In the Cool of the Evening
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About this ebook
During their visit, the Parisian reads Mark a letter from a friend about a heart-breaking romantic gay encounter in a tiny Balkan town. Years have passed and the letter writer can’t find the town or person again, and has been haunted by this loss ever since.
The letter remains with Mark even after he returns home. It opens his eyes to sights and people he wouldn’t normally pay attention to. Can the new life lessons he’s learned help him in his own search for lasting love?
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In the Cool of the Evening - Gordon Phillips
Consequences
Chapter 1: Abroad
When told I was going to Europe on vacation, I was pressed by my friends with suggestions of what—and in one or two cases, whom—I should visit while I was there. I was twenty-one, having just finished my third year in the Architectural Program and eager to experience the culture and see the architectural masterpieces of the Old World. To aid this, I had been working on improving my French and even trying to learn some Italian.
One of my friends, who saw me off at the airport, after we’d hugged good-bye, put an envelope into my hand. I looked at it. It was unsealed, but there was a name and address on the front.
Someone you should see, a friend of mine—if he’s still alive. You really must visit him. Just say ‘hello.’ My greeting is in there. It’s also a letter of introduction—feel free to read it. I think he will make an impression on you. He’s—kind of a magus.
My friend grinned at my startled look, but then grabbed my arm. Look,
he said. It’s just a suggestion. But I strongly recommend it. You won’t regret it, I promise you.
I shrugged and nodded and, with these puzzling but fateful-sounding words in my ear, put the envelope into the inside pocket of my jacket and went to the security gate of the boarding area.
* * * *
My flight landed in London, at Heathrow Airport, and I remember, as we were descending, how, when looking out the window I was struck by how green everything looked. I was staying with a friend of a friend in a flat in central London. What struck me was that, although it was mid-May, the weather was cool and damp—unusually cool for that time of year, I was told. The sky was an interminable shroud of continuous clouds the color of an old bruise. And, what seemed to go perfectly with this, was the dinginess of the buildings. There were dark stains on much of the stone and brick of which London was built, though I told myself that the impression of deep drabness might be in part because of the gray light.
I did the usual things: visiting the Tate and National Galleries, took day trips up to Cambridge (beautiful) and Oxford (somewhat less so), and went to several stage productions in the West End.
My most moving experience in England was my visit to the King’s College Chapel in Cambridge. I remember standing there in that vast and vertical space, my gaze drawn up the