Les Noyades

17: Meeting At Night

"I think I'll go to bed," he said. "It's late."

"No, no. Come sit, come talk, I have some questions." Sédar gestured again to the seat opposite him, and Rumi wondered why everybody appeared so intent to have serious conversations with him.

If he had known how serious and informative the expectations of him were he would never have joined the trip— but for Yves, and for what he held about him. Nevertheless, Rumi sat. He often did as he was told.

"Does your father know how much time you spend with Culshawe?"

He shook his head. "He doesn't like to know."

"Doesn't like to?"

"He's always very busy with his students, his work, his essays. I don't want to make him think he's not doing enough for me."

"Rumi... I like your father a lot. He's a very clever man, an even better professor. I've read lots of his work and I think he's a brilliant academic."

Rumi almost rolled his eyes– he had heard well enough about his father's excellence as a Cambridge don. He had heard it and he hardly knew why Sédar had sat him down to tell him how intelligent his father was; he knew that, and what was more they had already discussed it.

"He's a very clever man," Sédar repeated, standing up to go and check the pot as he spoke, "but he's no good as a father. You say you don't want him to think he's not doing enough, why is that? Why, when he doesn't do enough?"

"It's our way. It's not anything to do with you."

"No, but I've been worried since you walked through that door."

Rumi didn't want to so much as reply. He didn't want to invite any comment on what might worry anybody about him. If he began to worry about himself, what would he do— how could he cope? The idea of Sédar trying to have any sort of concerns about him was terrifying. He stood up and walked to the sitting room, where he found Henry stretched out across the floor, and his tail began to thump loosely against the floor with joy at seeing his newest friend— and this made Rumi smile despite his nerves when Sédar followed him through.

He squatted down to scratch Henry's ears. The two had become close friends what with all the walks Rumi liked to take him on, and he was grateful to have a distraction in pulling gently on Henry's ears when Sédar stood in the doorway and called his name several times.

"I know you wouldn't want to upset your father, Rumi, but would you please come through to the kitchen and talk to me? I can't leave the kettle on the stove."

Rumi often did what he was told.

"Thank you," Sédar said as they returned to the kitchen, this time with Henry following them so that he could lie against the stove and almost trip Sédar up as he checked on the tea.

Rumi sat down where he had been and picked up one of the books neatly piled in the centre; it was in French, and he leafed through it without much interest, but was only happy to find something to distract from the anxiety pulling at his stomach.

"I assume your father doesn't know you're a homosexual," Sédar said quite casually, and then the kettle began to whistle.

This covered up for Rumi's pure and utter astonishment at what had been said. But why so, beyond the general shock both of Sédar knowing it of him, and that he was so blunt in asking? He knew that he had always wanted men, had known it from that first time he had watched from the window at Doha and noticed how sleek the bodies of the men down below were, and how uninteresting their girlfriends in comparison. He wasn't a stranger to what he was, and Culshawe had been so influential in his understanding of it, and had nursed him through it, and yet never had any specific terms been used. It was simply known between the two that it was the way they were, and if the world did not accept it kindly then to be it; they would learn a way to live around it rather than against it.

"How did you know?" he asked, although he had many different questions he should liked to have asked. He would leave those for himself.

"Because I know Culshawe. Your father told me how he mentors you, and he only does that for people like us."

"Like us?"

"I used to be to Culshawe what Yves is now."

Rumi blushed. He could at least imagine Yves in that sense, because he was young and he had seen him in that way himself, but Sédar he could not for one moment imagine in that situation— there was such an air of scruffy dignity and respect about him that such a thing had never occurred to Rumi.

"That's what worries me. You know what that man does, don't you?"

"He lends me books."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"At least there's that for solace... It started the same way for me, and for Yves, but one day he will start to mould you into something for himself."

"No, he just lends me books. It's nothing like that."

"I thought the same, but he knew I was curious, and he used that curiosity against me."

"He won't do that to me."

"Don't let him, Rumi. You are far too young to be groped at by that old man."

Rumi despised what he was hearing. Could nobody let him have his only father-like figure? And after Yves has already exposed what he was doing with Culshawe, which put dirty shadows over both parties. But there was such despair in Sédar's eyes that Rumi could not be angry with him, although he deeply wanted to be. He meant what he was saying— there was real worry for him. Rumi had never been worried over before and it frightened him some. What an imposition it was.

He couldn't see how Culshawe would ever sully the gentility of their relationship, besides. Whatever Sédar was certain would happen could never be a reality because, as Yves had said, Culshawe saw him as completely sexless, and there was nothing more than paternal tenderness in Culshawe's care for him.

"He looks after me," Rumi explained, desperate not to let Culshawe's name darken without defence. "He's always been kind when I've needed kindness."

"Of course he has. I almost forgot how— how inattentive your father is. I'm not surprised Culshawe would want to take you under his wing, but you must be careful to keep it that way. You can't learn to think that every friendship you have must end with sordidness."

Rumi sat and thought about what he was being told as Sédar handed him a mug of the tea he had finished brewing and strained as they talked. It smelled strong and tasted stronger, and yet was not at all a flavour he recognised.

"Ginger tea," Sédar told him. "I used to drink it when I was sick back home in Senegal."

"Senegal?"

"Oh, the most wonderful of all countries. I'd never have left if I didn't start falling in love with the wrong people."

"It's not wrong," Rumi said firmly; this was one of the first times he had spoken firmly.

"No. No, you're quite right." Sédar reached across the table to gently touch Rumi's cheek. "I wish I had been so sure when I was your age. You must be falling in love with everybody."

"No. Only one person."

"Yves, of course."

Rumi chose to sip at his tea then. Sédar laughed.

"A terrible choice," he remarked. "He is beautiful and he is smart. That is quite dangerous."

"He's not dangerous."

"I'll let you find out for yourself. There's nothing to educate like falling in love."

Rumi didn't know what Sédar meant. He would come to understand it soon, but at that time he was mercifully innocent to love and its complexities. How much he had to learn.