The Love of Jonathan Honey

By Benjamin Greennagel

The parlor drips with bourbon, amber light, flooding the french doors as the sun sinks into the sea. I work at my canvas as other patrons of the hostel pass through, lingering at the edge of the room to watch me. A postcard rests on the tray of my easel, which feels more imposing than the gaze of my uninvited audience.

Jonathan Honey

Maison du XXème Siècle

Cannes, France

13 June 1932

             My dear boy,

I expect you have been captured by the rich allure of Provence’s beauty, which is why you have failed to acknowledge my inquiries. I am pleased on your behalf. Still, I must insist on your response. You needn’t bother crafting a lengthy report; a simple yes or no will suffice, and I shall sign the cheque if you decide the opportunity suits you.

Autumn is approaching, with all its fickle prospects.

            Warm wishes to you.

Ms. Moira Mayfield

Dried paint coats my fingers, stiffening and cracking across my knuckles. I have an unfortunate habit of using my fingers to mix paints; I grow too lazy to find my palette knife, and I enjoy seeing the colors smeared against my skin.

Before me is the half-finished portrait of a monk standing in a Franciscan Garden. Achieving the right color for the hydrangeas in the corner has caused me a shocking amount of trouble, and my hands are now a vivid shade of purple.

“I hope they’re paying you,” says a voice behind me. Phillip leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed, pinned tight against the cream-colored fabric of his shirt. His eyes, heavy and dark, flicker over to the couple who has been observing me for the longest. Noticing this, the pair quickly shuffles out of the room.

I return to my painting. “We made a strict agreement,” I say. “They can look over my shoulder, so long as they don’t tell my instructor that I come home plastered every night.”

My paintbrush settles onto the tray with a soft tap, and the hushed blend of chatter and waves rolling against the shoreline drifts up from the promenade.

“Please, don’t let me interrupt your work,” says Phillip.

I fold up my tattered painting rags and tuck my easel in the corner; there isn’t enough space for me to keep it in my bedroom. “That bastard has been staring at me all day,” I say, pointing at the sullen, robe-clad figure on the canvas. “I’d prefer your company.”

We descend a stuffy stairwell, which releases us into a warm, dry evening. We take our seats at a cafe across from the harbor, beside a bustling, winding road that stretches northward, away from the town, up into deep green hills.

            Coffee appears in front of us at once, and Phillip orders our food in French. “You’re almost done with your studies, then?” he says once we are alone again.

            “I’m not sure,” I say. “There’s an elderly woman I take care of back in England, Ms. Mayfield, whom I’ve grown rather fond of. She’s very wealthy, and she’s offered to fund my schooling if I were to continue.”

            “How generous.”

The waiter returns, and our table becomes crowded with soft-boiled eggs, pains au chocolat, and orange halves. We enjoy the late breakfast—a welcome atonement for last night’s debauchery.

            “But she makes the offer under one condition,” I respond through a mouthful of pastry. “I must study law, not art. She was a lobbyist, and I think she wants me to become her successor. She’s quite radical.” An image of her leaps to the forefront of my mind—the tight-lipped, broad-shouldered woman who towers over her caretakers and is often found lecturing to the postman on her staunch principles of ethics.

            “You have many interests,” he says. “Are you musical, as well?”

My throat closes as I take a sip of coffee, which launches me into a coughing fit. “Musical?” I continue once the fit has passed. “I’m not sure what you mean. My father taught me piano, but I despise reading sheet music. Why? Do you play?”

I think I have succeeded in avoiding his question, but there is something in his smile that is supreme and confident. Knowing. “I do. I’ve been to Berlin many times. They have musical celebrations there—cabarets and festivals. Everyone is welcome.”

The image of Phillip moving through the dusky, jubilant chaos of a cabaret fills me with a strange sense of envy. I can’t imagine how someone could so effortlessly weave their way into new worlds. “Why do you study languages?” I ask.

“I want to know people. And people are comfortable speaking in their own language,” he responds at once, pointing his fork at me. “Why do you paint?”

“To represent people. I want them to look at their portraits and feel understood. That’s why I struggle to imagine myself pursuing a larger role. I’ll feel disconnected.”

He takes a long sip of his coffee, licks his lips, then rests his forearms on the table. “Is law not a form of representation?”

I have already heard this question from Ms. Mayfield. In earnest, I’ve asked myself it many times. “But if I were to become a public figure, my life would no longer be my own. What about the things I wish to keep private?” I say, lowering my voice. “How could I represent people who disagree with my character?”

An odd look of weariness crosses his face. “We aren’t something to be disagreed with. It is our duty to live truthfully, whether others understand us or not.”

“I don’t know if I can do both. I want to, but how can I commit myself to contradictory endeavors?” For a moment, a tightening sensation overwhelms my chest, like a serpent twisting itself around my torso. I want to break free of it, to run up the road into the deep green hills and never return. I think I could live a long, humble life if I were alone.

If only I were alone.

“You love what you love, and you pursue what you wish,” he responds. “What’s contradictory about that?”

I cannot resist a smile. “Ms. Mayfield would like you very much.”

“Well, I should like to meet her.”

His shirt hangs loose now, and a gentle breeze exposes his collarbone, gleaming with sweat and a small patch of fine hair. I take a bite out of my orange and turn my attention toward the harbor. The wind rattles our empty cups in their saucers, and the clear sky scatters into shades of violet.

Two streets away from our cafe, a colonnade extends along a quiet alley, where we decide to walk after we finish our meal. A man sings and plays accordion at the far end, music reverberating against the narrow space, making it sound as though we’re in the horn of a gramophone. A couple dances in the yellow light of a nearby lamppost, her skirt coiling around his ankles, tugging the pair together as they dip into mesmerizing twirls.

Something shifts in my stomach. “It’s shameful to dance alone,” I say, my eyes fixed on the couple.

I am met with silence. After a measure of contemplation, Phillip says, “Then who are we to stand here and watch?”

His palm presses into mine, and he pulls me down the colonnade, swinging me into something that resembles a waltz. The couple laughs with us. They see two friends, early into a night of innocent revelry. If they suspect anything more, they don’t seem to care.

            While we are dancing, he tips his head forward and says, “If you pursue your postgraduate studies, will you still associate with me?”

            For a moment, I falter. “I hadn’t considered it. Will you still be traveling this autumn?”

           “I hope to travel for the rest of my life.”

           I have no answer. All I can muster is: “I hope to see you again.”

He spins me behind one of the white columns, and the pooling darkness envelopes us.

Our movements are instinctive and parallel as we reach for each other. It stings; the hair around his bottom lip is coarse and abrasive against mine. The sensation is fascinating and foreign and altogether strange—not only because it’s my first time kissing a man, but my first time kissing anyone at all. I am grateful the street is dark.

The air is cold when we break away from each other. He tilts his head back and releases a triumphant whoop, which echoes down the lane.

A rush of panic seizes me, and I hush him through a shaky laugh. “Someone will see us!”

“Let them see.”

We remain there, swaying between the columns, dancing over mud-stained cobblestone. Hours later, as I walk back to the hostel, I can still hear the man playing his accordion, slurring lyrics that are already difficult for me to understand. I try to translate them anyway. It’s a song about two people meeting in Paname one evening. Or perhaps it is two birds? Something about paradise, and a heart full of hope…

            I dissolve into the wonderful mass of blankets and pillows. In the dim, bleary moments before sleep, my roommate’s bedside clock rings out, and I watch as the sunrise drowns out the stars.

*

            The Catholic bastard is staring at me with narrowed eyes. I must resist the temptation to slash a thick streak of paint across his face.

            “Dear boy, take a break. You look as though you’re contemplating murder,” Ms. Mayfield says without looking up. We’ve been in the parlor of her flat all morning, her nose driven into one of her cloth-bound, age-worn books, while I sit at my easel by the window, overlooking the park on Endell Street.

Her new caretaker enters with a small bundle of envelopes. “Your post,” she says, handing a portion of the stack to me. She hands the rest to Ms. Mayfield, along with a thick bouquet of flowers.

            The first envelope has a United States stamp in the corner, and my name is scrawled in the center. Without speaking, I tuck my tattered rag into the pocket of my trousers and turn toward the stairs.

“Oh!” Ms. Mayfield hums and considers the flowers in her hand, then says, “Jonathan—these are for you.”

            I grip the banister. “Me? Are you sure?”

Ms. Mayfield purses her lips and plucks a note from its wrappings. “They’re from an unidentified lady in America.”

She hands me the note and watches as I inspect the bouquet. It’s beautiful, bursting with red roses, white carnations, and purple hyacinths.

Perhaps it’s the angle at which I am standing, but it looks like Ms. Mayfield is peering at me over the rim of her small, round spectacles. “Is this someone you met in Provence?” She clicks her tongue. “Girls sending men flowers… Oh, how the times have changed.”

I must avoid any further prodding; I have the feeling I would be unable to lie under her gaze. “Please excuse me, Ms. Mayfield.”

I take my post and the flowers and dash upstairs. I tear open the letter while I fumble with the handle of the bedroom door, shoving my way into the room and collapsing into an armchair by the window.

Jonathan Honey

61 Long Acre

London, UK WC2

1 August 1932

Dearest Jack,

            It’s a terrible understatement to say I miss you.

            I’m thrilled to hear you will be moving forward with your education, and I’m certain you will adore your postgraduate lifestyle. Please keep me updated on what you learn—I will offer you lessons in the language of your choice in exchange for a new reading list.

I have been offered another teaching position in Berlin and will send you my new address when I have it. I am glad to be closer to you, and I will do everything in my power to ensure our paths cross again. No matter how far I travel, I’ll always find my way back to you.

Yours,

Phillip LaFortune

I am quick to move the letter out of my lap when I am done reading so my tears do not wash away his precious words.

            Dusk falls quickly on the street outside. Through the window, I watch people join hands—those who can parade the streets of Covent Garden while the sun still sets. I would often look at them and yearn for a future that may never come. But at this moment, I am content to watch. For now, I am one of them.