Where Johannes Brahms Was Born

J pauses on the little terrace before Hanne’s front door. She’ll certainly shoot him a look with those large eyes of hers when he waltzes in at 11 in the morning, even if it is Pascal, her wild 14-year-old, who needs the talking-to. But Hanne has been around the block. She understands what it means to search for love. Th e courtyard is strewn with bottles and plastic cups from last night’s Bastille Day celebrations. Buildings on either side of the courtyard are laced together by strings of colored bulbs, their light feeble in the sun. Once a third building enclosed the courtyard but it didn’t survive the war and now the yard opens to the street like a window. Hanne claimed to have rented the house because of the yellow plum tree that arches over it and bears translucent, golden fruit. “Morgen.” Pascal sits naked, framed by his window, writing in a notebook, song lyrics for his band perhaps. Th e sill is where he used to chat with Sybille, his girlfriend from across the courtyard until she dumped him the week before. One leg shields from view what is not meant to be seen, but only just, an arrangement of discretion and tease executed by someone who knows people look at him. A shell hangs from a leather thong around his neck and a sliver of earring shines through thickets of hair. He is tall for his age, lithe, and dark-eyed. His position has him lit to the best advantage; sunlight burnishes his calf and dabs a shoulder. Joel imagines standing close enough to breathe in the naked Pascal as he might a handsome stranger waking beside him. Pascal’s knowing smile reads Joel’s mind. “Congratulations. You’re the first schwul American I’ve met,” he had said after Joel moved in. He let Joel know that he’d had erotic encounters