Free The Swede by Robert Karjel Page A

air was sweet, the interior black. There was a suppressed restlessness. Everything floating. A state of preparation: short conversations, smiles, ice spun in half-full glasses. The bartender nodded, recognizing Grip. Two mouthfuls of whisky at a time; the skin on his back felt the slightest touch. There were glances he let slide, and others he eagerly devoured. All that remained of his other life was the name Grip, and hardly that. His entire life was on idle on the other side of the Atlantic. Two months that didn’t exist. Another I began to form: caterpillar, chrysalis, empty shell, butterfly. Ernst Grip saw only men around him. A hand groped next to him. He took it in his and led it inexorably up between his legs.
    The first time he came, man to man, there were no names, just lips, thighs, and greedy nakedness. Not the second or third time either.For more than two weeks, he gave in to it—he counted sixteen days, or more precisely, sixteen nights. It was as if he had been lame and suddenly learned to walk, never wanting to stop. To express himself in a way that did not require darkness, only the anonymity of bars. Tips on where he should go next whispered as golden chain letters between blow jobs and caresses. A nocturnal pilgrimage between beds and bars. First mostly around Williamsburg, but soon enough also to Manhattan and Chelsea. He woke up sore and empty, always naked, always as himself.
    B enjamin Hayden was the first Grip met in daylight. He was wiry, calm, and squinted whenever he poured something into a glass.
    The first time they crossed paths was at a vernissage with good champagne but lousy art. Benjamin had a small entourage around him, his thin, tanned arm carrying a bottle of champagne he’d stolen from a waitress. He poured for himself and others, pointing casually with the bottleneck at the row of paintings, and said something about how here was yet another American who painted Tuscany as cheap orgasms in ocher. A woman laughed loudest; he filled her glass again, squinting. Then he came up to Grip, standing by himself a few steps away, looked at the canvas in front of him, and said, “Don’t you think Italian customs should seize the paints and brushes from every American who lands at Florence airport?”
    A pair of heels clicked sharply across the floor, a masculine woman in a suit. A pair of long earrings dangled, while in the doorway behind her the waitress stood pointing.
    “Excuse me,” said Benjamin to Grip. Apart from the sound of her heels, he couldn’t have caught more than a movement in the corner of his eye, but he turned to her with warm and open arms.
    A few nights later they passed each other at a bar. Benjamin stopped Grip with one hand over his chest and held out the other to shake.
    “Ben,” he said, presenting himself without the condescension of the vernissage, as if it were obvious that they should get to know each other. It was evening, night thirteen in Grip’s new era.
    There was an undercurrent in Ben that made Grip hold back a little. His first instinct was that Ben was married—a sensitivity he carried from his past. Later he would understand that it was Ben who saw more, who could see what glowed beneath the surface of Grip. He recognized the newcomer, one who had just taken the leap, insatiable, wanting only to devour. Ben was beyond playing at something he was not. Although there were suggestions, and they circled hungrily around each other, they never made contact beyond the first handshake. When decision hung in the air, and Grip pressed on again, Ben took a business card and tucked it in his breast pocket.
    “Please, let me know when you’re ready,” he said. “We can . . .” He paused, struck his finger against the rim of his glass on the bar, looked up again. “Good luck.”
    Later that night and for the next three nights, Grip found other men to be devoured by. He needed to recuperate, didn’t realize it then, didn’t even think about it, but was