Apt Pupil

13

It was July again.

Dussander, carefully dressed in one of his three suits (not his best), was standing at the bus stop and waiting for the last local of the day to take him home. It was 10:45 p.m. He had been to a film, a light and frothy comedy that he had enjoyed a great deal. He had been in a fine mood ever since the morning mail. There had been a postcard from the boy, a glossy colour photo of Waikiki Beach with bone-white highrise hotels standing in the background. There was a brief message on the reverse.

Dear Mr Denker, Boy this sure is some place. I’ve been swimming every day. My dad caught a big fish and my mom is catching up on her reading (joke). Tomorrow we’re going to a volcano. I’ll try not to fall in! Hope you’re okay.

Stay healthy, Todd He was still smiling faintly at the significance of that last when a hand touched his elbow.

‘Mister?’

‘Yes?’

He turned, on his guard — even in Santa Donato, muggers were not unknown — and then winced at the aroma. It seemed to be a combination of beer, halitosis, dried sweat, and possibly Musterole. It was a bum in baggy pants. He — it -wore a flannel shirt and very old Keds that were currently being held together with dirty bands of adhesive tape. The face looming above this motley costume looked like the death of God.

‘You got an extra dime, mister? I gotta get to LA, me. Got a job offertunity. I need just a dime more for the express bus. I wudn’t ask if it wasn’t a big chance for me.’

Dussander had begun to frown, but now his smile reasserted itself.

‘Is it really a bus ride you wish?’

The wino smiled sickly, not understanding.

‘Suppose you ride the bus home with me,’ Dussander proposed. ‘I can offer you a drink, a meal, a bath, and a bed. .All I ask in return is a little conversation. I am an old man. I live alone. Company is sometimes very welcome.’

The drunk’s smile abruptly grew more healthy as the situation clarified itself. Here was a well-to-do old faggot with a taste for slumming.

‘All by yourself! Bitch, innit?’

Dussander answered the broad, insinuating grin with a polite smile. ‘I only ask that you sit away from me on the bus. You smell rather strongly.’

‘Maybe you don’t want me stinking up your place, then,’ the drunk said with sudden, tipsy dignity.

‘Come, the bus will be here in a minute. Get off one stop after I do and then walk back two blocks. Ill wait for you on the corner. In the morning I will see what I can spare. Perhaps two dollars.’

‘Maybe even five,’ the drunk said brightly. His dignity, tipsy or otherwise, had been forgotten.

‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ Dussander said impatiently. He could now hear the low diesel drone of the approaching bus. He pressed a quarter, the correct bus fare, into the bum’s grimy hand and strolled a few paces away without looking back.

The bum stood undecided as the headlights of the local swept over the rise. He was still standing and frowning down at the quarter when the old faggot got on the bus without looking back. The bum began to walk away and then — at the last second — he reversed direction and boarded the bus just before the doors folded closed. He put the quarter into the fare-box with the expression of a man putting a hundred dollars down on a long shot. He passed Dussander without doing more than glancing at him and sat at the back of the bus. He dozed off a little, and when he woke up, the rich old faggot was gone. He got off at the next stop, not knowing if it was the right one or not, and not really caring.

He walked back two blocks and saw a dim shape under the streetlight. It was the old faggot, all right. The faggot was watching him approach, and he was standing as if at attention.

For just a moment the bum felt a chill of apprehension, an urge to just turn away and forget the whole thing.

Then the old man was gripping him by the arm… and his grip was surprisingly firm.

‘Good,’ the old man said. ‘I’m very glad you came. My house is down here. It’s not far.’

‘Maybe even ten,’ the bum said, allowing himself to be led.

‘Maybe even ten,’ the old faggot agreed, and then laughed. ‘Who knows?’