Dead Horsemeat

Sunday 1 October 1989

Daquin wakes slowly, there’s no hurry, opens one eye, half asleep, then the other. Reaches over with one arm. Alone in the bed. Strains to listen, the sound of someone moving around downstairs. From the light filtering through the shutters, it must be a fine day. All the better, because this afternoon, the rugby season re-opens after the summer break. He stretches languorously. In a few hours, he’ll be meeting up with his team-mates from last year, the locker-room banter, and put on shirt number 8. Then, first day of training, relaxed. Warming up on the pitch, a few passes, the first clashes. All his muscles beginning to work. The renewed pleasure of physical contact, the scrums, suddenly breaking away from the pack, violent dashes with the taste of blood in his mouth. And then, the locker room again, the warmth and intimacy of the showers, the dull aches and the sharp pains. The closeness above all. Enough to make him happy for a good while. Daquin rolls over in bed. This year, a new twinge of anxiety: and supposing, this afternoon, when the moment comes to dive into the scrum, supposing I’m afraid? Too old perhaps for this game? Don’t want to have to give up, not now.

Daquin gets up, slips on a silk dressing gown and goes downstairs. Rudi, wearing a long, dark red Indian shirt, his immaculate blond lock over the corner of his right eye, is sitting on the sofa reading an Ismail Kadare novel that had been lying on the coffee table. I rather like him reading my books. Daquin goes behind the counter. Breakfast is all laid out on a tray: the coffee pot, two cups, a plate of bread drizzled with olive oil and tomatoes. Nice. He takes the tray, places it on the coffee table, kneels in front of Rudi, opens his shirt which is buttoned up to the neck, kisses his very pale pink left nipple, slowly draws the palm of his hand over his hairless, sculpted chest. Rudi distant, no reaction. He carefully does up the shirt again, sits down on the sofa, pours two cups of coffee and attacks the bread and tomatoes.

‘Your friends from the security service came to see me the day before yesterday.’ Daquin carries on eating. ‘They know very well that I was in prison in the GDR, and that I still have contacts with the opposition there.’

Daquin smiles.

‘It wasn’t me who told them.’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t. They wanted to know why I’m living in France, and not in the GDR. I didn’t tell them about you.’ A silence. ‘Your president’s planning an official visit to the GDR in November and I’ve been told in no uncertain terms to behave myself until then.’

‘That’s not such a long time.’

‘You have no idea what’s going on back home. The mass exodus to West Germany is continuing, completely out of control. Every Monday evening, the Neues Forum organises a street demonstration in Leipzig, and the police turn a blind eye…’

‘Yes, and Honecker’s going to fall ill and a successor will be found.’

Rudi gets up, clearly annoyed. Beautiful legs under the Indian shirt. He goes behind the counter and makes some more coffee.

‘Theo, I’m going to Berlin. I want to breathe the air of my own country, even if it is on the other side of the Wall. And in some way be part of…’ he falters for a moment, ‘… the revolution that’s happening there.’

Daquin stretches out on the sofa. An affair that began with the dizzying desire for a perfect body, that helped me cope with Lenglet’s illness and to keep my head in the AIDS years. And now, the elegance of invoking the great tide of history to end a relationship entrenched in little daily pleasures and mutual respect, in other words, boredom. Like an ex-voto: Eternal gratitude.

‘When are you leaving?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Come on then, quickly, let’s get dressed. I’ll take you for your last decent meal. I’ve got a meeting at three o’clock.’