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body was turned, facing
sideways from the camera.  His left arm was wrapped over his lower abdomen,
his hand rested flat on his stomach, pulling the white, sleeveless t-shirt away
from his exposed breast.  A tangle of hair was visible in the upper corner
of his arm.  His left leg was raised, like he was about to take a large
step, disappearing beyond the frame right before the knee, while the bottom of
the picture ends just below Nicolas Mikhailovitch Rozhdestvensky's bare
buttocks. 
    I
slammed the album shut and shoved it inside the bundle of my pea coat as I
heard my teacher hang up the phone.  I closed the drawer and hurried back
over to the record shelves before Nicolasha came into the room.
    "I
am sorry to keep you waiting, little friend.  I was supposed to visit a
friend this evening, and I wanted to let them know I would be late.  Are
you ready to go?"  No, I growled to myself, I want to sleep over
tonight.  He walked up to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.  I
nodded, trying very hard not to show any reaction to my own thoughts. 
"Do you like my record collection?"  Yes, Papa Nicolash, I
do.  My smile said that.  It's almost as impressive as you in that
t-shirt.  The sinking feeling in my throat and chest and the warmth below
my belt said that.
    "It's
really fantastic!  Now I know where all your money goes!"  He
beamed, in an exact replica of his smile in the picture.  And I was
trapped there, somewhere in the shadows behind Nicolasha's naked body.  I
didn't want to go home.
    "We
better go.  It is getting late."
    I
didn't want to, damn it.
     
    * * *
     

This bodes some
strange eruption to our state.
     
    Hamlet
     
    It
wasn't surprising that the Volvo's radio was tuned to the mom and pop classical
channel.  We reached the southbound expressway as the station began
playing a pair of gentle, almost pastoral horn concerti by Richard Strauss,
which I thought sounded like they were written by Mozart or Schubert.  The
music kept Nicolasha company.  My mind was on my lap, where the photo
album was wrapped inside of my coat, and the biggest, longest, most painful
erection I ever had smashed against the fabric of my underwear and jeans.
    It
faded the moment I saw Dad's white Stingray in our driveway.
    Dad
walked out into the endless cold to greet us.  Huh.  Nicolasha introduced
himself, explaining how we ran into each other outside of the movie theater, my
record store shopping bonanza, and our walk back to his flat.  The entire
sequence inside of his apartment was neatly omitted.  Dad smiled at me and
turned on his considerable charm, thanking Nicolasha for his kindness and
inviting him in for a drink.  I couldn't tell if it was one of his perfect
lawyer performance smiles or a real one.  Of course my young teacher
swallowed the bait, and they went off together as I was left to unpack the
records and carry them up to my room.
    Mom
had already left for the hospital.
    I
nearly panicked when the photo album slid out of my coat and landed on the
carpet in front of my bedroom door.  I spun around to see if either Dad or
Nicolasha were near the stairs, which, thank God, they weren't, and hid the
album in my school bag before swinging it under my bed.
    I
took the recording of Thais from one of the boxes and headed downstairs,
where Nicolasha was being suitably impressed by my Dad's house tour and his
free blended malt scotch.  I held the record set behind my back as they
approached from the kitchen hallway. 
    (You
know, they actually seemed to complement each other?  There wasn't much
comparison between their respective Eastern European features, Dad with his
thin, good family lines, and Nicolasha with his pudgy, indistinct, peasant
face, or in their build or appearance, Dad still in combat fitness, Nicolasha
soft and slight, or their ages.  What was it, then?  I looked closely
at them both.  Despite the grins and chatter and all, my Dad looked hard
and ruthless, like an ex-sailor, someone who