Limits of Justice, The (11 page)

I woke Saturday morning to begin the humiliating process of collecting my own stool samples, according to the printed instructions in the three packets provided by the Miller Medical Clinic. Included in each packet was a tiny plastic scoop, three vials with different chemicals for detecting intestinal parasites, and latex gloves for sanitary purposes—a kind of do-it-yourself home kit that saved considerable time and expense but left me feeling one step closer to the world of the chronically diseased.

With the humbling procedure completed, and the vials properly sealed and inscribed, I hopped in the Mustang and drove half a mile down to that massive shrine to overpriced consumer goods known as Beverly Center. The eight-story indoor mall, anchored on one corner by the Hard Rock Cafe, featured futuristic escalators slanting up the building’s exterior, carrying shoppers and their credit cards to their destinations like lemmings to the cliff’s edge. I reluctantly joined them, and in the next half hour spent several hundred dollars for funeral clothes that presumably would not disrespect the dead, and picked up an item or two to help me look more presentable for my dinner date that night with Oree Joffrien.

At the risk of shattering yet another gay stereotype, I confess that shopping has never been among my favorite pastimes. Upon entering a department store, I tend to get edgy and anxious. After several minutes inspecting aisles and piles of sweatshop merchandise destined to be out of fashion with the publication of next month’s
GQ,
I invariably feel a migraine coming on. When I left Beverly Center that morning, carrying two bags heavy with new apparel, I felt a sense of relief akin to what deep-sea divers must feel coming up for air in a slow but desperate race against the bends.

On my way home, as planned, I made two stops. The first was at a chain bookstore, to purchase any available paperbacks of Randall Capri’s older titles still in print. The second was at Horace Hyatt’s studio. Hyatt was in the phone book, which listed a West Hollywood address in the tony residential section just south of Melrose Avenue and the Pacific Design Center, where the homes tended to be small but “architecturally significant,” with an eclectic blend of designs and styles reflecting the artistic and homosexual makeup of the neighborhood. Hyatt lived in a two-story stucco compound painted burnt orange and trimmed in teal, which may sound ugly but wasn’t. A natural redwood fence separated the yard and house from a narrow private parking area paved with brick, just off the street. Above the six-foot fence I could see a tiny forest of ficus, tree ferns, and Japanese maple, whose green canopy cast the interior of the property in speckled shade.

I parked on the bricks, climbed from the Mustang with my copy of
Long Legs, Smooth Chests,
and pressed a small button next to the front gate. I’d called ahead and spoken briefly with Hyatt, telling him I was a devoted fan who hoped he might sign my copy of his most famous book. He’d been cordial and flattered, and asked me to drop by shortly before noon. Now, I heard his distinctive voice over the intercom—clipped British accent, slightly fey—requesting that I please come in, followed by the sound of the gate being unlatched electronically.

I stepped inside to the sound of splashing water, and saw several fountains about the yard, each of them designed in sharp, ninety-degree angles and a series of steps that allowed the water to flow lazily from one section to the next. Narrow, bark-covered pathways wound through the dappled shade, connecting the fountains or leading to the house, through grounds that had been planted thickly with conservatory plants, many of which were flowering. I saw fuchsia, orchid, cyclamen, banana, philodendron, begonia, staghorn fern, and another dozen or so varieties I couldn’t name. Stone benches had been placed here and there along the paths or deeper in alcoves carved from the lush plantings, suggesting a garden meant for hospitality and contemplation. Above the splashing fountains, in the thick foliage of the ficus trees, I heard a cacophony of birds, and glanced up to see a flock of colorful wild parrots that must have stopped for a rest on their way to or from more southern climes, which was not uncommon in these parts.

Then I saw Horace Hyatt coming down the main walk from the house, and he was not at all what I’d expected, though I’m not sure exactly what that was. He was a short, distinguished-looking man in his fifties, with carefully combed silver hair and a thick, well-clipped mustache. His clear blue eyes were almost startling in their directness and intensity. His skin was well-tanned and wrinkle-free, and he had the lean, hard body of a welterweight prizefighter in his prime—narrow hips and a well-developed torso packed into a skintight, short-sleeved shirt of pale blue silk that showed off every ripple. Everything about him, including his brisk gait, radiated health and energy.

“Benjamin, I believe you said your name was when you called.”

His smile widened under the silvery mustache, and he put out his hand. We shook, and he gently touched my left arm, turning me toward the house.

“Do come in, but I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient. I’m in the midst of a session, though we’re nearly done. Do you have a few minutes?”

I told him I did, and he escorted me up the front steps and into the house. It was an uncluttered space of sandalwood floors, white walls, and odd angles, amply bathed in light from irregularly shaped windows and a second-story skylight over the central entry and living room. Across the room, tall windows looked out on the smaller, rear yard, which was ringed and made private by more trees, and featured a circular Jacuzzi on a wooden deck, where several cats lay sleeping.

We stopped in the center of the room, while Hyatt’s hand remained on my elbow. All around me, in photographs, paintings, and objets d’art, I saw the focus of Horace Hyatt’s life: young men.

“Perhaps you’d like to observe the last few minutes of the session, see how I work.”

“Your subject won’t mind?”

“Mike? Not at all. He’s utterly without vanity or self-consciousness. If I sense that you’re a distraction, I’ll simply ask you to wait downstairs.”

I followed Hyatt down a hallway to our left, then up a stairway that led to his second-floor studio, which rose above the trees and picked up southern light through windows and a second skylight overhead, all of which were equipped with shades that were now drawn open. Lighting equipment stood off to one side, out of the way, and there was a twin-reflex camera on a tripod in the center of the room. The walls and ceiling were white, and the floor in the shooting area had been covered with paper in the same neutral shade; in the middle of the floor was a rectangular wooden pedestal, also painted white. Atop the pedestal, a lanky teenage boy wearing only blue jeans sat with his ankles crossed, hugging his bent knees with skinny, tattooed arms. He might have been seventeen or eighteen; his blond hair was nearly shoulder length, curly and untended, and the golden fuzz on his chin and upper lip suggested a face as yet untouched by a razor. Three small, gold rings decorated the lobe of his left ear, and his right nostril was pierced with a silver stud.

Hyatt removed his loafers and crossed the white paper in stocking feet.

“Mike, we have a visitor—Benjamin.”

Mike’s greeting was teenaged and perfunctory.

“Hey.”

“Benjamin’s going to observe our final few shots, if that’s all right.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Let’s get you arranged again.”

Hyatt set about positioning the boy on the pedestal, touching him delicately in the most minimal way, as if he were a fragile object that could break at any moment. When Hyatt was done, Mike sat on the pedestal with his legs and bare feet dangling over the edge, leaning back on propped arms, slightly and carelessly slouching, yet stretched out in a way that revealed every inch of his upper body, making him seem totally vulnerable and at the mercy of our eyes and the camera’s lens. The light from around and above bathed him gently yet completely, catching the golden silkiness of the mustache and goatee that were just beginning to sprout, as well as a few tendrils of hair about his pale, babyish nipples, and a soft but thicker weave of blond hairs descending from his belly button, where Hyatt had undone the top two buttons of the boy’s beltless jeans. In the perfect light, I could see the delicate curve of his long lashes, the tiny folds of remaining baby fat in his otherwise flat belly; yet the careless, almost sullen look on his young face and in his dull gray eyes suggested an older, more experienced being within.

With one finger, Hyatt tilted the boy’s chin ever so slightly, not more than half an inch. He brushed a few stray hairs away from Mike’s eyes, then changed his mind and fussed with them until they had fallen back into place. When he stepped back, looking over his model from head to toe, Hyatt’s eyes burned with concentration and focus, suggesting an almost messianic passion for his work that was in complete contrast to the utter lack of expression in his subject. Hyatt stepped behind his camera and began shooting, working slowly, giving instructions between shots, asking Mike to shift his eyes this way or that, part his lips or wet them, move his head a bit.

“We’re almost done, Mike. Just one more thing. I want you to shift forward a little, taking your weight off your right arm.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, that’s it. Let me get you in focus. Now I want you to touch your chest with your right hand. Touch the nipple. Yes, good, brush your fingers across it.”

“This way?”

“Yes, just like that. I want you to enjoy how your body feels, Mike. That’s right, touch yourself ever so gently, feel the warmth of your body, sense its power, its natural beauty. Touch yourself as if your body belongs only to you, and no one else. Touch yourself with love, Mike, but keep your eyes right where they are, looking right into the lens.”

Hyatt kept shooting, while Mike followed his instructions as if spellbound. As he caressed his shapeless chest, his nipples rose and became firm, and his eyes changed, their dullness giving way to a reluctant sparkle, as if he were waking up from within, feeling himself come to life, and surprised by it. Hyatt shot perhaps a dozen frames over the next minute or two, keeping totally silent. Then the session was over, and Hyatt was coming around from behind his camera, handing Mike his T-shirt, socks, and shoes.

“You were marvelous, Michael. Simply perfect.”

He kissed the boy chastely on the forehead.

“We’ll see you downstairs?”

Mike nodded, and Hyatt led me from the room. We stopped in the kitchen, where he opened a bottle of Evian water for each of us, chattering excitedly about how well the shoot had gone, how ideal his model had been.

“Where did you find him?”

“On the street, of course.”

“You’re saying he hustles?”

We made our way back down the hallway, to the living room.

“That’s the sad part, isn’t it? I bring out his beauty for a moment or two, let him shine, let him get a sense of himself. I try to find the perfection in him and preserve it if I can, in the darkroom. Meanwhile, he returns to the streets, to a world waiting to eat him alive, waiting to destroy him.”

Mike joined us, pulling on his T-shirt as he came down the hall.

“Can I get you a sandwich, Michael? Something to drink?”

“Naw, thanks, I gotta get going.”

“I’ll need you to sign the release form.”

“Sure.”

Hyatt produced a form contract and a pen and handed them to Mike, who sat on a deep black leather couch and signed the piece of paper laid out on a glass-top table. As he stood, Hyatt reached into his hip pocket, pulled out a slim leather wallet, removed three twenty-dollar bills, which he handed to the boy.

“You’ll spend it on food and a place to stay, yes? No drugs. Promise me?”

Mike’s gray eyes, dull again, became elusive.

“Yeah, I’ll get a room.”

“You can always sleep here, you know. I’ve got the spare bedroom.”

“OK, Horace.”

“You’ve got my card. You need only ring me up or buzz me at the gate.”

“I gotta go, OK?”

Hyatt placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he moved toward the door.

“You don’t have to demean yourself, Michael. You don’t have to sell yourself. You’re better than that, you know.”

“Sure. Thanks, Horace.”

And then he was on his way down the front walk, tucking the three bills into the pocket of his ripped and faded jeans. Hyatt stood at the glass door, watching him wind his way through the greenery, until he was out the gate. When he turned back to me, the brightness and excitement in his eyes were gone. He looked distracted, maybe a little sad.

“That book you wanted me to sign, why don’t we take care of that?”

I opened
Long Legs, Smooth Chests
to the title page, and Hyatt seated himself on the couch.

“Did you want a personal inscription or just my signature?”

“Something personal would be nice.”

“You’re queer, I presume?”

“You presume correctly.”

“A chickenhawk, by any chance?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t use my books for masturbation fantasies then? If you’ll pardon my being so personal.”

“No.”

He smiled thinly.