ZENITH

The Laffite-Rothschild contrasted strangely with the scratched and dented Formica tabletop the large wine glasses rested upon.

"It's hardly Thanksgiving fare, my friend. I apologize." Slade leaned across the table towards a lean older man with keen eyes that missed nothing.

"You need not. I vastly prefer this noonday repast to overdone turkey and gummy stuffing, possibly laced with salmonella. 1982, I believe?"

"Yes."

"Ah, a very fine vintage. It was a wonderful year in France, that year. So perfect, warm, lingering."

"It was."

"I find it difficult to overrate this vintage," the man leaned back and studied the wine in his glass, " though others may differ. Of course, '29 is has been compared, but it is far past its prime now. Ridiculously over-priced, at the last auction, in Paris, I believe, a bottle of Bordeaux of that vintage went for over four thousand dollars a bottle, if I am not mistaken, and that not even for a Premier Cru. Disgusting! Fools, who have too much money and wish only to impress."

"With you, they would fail," Slade replied.

"Oh, no, on the contrary, I would be very impressed, and express myself so! I would immediately seek a business relationship, knowing how easily such a person could be manipulated."

Both laughed.

The lean man continued, "I always enjoy a wine with a crystal glass worthy of it. These are well matched. Ah, France, France."

"Thank you." The glass was refilled and several pieces of French bread and a slice of cheese on a plate slid across the rough table like a rook to queen bishop 4 in a hotly contested game of chess. "I find pear to go well with this wine. Would you care for some?"

"Anjou?"

"Of course."

The man inclined his head slightly, and a wedge of pear was added to his plate. Both raised their glasses to each other again and then drank.

The hawk-faced man spoke, in a low voice, casually as if it were the most accidental and unimportant of after-thoughts, "You cannot keep him, you know."

A fist struck the table, rattling the glasses. "How dare you tell me what I can and cannot do! I can do whatever I want!"

There was a long pause. The lean man did not stir, but meditated into his wine. Slade's fist unclenched, slowly, and flattened onto the scarred surface, then curled around the other wine glass.

"Are you quite through?" the man asked.

"I think so." Slade replied, " Can't be certain I won't do it again, though. Or worse."

"Then I shall be on my guard. I am fully sympathetic with your uber-male propensities. But doesn't it, at times, become a burden dominating every encounter?"

"Isn't it an equal burden to be so being eternally urbane?"

"We know each other too well. And yes, it is, though I believe I have become so habituated to it, that it is rather burdensome to relieve myself of the burden and adopt another persona."

"Let me unpack that sentence. Why can't I?"

"Unburden yourself? Or keep him? Are we returning to my previous statement of impossibility? Or would you prefer that I discourse at some length on our differing talents; yours with arms, mine with philosophy?"

"Four questions in that, and not an answer among them. So why don't I give you a question, or two, counting the one I am saying now? Why don't you spare us both the lengthy discourse, and give me a straight answer?"

"And on which subject would you wish such a bald response? The only question that you really care about here?"

"That's two more questions and no answers yet."

The lean man smiled across the table, "Do you truly wish me to elaborate?"

"Yes, no, yes—of course," Slade hesitated for a fraction of a second, "But not yet. Have you seen him?"

"No, I prefer to hear your description, so he can live in my mind's eye. One is so often disappointed by reality."

Slade nodded his head in acknowledgment of the witticism, "He would not disappoint you. He is exquisite. He reminds me of a katana, slender strength, thin and springy, folded steel, deceptively sleek, belying its deadliness." He set down his glass and slid it back and forth in front of him, giving a space for thought. The bottom of the glass grating ever so slightly against the scratched surface. "No, perhaps he is not a full katana, not yet. At present he is more like a tanto, the short sword of the samurai."

"Be careful, my friend, the tanto was used, you know, for hara-kiri."

Slade leaned forward forcefully, "Yes, for lack of devotion to one's master."

The lean man did not flinch. He merely replied, "Or to demonstrate sincerity. And do you acknowledge a master, Slade, or are you, perhaps, excessively sincere?"

"Oh, I am sincere. My admiration is unbounded for him, though I do not know of anyone I would see as a master."

"Not even myself! I am insulted, though I suspected as much."

Both laughed again raised glasses to each other across the table and drank.

"So—tell me about your unbounded admiration, Slade, and then, perhaps, I will tell you my reason for asserting your inability, even at my own peril."

"At last, a statement! I feel as if I had climbed a mountain! Very well. First, There is talent, certainly, and ability, besides intelligence and even cunning, youthful, of course, transparent, but still there. It can be developed and encouraged. He is a survivor, I believe, with a well of untapped potential. "

"I see."

"He is not upset, for instance, even now in his apparently hopeless position. He hardly seemed to notice me, this morning. He was standing looking up towards the window; perfectly calm and at ease. He didn't even look towards me when I opened the door. That was surprising, He is hardly the cringing prisoner. I wonder if he perhaps welcomes this captivity."

"Were you hoping he would be?"

"Cringing? I don't know. Maybe. But I might welcome the challenge of breaking him. Not permanently, of course," Slade studied the wine again, "Physically he is perfection."

"The boy is beautiful—a common saying on Greek kylix of the Classical Period. You really should pay more attention to other things than the latest type of bullets, you know."

"Perhaps I should, with such interesting things as you mention. Do go on; though I'm certain you will."

The dark eyes gleamed at Slade, and the silken voice continued, "The Ancient world appreciated such sentiments. One of those many losses to the coming of Christianity, along with gladiatorial contests and public baths and crucifixions." For an instant the sophisticated mask dropped, and the man stared directly and questioningly into Slade's face.

Slade leered, "I do not intend to crucify him, you may rest assured. Or to place him in a gladiatorial contest, except a bit of sparring with me, perhaps. Though I might bathe him. Yes, he is beautiful, exquisite. And, of course, I can do so much for him, as well."

"Every time I am gifted with paeans to the beauty of some particular person and offers of assistance to that person, I seem always to hear next the faint rustle of clothes being removed, or, in these more crass times, the stealthy slide of a zipper."

Slade glared at him, for a moment, then turned his face away, "It's no one's business but mine."

"No, it isn't. Still you choose to discuss it here. That also is your choice. Have you raped him, yet?"

"No. I thought about it, this morning, of course. He was just standing there, so straight, shoulders back, breathing deeply, that dark hair rumpled from sleep. He seemed serene, calm in that first light. I barely spoke to him, though." Slade shook his head in apparent puzzlement.

"Do you plan to force him?"

"Not plan, no. I thought, perhaps, eventually-he would—"

"He would be defeated by you, in one of your little sparring sessions, bow to your superiority and fall into your arms, with a little sigh?"

Slade did not reply, but nodded slightly in agreement without looking at his interlocutor. The far wall seemed to be of intense interest.

"A fantasy," the man replied, "The classic fantasy. And particularly appealing to you in your lighter moments. Your darker ones are not quite so pleasant, and perhaps are more likely to come true, my friend. You are not Jupiter, nor he, Ganymede. He will resist. You will be forced to drastic measures."

There was another long, long pause in the conversation.

"You scorn me?" Slade raised his head menacingly, his voice filled with building heat.

The hawk-face man leaned back, spread his hands before him, displaying both palms, then casually twirled one hand in the air across the table, "No, I do not at all. I understand you, admire you, and wish to do you good."

Slade nodded, waited. "And a wise man listens. I think I am wise. So tell me, then, finally, why can't I keep him?"

"Allow me to rephrase: you cannot keep him." He reached forward and picked up the glass before him, and held it up to the light. The wine within, rich deep purple, trembled slightly, wavering in beautiful invitation. " In this case, I am reminded of a rare wine, this very one, for instance. It is fully mature, but if well stored, will, I believe, improve with additional cellaring."

"Yes, it may."

"Do you catch my drift?"

"Perhaps."

"Now you may keep the bottle, of course, but you may not; no, not even you! Not even you, my friend, with all your skill and ability, can both keep the wine and drink it." He took a sip, "You must break the seal to drink it. And as soon as you have drunk it, its untasted beauty, as well as its potential, is gone, vanished. You can keep the bottle, as a memory, but not the wine. Never the wine! Do not deceive yourself, my friend. Not even you can keep him as he is now."

Slade's hand clenched again. The crystal stem he held shattering, as the splashes of deep purple exploded onto the table. Sweeping the table with one tremendous blow of his fist and forearm, he sent shards of glass and dishes mixed with food flying in all directions. The wine bottle clunked onto the floor with a heavy thud and broke.

"You know the way out," he shouted over his shoulder, as he strode out, viciously kicking the pieces of the bottle into the wall with his boots.