What I saw was a glittering emerald future reflected in the greenest pair of eyes in which I’d ever wanted to swim. We were forehead to forehead, and I knew he wanted me to sight the target with him, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from his, and his refusal to look away was unhelpful. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again—he was trying to keep up the coach patter, but no advice seemed to issue forth. Every part of me was pressed against a part of him, and a current blew through me like lightning through a rod. He smelled of lemongrass and leather, of armpit and shooting range floor, of clean teeth and a dirty mind. His eyes seemed to expand as he leaned impossibly closer, inviting—no, urging—me to tumble into them, so much that I actually felt myself starting to fall. Without processing the fact that I had nowhere to go—I was already on the floor—I reached out to steady myself on the nearest stable object, which happened to be Marcel’s wrist. Which happened to startle his right hand to contract, which happened to fire a shot from two inches away from our heads into space. We both barked in surprise and, once we managed to gather up our hearts from the floor of the shooting gallery to which they had leapt through our throats at the sound of the wayward shot, we dissolved in laughter.
Ever the pro, he had hit the target, but my concentration was shot for the day.
* * * *
Once it was exposed to the light of day on the floor of the shooting range, my attraction to Marcel flourished, even in chilly Luxembourg, like a wild tropical vine. It grew, it spread, it climbed the walls, and, hack at it though I might, it would not slow its advance. He was the only other person I saw most days, and I never grew tired of looking at him.
And what was there to be sick of? Not the flat butterscotch belly that he showcased every morning, padding into my room in flannel pajama pants with my first cup of coffee. “Café au lit,” he would sing after two small raps on the door; coffee in bed. Certainly not the jiggle of the junk in his trunk when he’d pad back to the kitchen. He was all business on the range, but when he would yell my name like it was a swear word—Beau!—there was always praise attached: You can hit this target with your eyes closed. Focus! And after practice, supper was always a masterpiece. His cooking was unadorned and wholesome, everything local and grass-fed or hand-churned, and the man could turn five ingredients into a three-course feast in fifteen minutes without ever setting down his wineglass.
Like all Luxembourgers, Marcel spoke a slew of languages, and had a kind word for everyone who crossed his path, be it the teenaged paean to Teutonic Beauty that worked in town at the post office, or the old country auntie who brought us our cheese in an oxcart two afternoons a week. He spoke only French with his mother, and his English was colloquial and effortless, but he also spoke unaccented German, passable Dutch, and elaborately formal Korean—Seoul being a strong supporter and frequent host of shooting championships. In town and often on the telephone he’d speak the startling mishmash of Flemish, German, and Gobbledygook that is Luxembourgish, which it became his favorite after-dinner ritual to try to teach me. He’d ask me a question in Luxembourgish and I’d laugh at my complete inability to pick out even the simplest of words, even as he was pointing at—or, more often, vigorously shaking—the answer.
“You want to wear a Luxembourg flag on your back in London, I will teach you something,” he would vow. Grinning; “Have you no national pride?”
“‘National pride?’ It’s been my ‘nation’ for six months.”
“You could at least learn to say, ‘I am ashamed not to speak Luxembourgish,’” he’d scold.
“I’d be more ashamed to speak Luxembourgish,” I’d tease, knowing it would instigate a wrestling match that invariably ended with both of us in a tangle on the sectional sofa, watching A Fish Called Wanda or Slumdog Millionaire dubbed in Luxembourgish on the country’s one artsy television channel, and sharing a pre-packed pudding cup from the Monoprix in town.
But I hadn’t come to Luxembourg to fall in love, I had to remind myself, and certainly not with my cousin. I had come to open up my access to a world of sexy jocks, and when the European speed skating championships came to Luxembourg, I leapt at the opportunity to get in some practice in that arena as well.
Tickets were easily had, and there was nothing stopping a dedicated fan from hanging over the side of the arena wall all afternoon in the name of choosing the exactly right ass upon which to hit. As big, muscular asses went, I found that I was rather spoiled for choice, as even the otherwise narrow skaters had them, and so I moved on to reviewing other attributes, of which a hulking Norwegian distance skater named Peder had dozens, not the least of which was his propensity for hitting on tall, skinny Americans after winning his third gold medal of the championships.
With all three of his events behind him and a spot on the Norwegian team in Vancouver guaranteed, he was ready to party, and I was only too happy to show him the local color. A drink here, a jazz combo there, a late-night snack that would have felled a farmhand, and he was anxious to move on to the clothing-optional portion of the evening’s program.
By the time I had the lascivious, lantern-jawed giant in my bedroom, though, the only real “option” was whether to take the time to fumble with buttons and zippers, or just to rip the clothes from our bodies in shreds and get after it. He was wide and
