The Twenty-Third Century: Nontraditional Love. Rafael Grugman
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parents discovered them in bed one day, they were in shock. After a terrible scandal, Liza’s parents moved to a different city. Psychologists examined Liza, and at their advice, her parents introduced her to a nice lesbian girl and convinced Liza to get into bed with her. However, it was too late; their daughter was irreversibly drawn to the opposite sex. When Liza enrolled in college, she moved into a dormitory and openly began making friends with boys. Her parents disowned her; they could not bear the shame.
Usually it is the other way around: a child born in a heterosexual family gets rid of the bad genes when he reaches maturity and becomes a homosexual. Even if there is no medical certificate showing that the child was conceived in a test tube, society is benevolent towards returnees. According to the law, they are allowed many privileges: increased grants for college, tax deductions for the first ten years, and most importantly, a new identity card with an encoded false genetic code (this is permissible for the government, even though it is punishable for private individuals), which prevents any discrimination based on sexual indications. Later on they raise single-sex families and enjoy the life of valued members of society.
Daniel and I, although our beds were right next to each other, naturally slept apart. In order to give the child a reasonable explanation as to why we could not take him into our bed, we lied that we were suffering from a skin disease that was outwardly invisible. The touch of a foreign body would irritate the meninx and cause skin cancer.
“And what is ‘skin cancer’?” the boy asked incredulously.
I had to give him a confused explanation.
“That’s a bad disease. They have to give you lots of shots. You don’t like it when they prick you in the fanny.”
“No I don’t,” Victor confirmed, and he prepared to shed a tear just in case.
I distracted him with a new computer game, but my efforts were in vain; the next day when he came in from the kindergarten, he gave me the next round of childish questions.
“How can you hold me in your arms? Won’t you get sick? Won’t you die?”
“No,” I assured the boy. “Until you reach the age of five, I can take you in my arms without any worries. But you need to sleep in your own bed.”
The next day the boys’ kindergarten teacher asked Daniel suspiciously:
“What’s wrong with your spouse’s skin? Why can’t you put Victor in your bed? The boy is suffering…”
Daniel had to give an evasive answer:
“You know, modern medicine does miracles, but in some cases it is powerless.”
“What do you have?”
“The same disease, unfortunately. Here are two invalids pairing off, comrades in misfortune.”
The teacher nodded his head sympathetically.
“That happens sometimes.” Then he told a similar story that had happened with Frank’s father. I guessed that Frank was one of “us.”
I had seen him several times when he came to the kindergarten to pick up his son, and I had never suspected that he was also a heterosexual. He also figured out my predilections by some sixth sense, but outwardly, we did not reveal ourselves in any way, and we did not discuss forbidden topics; we could never forget about the conspiracy.
I usually saw my daughter on the children’s playground. On weekends, the six of us would go to the park, which was furnished with children’s attractions and sports equipment. While Victor climbed on the horizontal bars, under Daniel’s supervision, I helped Liza push Hanna on the swing. While Helen read a book, Liza told me about our daughter’s little pranks and tricks.
Then we traded places. Daniel and I sat down to play chess, and Helen “took over” Victor.
It was more difficult to keep our intimate meetings a secret. Even though we lived in the same house, in order to get from one apartment to the other, we had to go outside and climb down two flights of stairs. This took about twenty seconds. But what if the neighbors would see us? These vigilant guardians of morals were ready to call the police at any time. How could we explain these nighttime transitions from a men’s to a women’s apartment?
It was Liza who found the solution. As she was looking through the Family Gazette – women bought this newspaper periodically, enjoying the gossip, women’s stories, and countless bits of advice from cosmetologists, dieticians and pediatricians – her attention was drawn to an announcement that seemed strange at first.
“How do you like this?” Without waiting for an answer, she started reading aloud: “For particularly whimsical customers: I do any type of construction work quickly and skillfully, including installation of safes and secret doors.”
“What does he mean by whimsical? Capricious? Someone with whims? It would be better to say fastidious,” I said, editing the text of the announcement. “Or rather, exacting. Or even better – nagging.”
Liza shook her head distrustfully.
“No, there’s something else. The tone is unusual.” She repeated slowly: “Particularly whimsical customers.”
As an experienced psychologist who can find the hidden springs behind this or that action, Liza had a theory.
“The announcement is in code. Let’s read between the lines. Safes are pretty far-fetched, neither here nor there. It must be a cover. It’s all in the ending. Maybe it would be a good idea to cautiously talk with this “builder” about the secret doors. This seems to be just what we need at the moment.”
“Do you want to give it a try?” I asked jokingly, not expecting that Liza would react even before the final word reached her ears.
“Why not?”
Without blinking an eye, she opened her bag, took out a portable scanner and held it up to the newspaper announcement. Next to the phone number, a man’s profile lit up on the telephone display. Underneath was his name: Richard Melloni.
Liza thought for a second, looked at me and asked:
“What do you think, should we risk it?”
“As you wish,” I agreed without much enthusiasm, secretly hoping that the telephone call would be a waste of time.
“Don’t be afraid, we’ll get through,” Liza smiled and pressed the “Talk” button.
After two long rings, someone picked up on the third.
In a very professional manner, Liza interviewed the person at the other end. Without giving the age of the children, she explained that the girls were friends, and they wanted to connect their rooms so they could visit each other without going outside. Liza easily told her inoffensive lie about the girls (in the plural!); heterosexuals are trained in the art of lying from the day they first realize their nontraditional orientation.
Both participants in the conversation easily understood an allegorical language, which was second in popularity after sign language. In order to get a quote, Liza arranged to meet the builder on Sunday. When he arrived at our house, I gasped. By an irony of fate, the person who submitted the announcement turned out to be Richard, Frank’s father. We laughed; although we had surmised about each other’s sinful predilections, we were afraid to acknowledge them. And now everything had been settled by itself.
Richard suggested doing a little modification. Our bedrooms were one on top of the other. The solution suggested itself: we would use the wardrobes, dismantle the floor in the closet and go down a stepladder.
That was what we did. We would make the arrangements over the phone, and then I would climb down to Liza for an hour or an hour and a half, and Helen would climb up to Daniel. Why not the other way around? That’s a silly question! This was the only way I could stand for five minutes next to my sleeping daughter’s bed, and Helen could stand by her son’s bed.
Our happiness lasted three years. Then Liza abandoned me; she went off with Richard. No matter how I tried to dissuade her, she applied for a divorce from Helen and moved to Bay Ridge to be closer to Richard. When there is a divorce in