Bergdorf Boys

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

When he got downstairs, Neal felt flushed. He wanted to run outside into the heat and flee, but he got caught in a rush of chattering young men pressing through the front door wearing tiny gold Speedos and women’s wedge platform beach shoes. Their high asses, soft skin, chiseled cheekbones—it was all too much. He turned to leave when three bullet-like thoughts rushed in: the Pop editor must stay; the gold room may be fantastic; the servant boy is looking this way. Indeed, the white bikini servant boy was smiling at him from across the room. Before he could move, the boy was sucked into the crowd.

But we made eye contact, Neal thought.

He sipped a Red Bull and stepped back into a corner, fading as the music drummed a moody, constant beat. He moved further away from the shuffling bodies, as his stomach knotted from too much caffeine. He knew he’d end up at the bathhouse, just like he always did. Trying to look bored, he leaned into the entry hall’s wallpaper, which had a raised leafy pattern. He recalled a story where a woman faded into the wallpaper and nobody noticed.

At last, the dreary trance music shifted to up-tempo. He drew another yoga breath. Rovvie said the mansion, which took up a half block on upper Park Avenue, was as spooky as a tomb at night. Sprouting off on both the east and west sides of the entry hall were high archways leading to ballroom-sized spaces cleared of furniture. Neal chose east, where serving boys were strategically scattered, dusted with gold-leaf body paint, crowned with leaves, crotches sheathed. They were all barefoot. Questions had been painted on the young men’s shoulders, necks, ankles or cheeks in French, Greek, English, Latin and Italian. Correct answers lead to favors. Most anything asked was granted.

There were ice sculptures of Greek Gods anchored in faux-marble pools. The pools brimmed with warm-jetted water, which would melt the Gods slowly through the night. Neal watched two boys wade into a pool, giggling and pecking at jewels and party favors inserted into the ice sculptures’ frozen eyes, feet and bellies. They seemed so confident, those boys, so beautiful. Weaving his way through a dancing trio of Spanish men and a tiny woman having a hysterical coughing fit, Neal caught sight of Annie Fitz, the young, bubbly straight-girl art director of Pop Magazine. Knowing her only two weeks, Neal already adored Annie. He breathed easier, happy to see a friend, though a bit appalled at her faux-‘60s tie-dye jeans, combat boots, and faded Blondie concert T-shirt. She was chatting with Brandon Blunt.

Brandon was forty and ordinary with narrow eyes, large ears, a pointy bird-like jaw and a lean compact frame. His bank account, and ties to the Blunt Drug Store chain, was anything but ordinary. Brandon’s lover Nick Sands—that year’s “It-boy” writer for the New York Times Style section—stood near him dressed in designer Thom Browne silver cargo shorts and a topstitched navy jacket with a bright white color peak at the shoulder. He was the nastiest b***h Neal knew. Supposedly, Neal had slept with Nick’s boyfriend at a party years ago. Nick never let go of the grudge, despite the fact that he had spun to wild success, while Neal had crashed. Luckily, Nick was pulled away by an obnoxious up-and-coming fashion designer.

As he got close, Neal spotted Trudy Pratte making a bee-line for Brandon, gliding forward on kitten heels. After thirty-five, Trudy had replaced her striking beauty with an incredibly taut, girlish gym-body and runway couture outfits. Tonight she was dressed as a jockey—creamy jodhpurs, black hip boots and a silk blouse. She was married to a drunken writer who had been on the short list for the Pulitzer, and whose family owned oil wells. Supposedly, the coupled lived in adjoining but very separate penthouses.

“Brandon darling, I need you a week from Thursday I just invited Duchesse Trandorra and her husband for dinner, both total bores. You have got to finish my table,” Trudy said.

At that, a flock of peacocks invaded the room, followed by muscled trainers wearing leather thongs and painted tragedy masks. Just behind them was Albert Poke, who spoke as he approached their group.

“It’s certainly an intriguing start dears, but as my friend Sylvia says, what starts may never finish and what finishes is the cooked pudding, isn’t that it, or, oh bother,“ said Albert, belching softly.

Brandon opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, baffled. From the hallway, they heard applause. Rovvie was making his entrance. They all hurried in. At the top of the staircase, Rovvie towered over the crowd, willowy, white-blond shoulder length hair, creamy pearl skin. Neal knew Rovvie was from rural Arkansas, but on the stairs there, with his light pink cheeks, almond shaped fawn eyes and dancer-like curves, he looked like East Coast royalty. A gold swag of cloth had been sewn and fitted around his slim waist. It was beaded with tiny diamonds and a few sapphires, creating the head of a peacock. He wore a short cape that shimmered as he moved, woven leather sandals with gold wings bursting from the sides and carried a shepherd’s staff. Neal saw traces of blood on his right foot. Albert clapped, howled and shook his naked belly.

“Now that is an entrance so much like in the day, the ‘60s that is, not the ‘70s, which were way too lurid for any of you really,” he said.

Andreas trailed Rovvie down the stairs, dressed in a simple black tuxedo, ruffled shirt open revealing a tanned and furry chest.

“What’s with the staff?” Trudy asked.

“He’s Hermes, the winged Greek messenger,” Albert said. “Son to Zeus, herdsman of the dead, the bringer of dreams but of course a cunning thief from birth.”

Trudy burst out laughing.

“Well, that simple boy is certainly none of that,” she said.

“Don’t be so sure, Trudy dear,” Albert said, belching again. “Oh dear, bubbles.”

Rovvie lilted up and off the final step on the staircase. The glamour faded as his walk became a shuffling limp. Neal made out two Greek letters cut into his right foot. The wound was fresh. The crowd was applauding, and Andreas shaking hands and greeting people as they worked their way toward Neal.

“We are animals,” Albert started, though in a tone gentler, more lucid. “The cowboys, the herders, they all do it to keep track of their stock. He branded the boy. The letters are Greek—A.P. Zeus and Hermes indeed.”

Neal watched Rovvie approach. His eyes were half-mooned, both bright and dull. Rovvie finally collapsed into the center of the group.

“Ahmmmm flying,” he drawled.

He reached out and gripped Neal by the neck, then drew him close and bit his ear.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Rovvie said.

Neal and Rovvie shared a close hug as Andreas made small talk with Brandon.

“What did he do to you?” Neal said softly, wanting to pull his friend away, somewhere safe from prying eyes.

Andreas kept Rovvie on a short leash and lately the leash was getting tighter.

“I see you have the keys,” said Albert, pointing to the pouch with the gold room keys hanging around Rovvie’s waist.

Neal knew Albert’s palm would never feel the metal. Palamos wrapped his hand around Rovvie’s naked bicep, then pressed his lips to the boy’s ear. Rovvie smiled and reached out to Neal, placing a blue key in his palm. Neal noticed Palamos’ fingers were digging deeply into Rovvie’s arm, issuing a red outline. A thunderous crack quieted the room, followed by shouts and applause, as an ice sculpture crashed in half and collapsed in one of the fountains, spraying jewels. Heels flew. Feet splashed. Annie squealed in delight.

Neal turned back from the spectacle. Rovvie and Andreas had disappeared back into the crowd. Albert and Brandon wandered off for a drink with a chattering Trudy. Neal grabbed Annie and led her toward a bench. They passed a very tall Asian man who was contemplating a question written in Italian on the chest of a serving boy.

“Hestia,” the Asian man said to the boy. “She’s the virgin Goddess.”

The boy curled his plump lips, accepting the answer, then slowly unbuttoned the man’s shirt. The man leaned in close, whispering his fantasy. For a second, the color drained from the boy’s face and he stopped with the buttons. Recovering, he smiled and licked the man’s ear. Neal and Annie rested on the bench beside a pool featuring an ice sculpture of Hades. A school of bug-eyed silver fish swan around the frozen statue. A well-endowed fawn boy passed with a bucket of champagne.

“Is the booze making you crazy?” she said. “You look like you want to bolt.”

Neal had revealed his newfound sobriety to Annie, deciding she was a reliable confidante. He nodded, acknowledging that he did want to run, and likely would run soon to the s****l solitude of the Westside Club bathhouse. But as he paused, he realized he’d much rather be at Bergdorf Goodman. He thought of telling Annie about Bergdorf’s third floor, its long circling center hallway, the soft murmur of voices from the café, much like his parent’s voices, muted, in the kitchen, obscured by the roaring hum of the hallway’s attic fan, as he lay in his little bedroom in Missouri. He’d felt safe then. He thought of telling Annie how during his weekly trips to Bergdorf’s he fantasized about curling up on a big button leather chaise by the Thom Browne collection, covering himself with cashmere sweaters, and going to sleep. He thought of all this, but instead, he quoted Holly Golightly.

“I got the mean reds, you know, when you’re afraid but you don’t know what of,” Neal said. “That’s when I hop in a cab and go to Tiffany’s.”

Across the room, he spotted Caz, looking very strange, like he’d just stolen a watch or shot someone.

“Nothing bad can happen to you there,” Neal said.

Annie looked perplexed, lost to his retro film reference.

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Neal said.

There was a shrill scream then applause from the next room as one of the servant boys waded naked into a pool. Neal smiled at Annie, deciding he would give himself permission to escape the party after an hour. Bergdorf’s was closed. The bathhouse was open 24/7.

“Let’s get a Red Bull,” said Neal, aware that he was carving a hole in his empty stomach.

They left the entry hall and made their way through an ever-growing crowd. An electronic trio was revving up. The male singer, stringy with a shock of red hair, had a nasty growling tone, spitting lyrics about a motorcycle crash. A gorgeous, topless Brazilian girl operated a synthesizer and a teenaged Spanish boy danced and shook a pale wooden instrument. Neal watched the Spanish boy on stage swivel his hips and fall to the floor into a one-armed pushup. He looked genuinely angry. Champagne corks shot endlessly. Across the room, Nick Sands was headed their way with Trudy Pratte on his arm.

“Oh God, not him,” Neal said.

Nick and Trudy moved swiftly toward them before Neal could escape. He leaned closer to Annie for support.

“Neal, you finally got back into journalism. Pop, what a funny little magazine to start with,” Nick said, eyes scoping the room as he spoke.

“Neal’s doing some great things at the magazine,” Annie said.

“Tightening up the escort ads?” Nick said. “Cute.”

Trudy tossed her head like a mare and laughed.

“Oh you are wicked,” she said.

Neal was wilting, lost for a comeback. The party was closing in on him. Coming their way was the white-Speedo servant boy. The timing could not be worse.

“Nothing cute at all. Neal’s writing a new column, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before,” Annie said. “Anywhere.”

Nick’s eyes stopped wandering. He gave Neal a hard look.

“Really, a column?” he said.

Neal tried for poker face. He had spoken to Andres and Annie about the promised weekly column, something sexy, but he hadn’t come up with a long-term concept. All he’d written was that one brief teaser.

“Do tell,” Nick said. “Like nothing ever seen before?”

Neal’s mind raced. s*x and fashion is all that came to mind. And the title.

“It’s called Bergdorf Boy,” Neal said.

“I love it,” Annie said, far too enthusiastically.

“Maybe a guide to cheap summer drinking spots would be more up your alley,” Nick said. “Weren’t you a cocktail waiter for a while? And a lush?”

The servant boy had joined their group, but he didn’t have a tray. And he was kissing Trudy Pratte on the cheek.

“It’s based on personal adventures,” Neal said.

Trudy put a hand on Nick’s shoulder, interrupting.

“This is my cousin Alfie, he’s visiting from Paris,” Trudy said. “He thought it was a pool party, isn’t that precious?”

This is the moment, Neal thought. The boy was looking at him, lips parted and expectant. Their eyes met.

“I love gay old Paris,” Neal said.

“Have you been?” said Nick.

Neal had not, and nasty Nick had guessed as much. Sweat broke out in a thin, ugly line across Neal’s brow and he stood speechless, aching for a drink in a dim sleazy bar or a faceless c**k at the bathhouse. His stomach churned and growled. Rovvie drifted up to Neal, then Brandon joined the group, wrapping his arms affectionately around Nick’s waist. Nick looked up into Brandon’s eyes and they seemed to be sharing something for a moment. Neal saw it, a locking of their eyes, a silent communication. It was soft and long, that moment of theirs, and they seemed to be drawing closer to each other without moving and Neal felt the room emptying out. He realized how deeply he envied Nick. That pretty little moment he and his lover had, their intimacy, spiraled Neal into a darkening tunnel which somehow Rovvie seemed to be able to see. Neal’s stomach gurgled again.

“Come on, Neal,” Rovvie said. “Someone needs a snack.”

He squeezed Neal’s hand and pulled him back into the party, producing a small digital camera from the pouch around his waist. They moved into the entry hall and Rovvie snapped Neal’s picture. As he did, two servant boys, a muscular looking Egyptian and a lean, redheaded teen, stood by Neal, posing. The Egyptian had a question on his firm belly: Olympic Gods Dwell.

“Mount Olympus,” Neal said.

The Egyptian turned and placed Neal’s hand on his belly. He recalled the game rules, answer a question, any wish is granted. Rovvie shoved the camera into Neal’s hand, then grabbed both boys and dragged them to the staircase.

“Make me look like a Gawwwwwd,” he drawled.

Neal clicked. Rovvie turned and began to crawl up the stairs as a young woman in ridiculously high heels hiked over him. Neal kept shooting. The Egyptian was just ahead, on his butt, coasting backwards up the stairs, waving his arms near Rovvie’s face to create a Medusa affect. For the first time that night, Neal was having fun. He kept shooting, as Rovvie crawled and the Egyptian flailed. As they neared the top, they approached a babbling Albert, who had his back to them. Albert turned, colliding with the crawling boys, tottering and for a second looking like he may fall forward and squash Rovvie to a pulp. The adroit Egyptian gave the fat man a push in the opposite direction.

“I’m taking you to the Gold Room, you tense little thannnng,” Rovvie said, pulling Neal along.

As they headed upstairs, Neal scanned the pictures on the camera, past a blurry photo of a green haired drag queen and onto something that made him pause. It was Rovvie nude, his hair flying in front of his face.

“Did Andreas take this?” Neal said.

Rovvie sat up as Neal moved onto one more picture. It was off center, and the man’s face was obscured, but it was not Andreas. He was dark, well built, nude and sporting an erection. Rovvie grabbed the camera.

“What was that?” Neal said.

“Just playing around,” Rovvie said, getting up and heading quickly up the back stairs.

At the top of the stairs, Rovvie turned and took a deep breath, not meeting Neal’s gaze. Months back, during a drunken night out, Rovvie had told Neal he was “through” with Andreas. Soon after, Neal went into Rehab, and had forgotten all about it. Now he wondered what his friend may be up to. At the end of the hall, the door to the gold room opened then shut, emitting a rush of music, smoke and voices. Rovvie took his hand and guided him toward the door with the etched blue bird.

“You worry too much,” Rovvie said, pulling out his key, unlocking the gold room door, shoving Neal inside, then dashing away.