I grabbed his hand and squeezed it as hard as I could. He squeezed back. It was the first time we had ever touched.

“They discovered it when I was here last time. That’s really why I came to Vienna. I had this cough that wouldn’t go away and was losing weight… Can we leave now?”

Oh, Christ! Jesus, you can’t imagine how I felt. I put money on the table and we left. I walked in front of him, paying no attention to anything but the door. I went through it and held it for him. When we were outside, we stood there staring at each other.

He touched my shoulder. “Three people said your name as we were leaving.”

I shook my head and began to cry. I put my arms around him and wept. He patted my back but then stopped, and he wept too.

He said, “I was never going to tell you. I made a deal with myself. If I ever saw you again, I wouldn’t tell you. But then I got shot and was really scared. I’m really scared.”

I feel such knots in my stomach even telling this now, Rose. It was so hard. So hard!

I got him to come back to the house with me, and we talked for a couple of hours, but when we were exhausted and there were long silences between us, he said he wanted to go back to his place. I pleaded with him to stay—in the living room, the guest room, with me if he wanted—but he said no. I had no right to insist, so we woke Minnie and walked the half mile down to the Gasthaus in silence. We held hands, but I was the one to take his, which lay completely dead in mine. I wouldn’t let it go for an instant.

When we got there, he brought my hand to within an inch of his lips and kissed the air near it. Then he thanked me for being so kind. The tears started down my face again. There was nothing else to say, so I lamely asked what he’d like for breakfast. He tried to smile but couldn’t. “Bacon and eggs again, if you still have some.” He moved toward the door but turned back to me and said quietly, “Be sure to wash your hands as soon as you get home. I don’t know anything about this disease and who knows how you can get it.”

Back at the house I sat down on my front step and, with Minnie sniffing around, looked up at the stars. A story he had told me came to mind. It struck some chord I couldn’t name, but still it gave me a feeling of hope and possibility.

He and a bunch of other journalists were in Rumania a year before the fall of the government. The living standards were horrible and it was impossible to get a decent meal, even in the supposed best restaurants in Bucharest. But one guy had heard about a place, and they all went. They almost fell over backward when they saw what was offered on the menu. The most exquisite French cuisine—escargots, white truffles, and a wine list that was amazing. What a find! Was this the end of the rainbow? Whatever it was, first they feasted on the possibilities the menu offered, then very carefully made their selections. The waiter nodded and disappeared. They were the only customers in the place but thought that was because the food was obscenely expensive by Rumanian standards. An hour passed but nothing came. They hadn’t even seen the waiter in that time. By then they were getting suspicious. Finally he reappeared, very upset, and said unfortunately none of the things they’d ordered was available tonight. What else would they like? He offered menus and they chose again—lovely second choices. Another hour passed and the same thing happened—no food, no sign of the waiter. When he appeared he told them again he was sorry, but these things were also unavailable tonight. They were on the verge of killing him by now. What was available? He said pork. Pork? That’s all? Yes, that’s it. Why? Why hadn’t he told them that two hours ago and spared them the wait, rather than offering the menu that had them all drooling with anticipation?

After much hemming and hawing and throat clearing, he admitted to being both waiter and cook. In fact, he owned the restaurant too. As soon as a customer gave an order, he ran out the kitchen door to scour the city for the necessary ingredients. The man really could make all the dishes offered on the menu, but it was more a question of what was available at the markets that day. Which usually meant next to nothing in that desperate city. So each night he had to return empty-handed and, as waiter, go through the charade of telling the customers such-and-such was “unavailable.” What else would they like?

I told Leland I’d always believed a good story is better than a good time, since you have the story to tell again and again but the good times tend to be forgotten. When I asked if the pork was good when it was finally served, he said terrific.

Thinking through what had happened that night and over the past days with him, waves of different emotion poured over me. But in the end, that story kept coming back. It seemed the moral was, Look, we don’t have escargots but we do have pork, so let’s make it the best goddamned pork ever cooked. I couldn’t decide whether the waiter’s refusal to admit to an empty kitchen was good or not. At first all that pretending looked sweet and optimistic, but there was also something pernicious about getting people’s hopes up, then, after making them wait hours, serving only pork. And not just one night, but every night. So there’s only pork. So what? If that’s all there is, then admit it and do magic with it. Make it the best pork ever eaten.

As far as Leland’s health was concerned, he lived in his own Rumania now but that shouldn’t stop us. In the morning I’d go down and tell him even if we only did have this and this, we’d do whatever we could to make it work. Simple as that. I’d invite him to come stay with me as long as he liked, or whenever he liked. Then we’d work with the materials at hand, whatever they were, from day to day. If AIDS developed, I’d try to help and comfort him as best I could. He was a remarkable, heroic man. It would be a privilege to be his friend and support.

I went to my desk and spent a long time making lists of things to do, questions to ask, people to call or see. I knew next to nothing about AIDS or HIV. How had he gotten it? Was he bisexual? Did he do drugs? Did it matter? There was only the disease now and however we could deal with it. Only the “pork.”

I woke early the next morning though I’d gone to bed very late. The moment I opened my eyes I was ready to get ripping. Take Minnie for her walk, prepare the bacon and eggs so the minute he walked through the door I could get him going, make more lists… How would I ask him to stay without making it sound like pity or the wrong kind of concern? What would I do if he said no? I didn’t want to think about that. Get books, get information on living with someone who has AIDS. But he didn’t have it yet! Don’t even think in that direction. There’s all kinds of things that can be done, looked into, tried out, before that actually happens. That was the absolutely worst way to think. Just the other day I’d read an article about a virologist who said he was convinced there was no genuine link between those who were HIV positive and those who had full-blown AIDS. Over coffee, in between articles, I found the piece holding my attention for a few minutes, but then I turned the page. Now it was the most important article in the world. Where had I read it? Who was the scientist?

I raced around the house trying to do everything at once, trying to figure out what I could realistically do and what was in the hands of the gods. The gods? God? No time to think about that, GOD, now. There’d be plenty of time later. As that thought crossed my mind, I half-raised a hand, as if asking for His patience and understanding.

I waited two nervous hours before beginning to worry. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come or at least called? Leave him alone. Let him do things his own way, on his own schedule. But maybe he thought he couldn’t face me after what he’d confessed last night. Too bad, Arlen, leave it alone. It’s his decision. I waited and talked to myself until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Then I hooked Minnie up again and hotfooted it down to the Gasthaus, hoping to meet him coming up. No such luck. When we got there, we stood outside a few minutes while I tried to decide what to do next. I finally got up the nerve to go in—and was told the gentleman had checked out earlier but left no message.