“It ain’t one or the other,” said Rio in disgust. “You can take an idea, right or wrong, and squeeze it like butter.” His tone grew deeper and Martin felt that he was frowning in the semi-darkness. “I’m goin’ to ask you a question, Martin. Don’t get sore; and I don’t mean it hard. But I got to know. We’ve kidded each other a lot since we met. You stood by me—” Rio’s voice faltered. He swallowed and stopped for a moment. Martin could hear his heavy breathing.
“Get rid of it, Rio,” he said.
“It’s god-damned crazy,” said Rio, swearing to hide his embarrassment. “But listen, Martin. Are you——”
Martin half closed his eyes.
“Oh,” he thought. He watched his friend struggling through this viscous medium in a painful attempt to absorb most of its ugliness himself. But he gave the man no clue, no help. He merely closed his eyes tighter and listened.
“Are you—” continued Rio. Then, his voice stronger and more demanding, “Are you a god-damned fairy with your god-damned eyes and the way you look at people? You looked queer in that draggy dress at the party, and you acted queer.” Rio hesitated. “Oh, I know you took care of me afterward. But when I seen you leanin’ on the piano like a girl, I went crazy. If you’re a queen, tell me!” His voice had become so husky that he could scarcely speak. “And if you ain’t—what are you? Let me know. Let me know damned fast!” He was breathing still harder and Martin could hear his hands rubbing against the concrete.
He slipped off the side of the fountain and faced Rio. In the quiet night, without a moon, the open stars drew their icy shine across his eyes. He lit a cigarette and in the brief flare, Rio could see the drawn lips, the contemptuous silhouette and the sharp lines in his face.
“Time doesn’t count, Rio. Kindly don’t be in a hurry.” Martin spoke softly. “And remember, I’m talking about myself and not you, so don’t be anxious. You’ve asked me a question in your manner, and I’ll answer it in your manner, Rio. I am.”
“Damn you, you’re not!” Rio cried out.