Martin gave them both a tight smile, trying to get his footing. This man was Seb’s friend, and Seb was, he hoped, Martin’s friend, so he should at least try.
“Seb says you’re his agent?”
“Among other things. Sebastian’s endeavors only keep me so busy. I represent a few other creative individuals in the region, and dabble in real estate on the side.”
“Kenny flips houses.”
“Not me, personally.” Kenneth put a hand to his throat. “I’ve never been handy. But I know a good investment when I see one, and a crew of strong men with tools is always fun to have around, don’t you think?”
Seb laughed. The history between them was obvious. The extent of their togetherness wasn’t clear, but their schtick was born of years of familiarity. Martin tried to ignore the growing feeling of being the third wheel.
“How long have you known each other?” he asked.
Kenneth smirked again and glanced at Seb. “Too long. We were in college together until Seb dropped out. He was the best wingman a guy could ask for, though, so I felt I should return the favor and keep his artistic ass out of debt and obscurity once I graduated.”
“You dropped out of college?” Martin asked.
Seb squinted at him, then at Kenneth, but he shrugged. “They weren’t teaching me anything I didn’t already know.”
“A man of the people, our Sebastian.” Kenneth smiled. “Who needs a diploma from the elitist college system when you can scrape together a living using a utility knife and glue?”
“I don’t hear you complaining when your commission check rolls in.”
Kenneth inclined his head. “And what about yourself?” he asked Martin. “Sebastian says you’re illuminating the world on the works of lost poets and gay icons.”
Martin gripped his mug a little tighter. Theyhadtalked about him. Seb had told Kenneth about his research. Fear pinged in his chest over what else Seb might have said.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Martin said. “Bergmann was a man who stood up for what he believed in while facing incredible evil. He wasn’t trying to be an icon.”
“Real icons never are.” Kenneth quirked an eyebrow.
“You said he was an activist, though?” Seb sounded interested, whereas Kenneth sounded like he was looking for an opportunity to make a joke. Martin focused his attention on Seb and was rewarded with a smile that made his heart skip.
“Bergmann was part of a group of poets and artists who met regularly and produced work with queer themes. Most people don’t know that Germany was pretty socially liberal in the years between the wars. Bergmann lived with another man, Oscar Strauss, and it’s thought that they were lovers.”
Kenneth opened his mouth to speak, but Seb jumped in first. “You said they only found out about Bergmann’s works in the last thirty years or so?”
Martin nodded. He admired Bergmann’s story and enjoyed telling it, despite the tragedy of its ending.
“There were a few poems known beforehand that have been attributed to him in the last decade, but until they found the box of his drafts, there just wasn’t enough evidence to prove that they had all been written by one poet. Strauss fled to Belgium as the political climate changed, but Bergmann stayed. In his letters to Strauss, he talks about how the Nazis were looking for collaborators, members of their inner circle who would turn on the others in return for protection. As far as we can tell, Bergmann refused, and they shipped him to a concentration camp.”
“Tragic,” Kenneth said. “So, Dr. Lindsey. What brings you from the ivory towers to this charming little backwater? Sebastian says it must be witness protection, but I think it has to be something more nefarious.”
Martin’s next breath got caught in his throat. Even Seb’s smile tightened in the corners.
“Kenny, come on.” Seb nudged him gently in the ribs. “That’s not what I said.”
“Whatdidyou say?” The happy little buzz under Martin’s skin at the chance to talk about his work died.
Seb was looking downright uncomfortable now. “Nothing. I told him a bit about your research, and that you worked at Mount Garner. That’s all.”
The server appeared with their food, announcing each dish cheerily, while Martin glared across the table.
“Sebastian’s father has a long association with the academic world, did he tell you that?” Kenneth asked as he cut into his omelet.
Martin poked at his yogurt. “He said he used to teach.”
“Used to teach? You make it sound like he led story time and gym class.” Kenneth laughed. “Philip Stevenson was a giant in his field, wasn’t he?”
