his inner eye. Jakob sighed lightly. He imagined
the two of them together, of how it could be if Damien came
back with him. They stood on the dance floor of the Moulin
Rouge, arms about one another, dancing to the sweetest of
love songs. A disco ball glittered above them, while in the
background Zidler exhorted his girls to can can can, because
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you can can can. The music from the movie became confused
with the music from the actual nightclub; it began to play
itself in his head as he and Damien revolved together...
"Jakob, wake up." That was Damien's voice, breathless. He
sounded almost frightened. Why?
Jakob opened his eyes to his lover's beautiful visage. He
frowned at what he saw. "What is wrong, Damien?" he asked
sleepily.
"He is coming for me now. I had to find you, to tell you
good-bye, to tell you I love you." The words flowed from
Damien's beautiful lips, despite Jakob's best efforts to stem
them.
"Sssh, sssh, no, no, Damien, no, not good-bye, never
good-bye."
"I love you, Jakob Kohl. Please know that." Tears were
streaming down those pale cheeks; the blond was openly
sobbing now.
Jakob's mind was fuzzy. He couldn't seem to wake up
clearly enough to think. What was Damien talking about? But
more importantly, what was he supposed to be doing? The
answer wasn't coming to him, like trying to think through
treacle.
Damien's lips found Jakob's, and he kissed him, softly at
first, then with a growing passion. A kiss that would be sure
to be remembered. Like a last kiss.
Wait. No, Jakob's brain protested. Wake up. Do something.
He pushed Damien back far enough to take a breath. Singing,
something about singing. What song? Did it matter? His
thoughts were frantic. He tasted Damien's salty tears. He
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began to cry himself. He couldn't lose Damien. He just
couldn't. Stay with me. Be with me.
Sing, damn you, sing, his brain urged him. Before it's too
late.
Every song he ever knew disappeared from his memory.
Was that Fate too? Or simple blind panic? Think, think, think,
think...
He opened his mouth, and words began to pour forth. In a
passable singing voice.
"Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrive..."
For some reason this was the song which sprang to his lips.
The Marseillaise.
Damien gave Jakob a confused smile. "Singing, ma petite?
Now?" Even so, he joined him in the song. "Contre nous de la
tyrannie." He interrupted the singing with a kiss. Jakob was
forced to push him back once more, but with difficulty.
He wound his arms around Damien as he did so, holding
on to him for dear life, with every last bit of strength he
possessed. By the time that they reached the chorus, they
were both sobbing, so it was difficult to understand just what
was being said. "Aux armes citoyens, formez vos bataillons..."
Panic began to set in, as Jakob felt the weight of Damien
lessening in his arms. He tightened his grasp, singing louder
and louder, desperately. He couldn't lose him. He just
couldn't. But something was fighting against him. Something
strong. Something powerful. It tried to rip Damien from his
very arms. He clung all the tighter. He could hear them now,
the bells of freedom, of liberty, the bells of the French
Revolution. Louder and louder they tolled. Tolled for freedom.
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Tolled for love. Heated tears scalded his cheeks. He was
losing. He was going to lose him. He was...
The tolling bells became an irritating beeping which
resolved itself into the sound of his phone alarm. He became
aware of his cousin. Albert stood over him, shaking him,
waking him. Jakob came fully awake as it hit him. This was it.
Albert had done as he'd asked, and wakened him from the
other world. But the question was, had it worked?
Jakob's eyes were still wet, his cheeks still stained by the
tears he'd shed. Had he come so close only to lose him at the
last? Maybe they could try again? They had to try again. He
had to reach him. He had to. Then he felt the warm living
bundle of flesh in his arms, and he realized that he was
holding Damien. Really holding him. There, in the bed in the
hotel room. He was really there.
"Albert, do you see him?" he asked, half-afraid to hear the
answer.
"If by 'him' you mean a very good-looking naked blond,
then no. I don't see a thing," Albert teased.
"Then how do you...?" Jakob began before realizing he was
being twitted.
It was Damien indeed. The blond raised his head, glanced
around him at this modern hotel room, so different from
anything in his experience, so wondrous to his amazed eyes.
"I am here," he whispered, "here, with you. You've saved me,
Jakob. You are wonderful, my love, the most wonderful man
in the world."
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Jakob blushed, not uncomfortably. "I had help," he said
softly, indicating Albert and Philippe. "Allow me to introduce
you."
"I'm Jakob's cousin, Albert," Albert interjected. "Welcome
to your new life."
A new life. How wonderful that sounded. And how very
true. Jakob held Damien close to him, pulling the sheet over
him, for modesty's sake, and kissed him once again.
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Epilogue
A year had now passed. A year of complete and utter bliss.
Of change and restructuring and reordering of the lives of
several people.
Jakob and Damien had had a long discussion about what
they wanted to do, and where they wanted to live. Jakob
offered to move to Paris, for his lover's sake, but Damien
turned his offer down. He said that no one he knew was alive
any more. The memories of his fathers and their love for him
would always burn within him, and they could always visit
whenever they wished. So it was decided that they would
return to Karlsruhe and begin their lives together there.
Surprisingly, Albert decided to stay in Paris. He ended his
sham marriage to Ida, providing for her well, and set himself
up in business in Paris. With Philippe, of course. The two of
them were married six months later, once his divorce came
through. He left the Karlsruhe end of the business in Jakob's
capable hands. Or rather Damien's, as the blond turned out to
have quite the head for business. This left Jakob free to
return to school and care for his mother, who finished her
convalescence with glowing reports, and came to live with
Jakob and Damien, whom she adored from the start. But not
for long, for young couples need their space, and she moved
to her own flat to give them that.
What a difference a year made. Jakob and Damien were
more in love than ever, cohabiting and loving and learning
new things about one another all the time. Damien pursued
Sweet Dreams My Love
by Julie Lynn Hayes
125
his art, while Jakob played his beloved piano. Painting would
never be more than a hobby for the artists' boy, but that was
fine with him.
On their one year anniversary they took a trip together,
Paris their goal. Not for the first time, of course. They had
been back a few times, visiting with Grand-mere and with
Lisette, and with M. Henri at the Moulin Rouge, and of course
with Albert and Philippe. Jakob actually got to see the show,
although he did have his eyes on Damien more often than
not. But they were happy, very happy together.
They had splurged on their anniversary, and gotten a suite
at an expensive hotel. They were going to the Moulin Rouge
that very night, for dinner and a cruise. Jakob stood beside
their bed, gazing into his reflection in the large mirror on the
wall. The once uptight young man was garbed in a rather
poetic-looking white blouse, with full sleeves and ruffles that
traversed the collar and down the front. He wore it rakishly
open, revealing the tan skin beneath. He spent more time out
of doors now, and he wore a healthy new glow. He had grown
his hair out a bit; it hung in a tail at the nape of his neck. He
was content with his new look.
Damien lay upon the bed, stretched out in all his naked
splendor. Languid and content, for they had recently made
love, and he had not moved since then. He was quite the
sight to behold, a painter's delight: his long lean form, with
the beautiful taut buttocks, arms embracing his pillow in
complete contentment, platinum tresses streaming down his
back. A sight fit for a portrait. But it was for Jakob's eyes
alone.
Sweet Dreams My Love
by Julie Lynn Hayes
126
Jakob thought he could stare at Damien forever. And he
would. But not right now. They had places to be, things to do.
Still, he lingered there, gazing at his beautiful lover, thinking
how very lucky he was. He also realized that Damien wasn't
truly asleep, simply being lazy. But as he was learning, that
wasn't always a bad thing.
He leaned over Damien's beautiful body, reached down,
and kissed him gently.
"Come on, Sleeping Beauty, our life awaits."
Sweet Dreams My Love
by Julie Lynn Hayes
127
Julie Lynn Hayes was reading at the age of two and writing
by the age of nine and always wanted to be a writer when she
grew up. Two marriages, five children, and more than forty
years later, that is still her dream. She blames her younger
daughters for introducing her to yaoi and the world of M/M
love, a world which has captured her imagination and her
heart and fueled her writing in ways she'd never dreamed of
before. She especially loves stories of two men finding true
love and happiness in one another's arms and is a great
believer in the happily ever after. She lives in St. Louis with
two of her children and two cats, loves books and movies and
role playing on the Internet, and hopes to be a world traveler
some day. By day she does payroll and accounting, by night
she writes and is also a copy editor and reviewer for
animeradius.com. Her family thinks she is a bit off, but she
doesn't mind. Marching to the beat of one's own drummer is a
good thing, after all.
You can contact Julie at tothemax.wolf@gmail.com.
Sweet Dreams My Love
by Julie Lynn Hayes
128
Sweet Dreams, My Love (C)Copyright Julie Lynn Hayes,
2011
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the
authors' imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
Cover Art by Dan Skinner/Cerberus Inc.
cerberusinc@hotmail.com
Cover Design by Mara McKennen
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only.
Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law,
subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot
be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the
express permission of the Publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact
Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite
Sweet Dreams My Love
by Julie Lynn Hayes
129
244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
Released in the United States of America
February 2011
eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-809-9
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