“A true boy-lover would never do that, no matter what. I can assure you that if the police were battering down my door at this very instant, I would not throw my memories into that fireplace.”
“But the pictures are evidence.…”
“Yes. Evidence of love.”
“People get convicted with evidence of love,” I told him.
A smile played around his lips. “Prison is something we face all the time. A true believer in our way of life accepts this. Simply because something is against the law does not mean it is morally wrong.”
“It’s worth going to prison for?” I asked him.
“It is worth anything and everything,” he said, rapt in the purity of his love.
“The people who … exchange … pictures of boys. You’d know how to get in touch with them?”
“We have a network,” the man said. “A limited one, of course. You see the computer?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.
I nodded.
“The device next to it, with the telephone? It’s called a modem. It’s really quite complicated,” the man said, “but we have something called an electronic bulletin board. You dial up the network, punch in the codes, and we can talk to each other without revealing our identities. And photographs can be transmitted the same way.”
I gave him a blank look.
“As I said, it’s really quite complicated,” he said smugly.
I could feel the Mole’s sneer clear across the room.
“Could you show me?” I asked.
“Very well.” He sighed. He got up from behind the desk, bringing his wineglass with him, and seated himself before the computer. He took the phone off the hook and placed it facedown into a plastic bed. He punched some numbers into a keypad and waited impatiently, tapping his long fingers on the console. When the screen cleared, he rapidly tapped something on the keyboard—his password, I guessed. “Greetings from Santa” came up on the screen in response, black letters against a white background now.
“Santa is one of us,” the man said, by way of explanation. He typed in: “Have you any new presents for us?” The man hit another key and his message disappeared.
In another minute, the screen blinked and a message from Santa came up.
“Seven bags full,” said the screen.
“His new boy is seven years old,” said the man. “Are you following this?”
“Yes,” I told him. Santa Claus.
The man went back to the screen. “This is Tutor. Do you think it’s too early in the year to think about exchanging gifts?”
“Not gifts of love,” came back the answer.
The man looked over his shoulder at me. I nodded again. Clear enough.
He pushed a button and the screen cleared once more. He returned to his seat behind the desk, glanced at the Mole, then back to me. “Anything else?” he asked.
“If the boy’s picture, the one I want, was taken for sale, not by a boy- lover—I couldn’t find it?”
“The original? Not in a million years,” the man said. “The commercial producers will sell to anybody. Besides, those pictures are not true originals, you see? They make hundreds and hundreds of copies. The only way to find an original is if it was in a private collection.”
“Say I didn’t give a damn if the picture was an original, okay? If I showed you a picture of the boy, would you ask around, see if you could find the picture I’m looking for?”
“No,” he said. “I would never betray the trust of my friends.” He looked at the Mole for reassurance. The Mole looked back, giving nothing away.
“And you don’t deal with any of the commercial outlets?”
“Certainly not,” he sniffed.
This freak couldn’t help me. “I understand,” I said, getting up to leave.
The man looked at me levelly. “You may show yourselves out.”
The Mole lumbered to his feet, standing in the doorway to make sure I went out first.
“One more thing,” the man said to me. “I sincerely hope you learned something here. I hope you learned some tolerance for our reality. Some respect for our love. I trust we can find some basis for agreement.”
I didn’t move, willing my hands not to clench into fists.
“I am a believer,” the man said, “and I am ready to die for my beliefs.”
There’s our basis for agreement, I thought, and turned my back to follow the Mole down the
