16
Martin watched Oliver lead Seb out across the lawn. He hoped Seb listened to whatever his brother had to say. Oliver was obviously agitated, and it would be just like Seb to make a joke out of everything and get punched in the face for his trouble.
When they didn’t come back right away, Martin took the opportunity to pull his suit out of its bag and stash it in the closet. No need to iron out more wrinkles than were absolutely necessary.
They were only staying for two nights, so it didn’t make sense for him to unpack everything, even though there was an empty dresser in the room. He hadn’t seen Seb’s suit at all. For a moment, he worried the whole weekend was going to be more informal than he’d been led to believe. He would be the only one to show up in a suit, just because Seb liked to look at him in it.
Seb seemed to like a lot of things about Martin. His skin heated at the remembered press of Seb’s lips on his and the friction of his body moving shamelessly against Martin’s, even though the door had been wide open for anyone to see.
He hadn’t felt interested enough in life to be attracted to anyone else in it for a long time. Now that he was, he wanted Seb to come back soon to continue what they’d started.
Except Seb didn’t come back. After a while, Martin considered going after them, but he didn’t want to disturb them if they were discussing something important. Eventually, though, sitting like a lump in the strange guest room started to feel too much like the endless days he’d spent in bed, so he gave up waiting and went to explore.
Down the hall from his room was a small library, warm and elegant like the rest of the house. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves held books on every subject imaginable. It reminded Martin a bit of the bookstore, although the Stevenson’s library was noticeably better organized.
A significant portion of the shelves were dedicated to literature and history, understandably so. There were several of Dr. Stevenson’s publications—Martin recognized the ones he had read himself—as well as books written by many of Martin’s colleagues, friends, acquaintances.
And there, wedged between significantly weightier material, was Martin’s one thin book.
They’d decided to publish his thesis. Martin hadn’t been convinced it was the right idea. He’d always felt it was incomplete, not conclusive enough to really contribute anything to the study of Bergmann’s life and works. His supervisor pushed the idea, though, and the book happened. Not that it had been a roaring success of any kind. Martin wasn’t even listed as the first author. From time to time, he’d get a fraction of a royalty check from the university, but mostly, he didn’t think about it.
Except there it was. His book, with his name, on the shelf of one of the giants of the modern academic world. He hadn’t read it in a while. His own copies were in boxes in Brian’s basement, collected hastily when Brian cleaned out Martin’s office at Mount Garner and never looked at again.
The complete summation of his life’s work to date didn’t feel very heavy.
“Can I help you?”
In the doorway stood Doctor Philip Stevenson.
Martin fumbled. He stammered. He nearly dropped the book. “I came with Seb.”
Dr. Stevenson’s lips thinned. “Is Sebastian here?” He was bigger than Martin remembered.
“Yes.” He managed to speak. “He’s outside. With Oliver.”
“I didn’t think we’d see him until tomorrow.”
“Oh. Oliver told us there was a dinner tonight.” What if that wasn’t true? Or they weren’t invited? Seb had been on edge since they’d arrived. If dinner didn’t go according to plan, Martin would be back to sleeping on Brian’s couch tonight.
Dr. Stevenson glanced down at the Martin’s book. “Doing a little light reading?”
“Oh, well. I was surprised. Bergmann isn’t exactly—”
“Are you familiar with Bergmann?” Dr. Stevenson stepped forward. He took the book from Martin’s hand and flipped through the pages.
“Yes. Well. That is—”
“Not a lot known about him. A bit of a controversial figure at the moment. Some say he never existed at all. That he’s been made up to be some kind of poster child for LGBT persecution by the Nazis. Others disagree as to how many of the poems that have been attributed to him are legitimate.”
Martin heard all these arguments before. Bergmann was a real person with a real story, and not just some mid-century propaganda figure.
“But the research shows that—”
“And really, from a literary standpoint, there’s not much to the poetry, even if he did write them. They’re fairly rudimentary in style, structure, and word choice. Particularly for the era. There’s not much of significance to them, other than the way the poet died—if, indeed, he wrote them at all.”
Every word was like a punch to Martin’s gut. He’d heard this all before, but to hear it from Dr. Philip Stevenson,theDr. Stevenson...If this was his feeling on the matter, then what hope did Martin have for anything but languishing in obscurity like Bergmann himself?
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Stevenson said. “We haven’t even been introduced. I’m Philip.” He held out his hand like people shook it every day.
