[This is the prologue to a DOA Laurent book, which I will restart, but it would be a shame to waste this. I feel like this letter captures his voice completely. A little Romantic, a little self-pitying, a little excitable, a little anxious, a little desperate, a little strict, but mostly kind.]
Dear my Mini,
As I wake up, my friend, I am writing to you. You will keep your promise and be satisfied? Do not think I write to you only to get what it is that I want from you. Friend, it is you I want. Is that the truth? Do you believe me? Am I a deceiver?
Who writes? You know him, he is Death. Oh I am laughing! You have called me many names. I am not a sword. You wrote me a letter and you said to me, "It is difficult to get what you want. I like to play games. Write to me about yourself and perhaps I will play with you." Yes I know that is the truth. I will write to you in English, for even though you were a French lamb, you are an English ram at heart. You are? Or now Dutch? But it is English I have been pressed to learn, these years. Let us have him on his own terms. I am in a great deal of pain these days, but I will try to write clearly, and to write steadily. If you love me, read carefully.
Lately, I feel for you a deep affection. I would like to hear "Laurent, assez," from your little lips. I want it against my ear, slowly. I want it upon your tongue, and I want these things firmly. Maybe it is not you I want, after all. But maybe it is, what can a man know for certain? De mon cote, je ne suis pas tremblais. [As for me, I am not trembling.] Keep me, gently. It is your mind I intend to inhabit, these hours.
I suppose that while you twisted my sheets we did not speak much. We have been lovers so long, but not often. It is you who are deceptive, for you loved a love outside my walls. But I do not resent you this, for it is no fault of man whom he loves, if t'were, how well I may have avoided you and so many others. Do not think I say it to hurt you. I do not regret this life. I have never regretted you or any other. I am a little kissing fly lured by blinding light, by beautiful boys who say, "Who is he? Venus?" Look, do I not rely on you so? Are you not the least complicated friend in my heaven? Bright star of my liver. The black vapor of love darkens my jewels, love of you! My joints ache and say, "Miriam, Mini, Rouen." I am well-infected! I will see no chemist for a cure, will I. Precocious, aching blush. These are honeyed days, when I imagine you will come back to me, if only I am sweet to you.
What will we speak of? What will we talk of Rome? Of childhood? Will we speak of Byzantium and Alexandria? Of Saladin and Lorraine? Will we talk of the Capets and Reim and most beloved, rich and most polluted Paris? Will we talk of our love of the thickness of blood, how it tastes of iron and spins the head? Will we talk of skin heated by warm and sucking lips, and how no matter how old I grow, men blush in the same manner always, from throat and from root? If I sing a little to you of bewitchings and how I have grown entwined in this life, will you fly to me with relief for my pain? Will you give me your hand to hold, and the little white caplets I like? Will you give me these little things, which bleed from you nothing?
My little ram, my little red petal, a man for my hours, write to me your answer. I write you for your courtesy, but also for my love of you. If you deceive me and take service without reward, it will only be all that I expected. Do I ask a betrayer not to betray? Seek goodness in your heart, little white dove. Do not pity me, but give me my due. I will not beg you a drop, but I play your game in good faith.
Do not forget what I told you when I made you. Do not forget, as you have forgotten so many times, to honor those who honor you. Do not forget love, for to do so you forget yourself. And in that love, those who live for the love of you. For so many years, it is over you I have grieved. Shall I talk of it? Savoring no slice whatever of your imagined guilt? I savor nothing, for no taste excites me but the thought of some other face, not yours. Oh, fate. Do I wound you? How shall I speak of such an affection as I have of him? Pricking?
But first, we will speak of Rome, and the world into which I was born.
For whom you are the love of all the world,
Laurent.
PS: What are these photographs you have sent me of your selections from the new collections in Paris? I am screaming! What do we think of you, a mark for charlatans, a boy without sense? Such colors! I take great comfort that I have sent you not a penny. Not a penny! So that you may dress a proper pauper! It is rags for him, if he will buy rags. Flush with shame, for you make me smile beyond what we may call decent.
[February, 1998. California, USA]