He never got married. And I never learned of any other woman travelling on his dark, almost hairless skin. At that time, my nocturnal circle of friends liked to praise the presumed delights of my engineer friend. He's closeted, they'd say. We used to spend our evenings at the Torpedo Bar, owned by an Italian we all knew. The bar was located on Alfândega Square, a reasonably innocent square at the time. We considered ourselves to be what was then called "discreet." I always liked that word, because it gave the idea of secret idylls--accessible only for the initiated--experienced underneath certain dawns. "Discreet" also referred to those who, in daylight, were seen as full-time macho men, some even married, beyond any suspicion. But in the underground hours, there they went, tasting the pot they so anxiously longed for. Everyone there was "discreet," lovers and experts of their own bodies. And when we pronounced that word, we tasted audacity, bravery, and the opening of a universe full of agile subtleties, of mischievous filigrees, where we could experiment with erotic trends. There was a future in those circles. We all learned the art of cunning, so we could not only be accepted but also become the object of desire for the ineffable brotherhood. Anyway, now we're staring at each other with some wisdom, without rush or excuses, beleaguered in the German submarine, this Second War's junk of steel. Excerpted from Hugs and Cuddles by João Gilberto Noll All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
