Jean removed the fur coat and gently placed it on the bed. There was a window right next to the headboard. Jean went over and took a look outside. He could see the entire town and its alleys. Browned and grayed fallen leaves covered the alleys, upon which men and carriages busied themselves with movement. The coach that had brought Jean was gone as well, and there was no one here.
Jean turned around and looked back, reminding himself again of his lack of company. The chamber was wide enough for a single person, but not for two. The bed was also for one. The patron, Jean’s new owner, was not in the establishment as the coachman had said. And the patron seemed to be of no mind to come to see Jean.
Why?
A natural curiosity rose in Jean. He perched himself on the bed and stared at his coats. Jean could not easily fathom his new owner. The patron gave Jean articles of clothing that some would have to toil for years to barely afford one, and yet, the new owner would not come to see Jean. Jean expected the patron to be eager to take his body, a barter for the materials. Jean caressed his coat. He felt its fur tickle the gaps in his fingers. He recalled that he knew not of the patron’s name, along with the face and the sex.
Or perhaps the patron did not seek Jean as a catamite?
Jean laid his back on the bed, pondering. He came to the realization that he had not been informed of any detail. Who Jean’s new owner was, how much sum he was bought for, how he was acquired, or what Jean was to do for his new owner. Jean was not informed, for he had never asked. However, Jean had heard of rumors of men who did tasks of great perils and death in trade for wealth and luxury as such... He could have been bought to provide such a service unbeknownst to himself.
Jean thought to himself, gazing vacantly at the ceiling above. Many wonders floated in the air before coming to a halt. Soon, slowly, a writing appeared on the ceiling. It was the one on the napkin. You... bear the semblance… Jean stopped painting the writing and sat up. He couldn’t grasp why he was allowing himself to be so profoundly affected by these superficial, ornate words. Of a tiger cradling a pearl in its mouth. Jean knew not of the precise message, but he knew that the metaphor was far too great and far too grand to be used in elaborating a catamite.
Often, such a message was spoken as a mockery, a jeering. Didn’t Johnny Erhardt refer to Jean as “the most noble aristocrat?” Johnny articulated the words with as much ridicule as he could bring forth, pointing out the absurdity of a catamite impersonating a noble. Hone what and polish what? Jean could not understand what the new owner meant. And whatever it was that the patron meant, hone and polish were no kind words to be said to a catamite. To ponder about the words would be aiding the person to toy with Jean. Jean was aware of that. He knew it all.
“Sir.”
Jean knew it all, yet why was his heart in a troubled sea? He tried to calm it to peace, responding to the call on the other side of the door. Soon, the door opened.
“It is almost time for the meal. Would you like me to bring it to your chamber? We have roasted chicken, soup with broccoli, toasted rye bread, and fresh greens. We also have roasted lamb.”
A new server spoke fast as the door was opened. Jean was dazed by the speech. He gave an answer just as dazed. The server was gone in a moment. But before she did, she remembered to ask Jean to please free the table of any clutter. Jean rubbed his nape and stood before the dining furniture. He was about to put the flower away when he saw something under it. It was an envelope. Jean sat on the chair before the table and slowly unsealed it. Two parchments of paper were inside. The first was a letter, a very brief one.
My felicitations upon your leave of the House of Erhardt.
Jean frowned and flipped the page to the next one. He was struck with shock upon seeing it. Jean could only blink.
“Oh, my. Sir, a moment, please. The dish is much too hot.”
The fingers clutching the paper turned pale from the excessive force. The server, back with Jean’s food, seemed to have said something more. Jean couldn’t hear her words, however. He couldn’t think. His head went blank. His eyes quickly ran through the surface of the paper again. Jean did not will them to, but rather, they were moving on their own.
“Goodness! Sir! You burned your hand! I have asked you to step back... Are you alright? My, oh, my, let me take a look...”
The second piece of paper was a document. Proof of Trade, it was written eloquently. It was the handwriting of the Duke of Erhardt. The paper was a brief declaration that whoever was in possession of the document was also in possession of Jean. A red line was drawn to divide the words above and below.
Jean read again the words written below the sentence.
I have bought your shackles,
From beginning to end, very slowly. And very closely.
I offer you my present, your liberty. May you find it to your liking.
The lower left corner, where there ought to be the signature of Jean’s new owner, was left empty.
“Here, sir, a wet towel! Put this... Oh, dear.”
Jean read it again.
I have bought your shackles,
Jean realized what had been odd in the way the coachman told him to wear the fur coat. The new owner didn’t give an order to Jean. The new owner made a dear request to him. No one spoke that way to the catamite they owned.
I offer you my present, your liberty. May you find it to your liking.
No one spoke that way to a being closer to material than living.
“Are you crying, sir? Are you in much pain?”
Jean could feel the heat, but not in his burned hand that touched the hot dish. He felt it in his eyes. He couldn’t respond. He simply held the paper tight in his grip. He read it, then read it, and read it again. He recalled the elegant message scribbled on the napkin. He felt like he could hear the words spoken. He could almost hear them whispered in his ear.
You bear the semblance of a tiger cradling a pearl in its mouth.
Someone had been observing his poor and miserable life. Someone had been watching Jean, who was troubled that he might not even be able keep his wretched life as a catamite.
Hone it and polish it.
Someone had been keeping an eye on him with affection and benevolence as true as the sky, things he did not receive when he was in the trash, when he was in the tavern, when he was in the house of the duke.
That day, Jean buried his face in the document and drenched it whole with his tears. The server, not knowing what had happened to him, was much disturbed. She went back and forth between the storeys, coaxing Jean to eat. Jean read the sentence again and again, until the server had given up, until the soup she had brought had gone cold. Until he felt as if someone had branded the sentence in his tongue, in that same elegant penmanship.