“Let me take a wild guess, Templeton. Being on the rebound, which is most of the time, you fell immediately in lust, and you still haven’t quite come out of it.”
“It wasn’t like that, I swear.”
“What was it like?”
“I really liked him, Justice. We got along so easily. He’s interested in politics, social issues, race, all the things that matter to me. He’s even a fan of straight-ahead jazz, like me.” She laughed awkwardly. “And, well, like you.”
I tried to keep my voice from grating.
“Go on.”
“We went out a few times. Dinner, a movie, coffee afterward. We became friends very quickly—that should have been a tip-off right away that he wasn’t straight.” She shrugged, and sighed again. “Not with my luck, anyway.”
“He sounds perfect.”
She sat forward, brightening.
“He is, Justice! Did I mention that he’s quite good-looking? Not that it would matter to you, of course.”
“As a matter of fact, you did. Twice.”
“I hate it when you get that edge in your voice.”
“I hate it when you attempt to engineer my life.”
“I think I’ve done a pretty good job so far. With Harry’s help.”
I wasn’t amused, and didn’t pretend to be. I finished my coffee, fixing Templeton with my most malevolent stare. Suddenly, her eyes darted with relief across the restaurant, toward the entrance.
“There he is now!” She raised her long, slim arm, waving a hand. “Oree! Over here!”
Templeton hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d used the word
spectacular
to describe Oree Joffrien. He was roughly my height, six feet, maybe an inch taller, with a lean, lanky frame and surprisingly broad shoulders that tapered to a waist so narrow it suggested that his upper body might topple. The attractive frame was draped in a stylish, loose-fitting, dark brown jacket, a brightly patterned tie against an off-white dress shirt, and pleated, tawny-colored slacks that floated slightly as he moved. I figured his soft loafers for Italian, and probably expensive. His motion had the ease and grace of an athlete, reminiscent of the finest runners—those in the long-legged events, like the hurdles, or the four hundred meters.
For all that, it was his remarkable face that riveted my eye: molasses brown, clean-shaven, with piercing dark eyes set at an attractive slant, hinting at the Asian blood I’d been cautioned not to mention. His cheekbones arched dramatically, like his dark brows and oddly pointed ears, toward a smooth-domed head shaved clean. His nose was broad and blunt, and his upper lip voluptuously large, shaped sensually like the double-curved crown of a valentine heart. With his keen, narrow eyes and unsmiling mouth, he looked almost fierce. Not a scowl, exactly; more like a statement of pride, challenging anyone to think otherwise. What some with small minds might call supreme confidence in a white man, and arrogance in a man who was black.
As he made his way in our direction, Templeton leaned across the table and said quickly: “I didn’t find out until our third date that he’s gay. How was I supposed to know? He’s so masculine.”
“I thought that stereotype died with Rock Hudson.”
She made a quick face, then smiled as we stood to meet Oree Joffrien. The hostess was right behind him, bringing menus. Templeton introduced us and we shook hands—single grip, the old-fashioned way, which seemed to be coming back into style—but he barely looked at me as we sat down. Without being asked, he ordered a bottle of Congolese beer called Ngok’. The menus were handed around, and they kept us busy for a minute or two. Joffrien was apparently well acquainted with the cuisine—it was he, I learned, who had suggested we meet at the Addis Ababa and Templeton asked him for recommendations.
“Both the
wat’
and the
alich’a
are quite good. They’re both spicy beef stews—red peppers in the
wat’
, green peppers in the
alich’a
.” Joffrien’s voice was deep, rich, and cultured, with a trace of Louisiana bayou country. “I’m told the
kitfo
is also quite good here, though it’s beef served raw. If you’d prefer it lightly fried, ask for
lebleb
.”
Templeton made a face at the mention of uncooked beef.
“I’m suddenly feeling veggie.”
“You might try the lentil salad then. They season it with chopped shallots, lime, minced ginger root, and serrano chiles. Tasty, and fairly substantial.”
She slapped her menu shut.
“You’ve made up my mind. Justice?”
I closed my menu as well.
“I’ll try the beef
t’ibs
,” I said evenly, referring to a braised dish served with a hot red chile paste on the side.
Joffrien raised his eyebrows in understated salute.
“You’re the adventurous type.”
“Or maybe just independent-minded.”
His penetrating eyes settled calmly on mine.
“Admirable, either way.”
“To a point,” Templeton put in. “Justice has a way of taking things to extremes.”
“I got that impression when I read the
GQ
piece.”
This time, my eyebrows did the arching, though less pleasantly.
“You’ve already seen Templeton’s article?”
“She faxed me a copy this morning. Thought it might be a good icebreaker when we met this evening.” He glanced her way, as calm and composed as a Buddha, but with the trace of an ironic smile softening his formidable face. “That was the way you put it, wasn’t it, Alex?”
I shot Templeton a glance sharp enough to slice a cheap steak. She responded with a sheepish look, as the hostess arrived with Joffrien’s beer to take our orders. When that was accomplished, and she was gone, an awkward silence fell over us. Joffrien sipped his beer thoughtfully, stared into the distance a moment, then turned purposefully in my direction.
“Alex tells me you might be looking for a writing assignment.”
“I’m always looking for a writing assignment. Given my history, they’re not easy to come by.”
“It was my impression you were doing fairly well.”
“I’ve managed a few freelance magazine pieces lately. Mostly nonmainstream, publications like
Out
and
Poz
. That’s about it.”
“You don’t sound all that happy about the way it’s going.”
“I’m grateful for the work.”
“The assignments aren’t meaty enough?”
“I’m getting strictly color pieces, offbeat features, usually on the seamy side. As if my checkered past enables me to bring something special to tawdry subject matter, but also limits me to it. I’m becoming a journalistic oddity, the reporter tainted by scandal, and I’m not sure I like that. On the other hand, I made my bed, so I have to sleep in it, don’t I?”
“Restlessly, it seems.”
Joffrien’s eyes had never left mine; I felt strangely connected to him, almost against my will.
“I’ve always been restless. And you? Does academia suit you?”
Instead of answering, he looked up as the hostess returned, accompanied by a slim, handsome waiter with the same dusky skin, who served plates all around, and placed bowls of side dishes in the center of the table. We ate in the traditional way: with our fingers, using swatches of
injera
bread in place of utensils, mopping up the rich, spicy pastes and sauces with the meat and vegetables. During a long silence, I caught Joffrien exchanging a glance with Templeton. A moment later, he spoke offhandedly, without looking up from his food.
“I have a friend, a television producer, who might have a project for you.”
I swiped at the red chile paste on my plate, fed the peppery
injera
into my mouth, and chewed, saying nothing. Joffrien pushed his point.
“Have you ever considered working in television?”
“Not for a moment.”
“Justice considers television the death knell of civilization.”
“My friend, Cecile Chang, does some interesting work. Documentaries mostly, funded by grants. At the moment, she’s producing a nine-part series for PBS.”
“What’s her topic?”
“AIDS.” He hesitated, as if to let the word sink in. “From what I read in
GQ
, you might bring something special to the subject—some interesting insights.”
“I’m afraid my credibility is suspect.”
“Cecile’s a maverick. She likes to take chances on people, looks for the alternative viewpoint. When she did a series on prisons, she hired an ex-con to write one of the segments.”
“Sounds like an interesting lady.”
“I’d be happy to give her a call.”
“Thanks, but I don’t know the slightest thing about writing a television script.”
“Neither did the ex-con. Cecile gave him the guidance he needed. He won a Peabody Award.”
“He didn’t have to give it back, did he?”
Joffrien grinned, and shook his head.
“No, Ben, he didn’t have to give it back.”
Templeton leaned forward on her elbows, her hands folded optimistically.
“At least you could talk to her, Benjamin.”
“I guess I could do that.” She beamed. Joffrien didn’t move a muscle, just kept his reassuring eyes on me, as if giving me whatever time I needed. Accepting kindness, even simple compliments, had never been easy for me; I had grown up tasting love in the form of scraps, handed out on loan, attached to debts and expectations. I believe Joffrien sensed that instinctively; perhaps he’d even read something of it in Templeton’s
GQ
profile, and remembered. Whatever the reason, he exuded patience and understanding. I was beginning to see why Templeton had fallen so hard for him so fast.
“I appreciate the offer, Oree.”
His voice became warm, his words slow.
“Not at all. Cecile’s an old friend.”
Templeton clapped her hands.
“Just like the three of us!” Suddenly, she was standing, looking very pleased with the way things had gone. “I hate to be a party pooper, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you two to have dessert without me.”
I looked up, perplexed.
“You’re leaving already?”
“I’ve got a shot at a plum assignment. Editorial meeting first thing in the morning. I want to be well prepared.”
I stood, worried as much about the check as being left alone with Oree Joffrien. I had no credit card—hadn’t for years—and was carrying barely enough cash for a tip.
“It’s not that late, Templeton. Stay awhile.”
“I’ve got a ton of notes to go over, Justice. Harry’s going to choose a lead reporter to cover the selection process for the new police chief. I think I’ve got the inside track, and I don’t want to blow it.”
Joffrien stood and helped her on with her coat.
“From what I hear, with an African American chief suddenly retiring, the old boys’ club sees an opportunity to get the first white chief appointed since Daryl Gates.”
“That’s one of the issues, for sure.”
Joffrien’s smile turned sly.
“The one no one wants to talk about.”
Templeton grinned.
“Maybe the
Sun
will change that.”
“We’ll keep our fingers crossed for you.”
She and Joffrien hugged, and she kissed him on the cheek. When she embraced me, her lips were close to my ear, whispering.
“Don’t worry about the check. It was all taken care of in advance.”
“You really planned this well, didn’t you?”
“Just have a good time, OK?”
She kissed me quickly and left us. Joffrien and I watched her disappear out to the street, where headlights and taillights crisscrossed in the deepening darkness.
Joffrien moved first, retaking his chair, refilling my cup.
“She’s full of surprises, isn’t she?”
“Templeton? More and more.”
When he’d warmed my cup, he refilled his own, and we began to talk. An hour later, I realized that the sole subject of conversation had been me. Joffrien had skillfully steered the discussion back to Templeton’s
GQ
piece, my childhood in Buffalo, my unfortunate flirtation with patricide, and the subsequent deaths, to alcohol and drugs respectively, of my mother and sister. It wasn’t territory I was eager to reexplore, yet Joffrien had coaxed me through the entire story—including my fast rise in the journalism world after college, straight through to the fabricated
L.A. Times
series that had won me the Pulitzer eight years ago, along with a ruined reputation when I’d been found out. In his steady, mesmerizing way, Joffrien kept me talking until I was speaking falteringly of my relationship with Harry Brofsky, my onetime mentor, who had maneuvered me three years ago into teaming up with Templeton on a reporting assignment.
Joffrien folded his long fingers under his chin, regarding me thoughtfully. “You survived. You’ve got friends, your health—a lot to be grateful for.”
“I suppose that’s true. Harry and Templeton try to remind me of it when I forget.”
His smile was comforting, almost paternal.