City of the Sun

THIRTY-THREE

Don Ramon Ponceterra took lunch alone on his tiled veranda, the quiet bubbling of a small fountain and the occasional bird the only accompaniments to his meal. The camarones had been excellent, and as he forked sliced mango into his mouth, he considered the liver spots on the backs of his hands. When fall came Don Ramon would turn seventy years old, and while most of his contemporaries had gone fat and sedentary and bald, he was still slender and vigorous and had a fine head of silver hair. It was only the cursed spots on the backs of his hands, thickening into a brown pattern like the belly of a brook trout, which reminded him of his years. The sight disturbed him and conjured visions of the dark labyrinths of oblivion that awaited him if he did not act.

In his life as a businessman he had made countless acquaintances. He had known landowners, merchants, traders, manufacturers, cattlemen, and the like, and each group thought Don Ramon a mere entrepreneur like them. Until he was in his midforties, that perception was entirely accurate. He was financially well off and scrupulously polite; an immaculate dresser; he had daughters and a son; he owned land, donated to the church, and was a sponsor of the fiesta.

But then the change came, his awakening. It coincided with his rereading of the classics and coming across the concept of the “philosopher-king,” as Socrates had put it. While that term was a bit grandiose for a modest man such as himself, Don Ramon recognized the truth in it. He discovered that a man could live his life by the highest precepts, even if a deteriorated society could not grasp them. Now, very few in the world truly knew him or understood how he remained so youthful in aspect. It was this secret of his that drew his thoughts to the rubio.

Many potros had come to him over the years. It would be impossible to remember all the boys. For most, the brevity of their stay, and their inevitably failing health, made a lasting relationship unlikely. It was quite sad. Still, there had been three who had become truly important to him. They had gone from the occupation of a few weeks to that of a few months to several years. Those three alone had had the potential to become true acolytes. As the ancient Greeks knew, the intellectual intercourse between learned men and the young boys in their charge, and the physical consummation of said relationships, was superior to any other bond. While many men thought women and the offspring they bore were the path to immortality, Don Ramon knew that the vitality that sprang from his mentorships was the true road.

But those three opportunities had passed bitterly. One of the catamites had perished by his own hand. Even now Don Ramon could remember the pale morning light in the room when he discovered the young man hanging by his bed sheet. The second, regrettably, had been a disciplinary accident. And the third, perhaps the most regrettable of all, had merely disappeared, escaping into the wind, never to be heard from again. He had probably perished in the desert. The distress these endings caused Don Ramon had almost been enough to discourage any further attachments. But then he felt the march of time and the cobwebbed fingers of death reaching out for him, and he knew that he needed to continue. The call to become the evolved, the truly Platonic man, would not quiet within him.

So a few years back he had begun the lengthy search for the next in a line of magical consorts who would keep him forever beyond the grave. Despite the establishment of a complex infrastructure (for the truth was that his gift in the organization of businesses was real, and even in this, a profit-generating enterprise was of paramount importance), and despite the dozens of spiders he had crawling all over the earth on his behalf, each working with great energy to bring him the special individual he sought, he had nearly given up hope of finding him. That is, until the rubio had been delivered unto him.

Don Ramon sipped his rioja. It was a bit sharp. He didn ’ t prefer his wines so young. Though he didn ’ t know the rubio ’ s name, as he never learned their names, and he didn ’ t know where he was from, that information did not matter to him, either. He only knew that this one glowed. Some might have suggested that Don Ramon was blinded by the fair hair and fair complexion, but that was foolishness, the kind of superficial assumption that an uncomprehending world was all too happy to make. It was another, inner quality that this one possessed. Don Ramon had spent long hours sitting in the dark with the rubio. Conversation was difficult due to their languages, but beyond that, words were wholly beside the point. There was an aura one could feel from another that told the whole story. In this case the tale was one of eternity. Even when sitting in the same room, simply sharing the same air, he could feel the rubio ’ s healing youth. Remaining chances were few, though. This time there could be no mistake. And so Don Ramon had been exceedingly cautious with him, saving him, waiting for the sign of acquiescence that would signal the beginning of the physical union that would heal him. It had been many months and he didn ’ t know how much longer he could wait. He had turned to several of the others for relief of his corporeal urges, and as always that had left him feeling incredibly youthful and vigorous, yet disgusted. He hadn ’ t wanted to spoil the rubio with that. No, with the rubio he needed nothing less than complete acceptance. If he could achieve this, Don Ramon felt he could truly live forever.

Don Ramon ’ s musings were interrupted by the arrival of another on the veranda. There was the telltale cough, whether an attempt at politeness or a chronic condition, Don Ramon was unable to tell. Then came the shuffling of feet on the tile, the sound of thin, cheap shoes. Don Ramon could only put the choice down to poor taste, as he certainly paid his employees well enough for them to buy quality goods. It was Esteban.

Esteban Carnera stepped out from around the potted plant and, seeing that the meal was finished, advanced.

“Don Ramon,” he began, his raspy voice scraping the adobe walls around the courtyard. Whatever he lacked in social graces, Esteban made up for in utility. He was tall and stringy-muscled like a fighting bantam and walked on the balls of his feet. His face was deeply pocked and scarred so that there was little value in his protecting his looks when it came to physical matters. Over time, Don Ramon had come to learn that this was of great advantage.

“Yes, Esteban.”

“There are men in town, going to all the places.”

“Yes?”

“They do not buy, they just look, and ask for other things.”

This in itself was not worrisome to Don Ramon. There were many kinds of clients and many ways in which they behaved.

“What kind of men? ї Clientes? ”

“No sй, Don Ramon. Ellos son gueros. ”