Chapter 10: The Lamppost Exhibition
The apartment was silent when Gerard woke.
Gray light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretched below like a machine that had been running all night and hadn't noticed he was there. His mouth tasted like wine and sleep. His body ached in places he hadn't known existed—his shoulders from holding still, his calves from standing on metal, his jaw from clenching it for two hours.
He sat up.
The sheets pooled around his waist. Lavender. Still.
He looked at his hands. The rope burns from the sign were healing. Pink scars across his palms. He flexed his fingers. They worked. Good.
He got up.
The hallway was quiet. He walked barefoot across the hardwood floor, past abstract paintings that probably cost more than his apartment, past a bookshelf filled with books in languages he didn't recognize.
The living room was empty.
Adrien wasn't on the couch.
Gerard stood there for a moment. The windows reflected his body back at him—hairy, broad, naked. He looked like something that had wandered in from the forest and forgotten how to leave.
"You sleep well?"
Gerard turned.
Adrien was standing in the kitchen. He was dressed in a dark shirt and dark trousers. His hair was silver and perfect. He held a cup of coffee in one hand.
Gerard nodded.
"Good." Adrien took a sip. "Eat something. We leave in an hour."
"Where are we going?"
"Berlin."
"We are in Berlin."
"Different part."
Gerard waited.
Adrien set the cup down. Walked toward him. Stopped a foot away.
"You remember the bet."
"Yes."
"You remember what you agreed to."
"Anything."
"Anything." Adrien's mouth curved. "Yes. That's what you said."
Gerard stood still.
"The task today is simple," Adrien said. "You're going to stand on a street corner."
Gerard didn't blink.
"You're going to strip naked. You're going to tie yourself to a lamppost. And you're going to stand there for four hours."
Gerard's jaw tightened.
"With a sign."
Adrien reached into his pocket. Pulled out a folded piece of paper. Unfolded it.
The sign was hand-painted. Black letters on white board. The words were simple.
DON'T HIDE THE NAKED FORM.
Gerard read it twice.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yes."
Adrien studied him. His eyes were dark. Searching.
"You're not going to ask why?"
"No."
"You're not going to negotiate?"
"No."
"You're not going to say the word?"
Gerard's throat tightened.
"No."
Adrien smiled. Slow. Satisfied.
"Good."
He folded the sign. Tucked it back into his pocket.
"Eat. Get dressed. We leave in forty-five minutes."
The drive was quiet.
Adrien took the autobahn southeast. The city thinned into suburbs. The suburbs thinned into fields. Then the fields thickened back into city—different city, same city, Berlin was like that, layers on layers, old and new pressed together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Gerard watched the buildings pass. He thought about the lecture hall. The pointer. The students. The way they'd looked at him like he was meat.
He thought about the word.
Still there. Still waiting.
He didn't say it.
The department store was on a corner. Glass doors. Neon signs. A brass plaque above the entrance that glinted in the afternoon sun.
For the Strong, the Weak, and the Willing.
Adrien parked around the corner. Killed the engine.
"Get out."
Gerard got out.
The street was busy. Cobblestones underfoot. Street vendors with carts. Tourists with cameras. Locals with shopping bags. The air smelled like pretzels and car exhaust and something sweet—candy, maybe, or perfume.
Adrien opened the trunk. Pulled out a coil of rope. Hemp. Rough. Thick.
He handed it to Gerard.
"There's a lamppost at the corner. Black iron. You'll see it."
Gerard took the rope.
"The sign."
Adrien handed him the sign.
"You'll need to hold it."
Gerard looked at the sign. DON'T HIDE THE NAKED FORM.
"Okay."
"You have four hours. I'll be watching."
Gerard nodded.
"Go."
Gerard walked to the corner.
The lamppost was exactly where Adrien said it would be. Black iron. Ornate. Old. The kind of thing that had been there for a hundred years and would be there for a hundred more.
He set the sign down. Looked around.
People were walking past. No one was looking at him yet. He was just a man with a rope and a sign, standing on a street corner.
He took off his jacket.
Folded it. Placed it on the ground.
He took off his shirt.
The air was cool. It touched his chest. His arms. His stomach. He felt the hair on his skin rise.
He took off his shoes. His socks.
He unbuttoned his jeans. Pulled them down. Stepped out of them.
He was naked.
A woman walking past glanced at him. Did a double-take. Kept walking.
Gerard picked up the rope.
He wrapped it around the lamppost first. Twice. Tight. Then around his chest. Under his arms. Across his stomach. He tied it off behind him. Then he wound it around his thighs. His calves. His ankles.
He tested the knots. They held.
He picked up the sign.
Held it above his head.
DON'T HIDE THE NAKED FORM.
He waited.
The first person to stop was a man in a suit. He looked at Gerard. Looked at the sign. Frowned. Took out his phone. Snapped a photo. Walked away.
The second person was a woman with a stroller. She looked at Gerard. Looked at the sign. Her mouth opened. Closed. She pushed the stroller faster.
The third person was a teenager. He laughed. Took a selfie with Gerard in the background. Posted it. Gerard could hear the notification sound.
Then more people came.
They stopped. They stared. They pointed. They whispered. They took photos. They took videos. They laughed.
Gerard stood still.
The rope was rough against his skin. The sign was heavy. His arms ached. His legs ached. The sun was warm on his bald head.
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
He just stood.
A man in a business suit stopped in front of him. Looked at the sign. Looked at Gerard.
"Is this art?"
Gerard didn't answer.
"Is this a protest?"
Gerard didn't answer.
"What's wrong with you?"
Gerard didn't answer.
The man shook his head. Walked away.
A group of students stopped. Three of them. Two women, one man. They were young. Maybe eighteen. Maybe nineteen.
"Hey," one of the women said. "Are you okay?"
Gerard looked at her.
"Yes."
"Why are you doing this?"
"It is a bet."
"A bet?"
"Yes."
"You lost a bet?"
"No."
"You won a bet?"
"No."
"Then what?"
Gerard didn't answer.
The woman looked at her friends. Shrugged. They took photos. Walked away.
The hours passed.
Gerard's arms went numb. Then they went past numb. Then they went to a place where they were just meat, just weight, just things holding a sign.
His legs shook. His feet were cold. His cock had shriveled to nothing. His balls had pulled up tight against his body.
He didn't move.
People came and went. Some laughed. Some stared. Some took photos. Some asked questions. Some didn't say anything at all—just looked, then left.
A child pointed at him. The mother pulled the child away.
A dog sniffed at his ankle. The owner yanked the leash.
A man in a leather jacket stopped. Looked at Gerard for a long time. Then he nodded. Just once. Like he understood something. And walked away.
Gerard's vision blurred.
He blinked.
Then he saw them.
Coming out of the department store.
His mother.
His father.
His sister.
They were carrying shopping bags. Bright bags. New bags. They were laughing about something—Anke was saying something, and Klaus was shaking his head, and Brunhilde was smiling.
Then they saw him.
Brunhilde dropped her bags.
The paper handles tore. The contents spilled across the cobblestones—a scarf, a box of chocolates, something glass that shattered.
She covered her mouth.
Klaus stopped walking. His face went red. Then purple. Then a color that didn't have a name.
Anke pulled out her phone.
"Was zum Teufel," Klaus whispered.
Then he shouted it.
"WAS ZUM TEUFEL!"
People turned. Looked at the family. Looked at Gerard. Looked at the sign.
Gerard didn't move.
Klaus stormed toward him. His shoes crunched on broken glass.
"Gerard! Was machst du? Was ist das? Bist du verrückt geworden?!"
Gerard looked at his father.
"A bet is a bet."
Klaus's hands clenched into fists.
"Ein Wettschein? Du stehst nackt auf der Straße für einen Wettschein?!"
"Yes."
"Das ist Wahnsinn! Das ist—das ist—" Klaus sputtered. He couldn't find the word. "Bist du nicht bei Verstand?!"
"I am at my mind."
"No! No, you're not! Look at you! You're naked! People are taking pictures! Your mother is crying!"
Gerard looked at his mother.
Brunhilde was crying. Tears ran down her cheeks. She hadn't moved from the spot where she'd dropped the bags.
Gerard looked away.
Anke walked up behind Klaus. Her phone was still recording.
"Gerard," she said. "What the actual fuck?"
"A bet is a bet."
"I can see that." She panned the phone up and down his body. "How long have you been standing here?"
"Three hours. Maybe four."
"Are you cold?"
"Yes."
"Do you care?"
"No."
Anke laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. It was the laugh of someone who had run out of other options.
"You're insane. You know that?"
"Yes."
Klaus grabbed Anke's arm.
"Stop filming!"
"No way. This is going on Instagram."
"ANKE!"
She stepped back. Kept filming.
Klaus turned back to Gerard. His face was wet now. Not tears. Sweat. Anger.
"Get down," he said. "Get dressed. Now."
Gerard didn't move.
"Do it!"
"No."
"Gerard!"
"A bet is a bet."
"You're killing your mother!"
Gerard looked at Brunhilde again. She was holding her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook.
Gerard looked at the sign. DON'T HIDE THE NAKED FORM.
He didn't move.
Klaus grabbed the rope. Started pulling at the knots.
"Get down! Get down right now!"
Gerard didn't resist. But he didn't help. Klaus's fingers fumbled with the knots. They were tight. Too tight. He couldn't get them undone.
"Anke! Help me!"
Anke kept filming.
"Anke!"
"Hold on."
She didn't move.
Klaus pulled harder. The rope cut into Gerard's skin. Blood welled up on his chest. He didn't flinch.
"Papa," Gerard said.
Klaus stopped.
"Stop."
Klaus looked at him. His son. Naked. Tied to a lamppost. Bleeding. Calm.
"This is something I have to do."
"Why?!"
Gerard didn't answer.
"WHY?!"
"Because I said I would."
Klaus stepped back. His hands fell to his sides.
A police officer appeared.
He was young. Maybe thirty. Fit. Confused.
"Was ist hier los?"
Klaus pointed at Gerard.
"He's my son! He's crazy!"
The officer looked at Gerard. Looked at the sign. Looked at the crowd that had gathered—thirty, forty people now, phones out, watching.
"Sir," the officer said. "You need to get down."
Gerard shook his head.
"I cannot."
"You can't or you won't?"
"Both."
The officer frowned. Reached for his radio.
Then Adrien appeared.
Gerard didn't see him coming. He just was there, standing beside the officer, calm and silver-haired and dressed like he owned the street.
"Officer."
The officer turned.
"This is a protected art installation."
The officer blinked.
"What?"
"An art installation." Adrien gestured at Gerard. At the sign. At the rope. "Performance art. Protected under the Berlin Art Preservation Act."
The officer looked at Gerard. Looked at Adrien.
"Do you have a permit?"
Adrien reached into his jacket. Pulled out a piece of paper. Handed it over.
The officer read it. Frowned. Read it again.
"This is..."
"Standard. I assure you."
The officer looked at Gerard. Then at the crowd. Then at Adrien.
"There are complaints."
"There always are. Art provokes."
The officer's shoulders sagged. He handed the paper back.
"Fine. But if there's trouble—"
"There won't be."
The officer nodded. Walked away.
The crowd murmured. Some stayed. Some left. Anke kept filming.
Klaus stared at Adrien.
"Who are you?"
Adrien smiled.
"Someone who keeps his word."
He looked at Gerard. Nodded.
Gerard nodded back.
Adrien turned and walked to his car. Got in. Drove away.
The family stood there.
Brunhilde had stopped crying. She was just looking at Gerard now. Her eyes were red. Her mouth was open. She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
Klaus looked at the ground.
Anke lowered her phone.
"Gerard," she said.
"Yes."
"Are you going to come home?"
"Later."
"When?"
"When it is done."
She nodded. Looked at her parents.
"Come on. Let's go."
She picked up the bags. The unbroken ones. Klaus helped Brunhilde. They walked away.
Brunhilde looked back once.
Gerard watched her.
Then she was gone.
The four hours ended.
Gerard untied himself. His fingers were stiff. The knots were hard. It took twenty minutes. By the time he was free, his legs barely held him.
He picked up his clothes. Dressed. The fabric was cold.
He folded the rope. Rolled the sign. Picked everything up.
Adrien's car was waiting at the corner.
Gerard walked to it. Opened the door. Got in.
Adrien looked at him.
"You're bleeding."
Gerard looked down. The rope burns on his chest were raw. Red. Some of them were oozing.
"It is nothing."
Adrien nodded.
"Your family."
"Yes."
"They were upset."
"Yes."
"Does that bother you?"
Gerard looked out the window. The street was empty now. The vendors had packed up. The lights were on in the department store.
"No."
Adrien started the car.
"Good."
They drove.
The city passed. The lights. The people. The life.
Gerard's phone buzzed. A text.
Anke.
Are you okay?
He stared at it. Typed back.
Yes.
You're insane.
Yes.
I love you anyway.
I know.
He put the phone away.
Adrien glanced at him.
"Your sister?"
"Yes."
"She seems... interesting."
"She is."
They drove in silence.
The restaurant was the same as before. Small. Tucked away. The waiter was the same. Tired. He looked at Gerard. Looked at the blood on his shirt. Didn't ask.
"Two?"
"Yes."
"Menu?"
"No."
"Whatever the chef recommends?"
"Yes."
The waiter nodded. Disappeared.
Gerard sat across from Adrien. His body hurt. His arms hurt. His chest hurt. His feet hurt.
He didn't complain.
Adrien poured wine.
"You did well today."
Gerard didn't answer.
"Better than I expected."
Gerard took a sip of wine. It was red. Dry. It tasted like nothing.
"You are surprised?"
Adrien smiled.
"A little."
"I always keep my word."
"I know."
The food came. Pasta again. Red sauce. Bread.
Gerard ate.
Adrien watched him.
"The next task."
Gerard looked up.
"Yes."
"It's harder."
"Okay."
"You don't want to know what it is?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Gerard chewed. Swallowed.
"Because it does not matter."
"It doesn't?"
"No."
Adrien leaned back. His eyes were dark. Curious.
"Why not?"
Gerard set his fork down.
"Because I will do it."
Adrien studied him. A long moment. Then he nodded.
"Yes. You will."
They ate.
The apartment was dark when they got back.
Adrien went to the kitchen. Poured himself a drink. Gerard stood by the windows. Looked out at the city.
"You can sleep in the same room," Adrien said.
"Okay."
"You're not going to ask what tomorrow is?"
"No."
"You're not curious?"
"No."
Adrien walked to him. Stood close. His breath smelled like whiskey.
"You're different."
"Yes."
"I like it."
Gerard didn't answer.
Adrien reached out. Touched Gerard's chest. The rope burns. His fingers were cool.
"These will scar."
"Good."
Adrien smiled.
"Go to bed."
Gerard went to bed.
The sheets were still lavender.
He lay on his back. Stared at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed.
Anke.
Mom is crying. Dad won't talk. What are you doing?
He stared at the screen.
Typed.
A bet is a bet.
That's not an answer.
It is my answer.
Gerard.
Yes.
Come home.
When it is done.
When will it be done?
He didn't answer.
He put the phone on the nightstand.
Closed his eyes.
The word was there. Waiting.
He didn't say it.
He slept.
And in his dreams, his mother was crying, and his father was shouting, and his sister was filming, and he was standing on the corner, and the rope was cutting into his skin, and the sign was heavy in his hands.
And he didn't move.
He didn't speak.
He just stood.
Because a bet is a bet.
And Gerard Kain never broke his word.
The morning came gray and quiet.
Gerard woke to the smell of coffee and something else—bacon, maybe, or sausage. The sheets were tangled around his legs. His chest ached where the rope had cut. He touched the wounds. Scabs now. Good.
He sat up.
The room was the same as yesterday. White walls. White curtains. The city beyond the glass looked like a photograph someone had taken of a place Gerard had never been.
He stood. Walked to the door. Opened it.
Adrien was in the kitchen again. Same dark shirt. Same dark trousers. Same perfect hair. He was reading something on his phone, a cup of coffee steaming beside him on the counter.
"You're awake."
Gerard nodded.
"There's food on the table. Eat."
Gerard walked to the table. A plate waited for him—eggs, bacon, toast, tomatoes. He sat down. Ate.
Adrien didn't look up from his phone.
"Today is different."
Gerard chewed. Swallowed.
"Different how?"
"No street. No rope. No sign."
Gerard waited.
"An art gallery. Private. Invitation only."
Gerard set his fork down.
"I do not know art."
Adrien looked up. Smiled. It was the smile from the lecture hall—the one that didn't reach his eyes.
"You don't have to know anything. You just have to stand there."
Gerard picked his fork back up.
"For how long?"
"Three hours. Maybe four. Depends on the buyers."
"Buyers?"
Adrien set his phone down.
"It's an auction. You're the lot."
Gerard's jaw tightened.
"What are they buying?"
"Your time. Your body. Your presence." Adrien took a sip of coffee. "Whatever they want."
Gerard stared at his plate.
"And I have no say."
"No."
"Okay."
Adrien studied him.
"You're not going to ask who they are?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Gerard looked up.
"Because it does not matter."
Adrien nodded slowly.
"No. It doesn't."
He stood. Walked to the window. Looked out at the city.
"The gallery is in Mitte. Old building. New money. The people there tonight will be collectors, investors, philanthropists. People who pay six figures for a painting and forget it in a storage unit."
Gerard ate.
"They'll look at you the way they look at everything else. As an object. As a conversation piece. As something to own."
Gerard swallowed.
"And I just stand there."
"Yes."
"Naked?"
"Naked."
"Okay."
Adrien turned.
"You're very calm."
"I am always calm."
"No. You're not." Adrien walked back to the table. "I've seen you. On the sign. In the lecture hall. You were calm on the outside. Inside, you were burning."
Gerard didn't answer.
"Today will be harder. The gallery is small. The people are close. They'll touch you. They'll bid on you. They'll talk about you like you're not in the room."
Gerard finished his eggs.
"Okay."
"And at the end, someone will win. Someone will take you home."
Gerard's fork stopped mid-air.
"Take me home?"
"For the night. Whatever they want. That was the bet."
Gerard set the fork down.
"The bet was to follow your orders."
"Yes."
"And this is your order."
"Yes."
Gerard looked at his hands. The rope scars. The calluses.
"Okay."
Adrien smiled.
"Good."
The gallery was a converted warehouse.
Brick walls. Steel beams. Skylights that let in the gray afternoon light. The floors were polished concrete. The air smelled like white wine and expensive perfume and something metallic—sculpture, maybe, or the old bones of the building itself.
Gerard stood in a back room.
Adrien had left him there twenty minutes ago. Told him to undress. Told him to wait. The room was small. Bare. A single chair. A mirror. A door.
Gerard undressed.
He folded his clothes. Placed them on the chair. Looked at himself in the mirror.
His body was the same as always. Hairy. Broad. Scarred now, too—the rope burns on his chest, his arms, his thighs. They were healing. Pink. Raised.
He touched them. Felt the ridges under his fingers.
The door opened.
Adrien stepped in. Looked at him. Up and down. Clinical.
"Good."
Gerard didn't answer.
"Come."
Gerard followed him out.
The main gallery was larger than he'd expected. High ceilings. White walls. Spotlights that made everything look holy. There were paintings—abstract, colorful, meaningless—and sculptures—twisted metal, smooth stone, things that didn't look like anything at all.
And there were people.
Thirty of them. Maybe forty. Dressed in black and white and gold. Holding champagne flutes. Speaking in low voices. Laughing at things that weren't funny.
They turned when Gerard walked in.
Adrien led him to the center of the room. A raised platform. Circular. White. Like the one in the lecture hall, but softer. Carpeted. Warm.
"Stand here."
Gerard stepped onto the platform.
"Don't move. Don't speak. Don't react."
Gerard nodded.
Adrien walked away.
The people approached.
The first was a woman. Sixties. Diamond earrings. Lips painted red.
She circled him. Slow. Her heels clicked on the concrete. She stopped in front of him. Looked at his chest. His stomach. His cock.
"Remarkable," she said. Not to him. To the man beside her. "The texture. The hair. It's very... primal."
The man nodded. He was younger. Maybe forty. Maybe her son. Maybe her lover. He didn't say anything.
The woman reached out. Touched Gerard's chest. Her fingers were cold. Dry.
"Firm," she said. "Good muscle tone."
She moved on.
The next was a man. Tall. Gray beard. Glasses.
He walked around Gerard three times. Didn't touch. Just looked.
"The proportions are interesting," he said to no one in particular. "The shoulders are wide. The hips are narrow. It's a classical form."
He took out his phone. Snapped a photo. The flash made Gerard blink.
"May I?" the man asked Adrien.
Adrien nodded.
The man took more photos. Close-ups. Of Gerard's face. His hands. His cock. His feet.
"Extraordinary," he muttered. "Extraordinary."
More people came.
A woman in a green dress. She touched Gerard's beard. Pulled it gently. "Is it real?"
No one answered.
A man in a suit. He touched Gerard's ass. Squeezed. "Firm," he said. "Very firm."
A young woman. Maybe twenty-five. She stood in front of Gerard for a long time. Just looking at his face.
"Are you okay?" she whispered.
Gerard didn't answer.
She nodded. Walked away.
The hours passed.
Gerard stood. People touched. People photographed. People talked about him like he was a chair. A painting. A thing.
His legs ached. His back ached. His cock had shriveled from the cold and the staring. His nipples were hard. Always hard. He couldn't help it.
At some point, a man approached with a clipboard.
"Bidding will begin in ten minutes," he said to the room. "Please take your seats."
The people moved. Chairs appeared. A small podium. An auctioneer—thin, nervous, wearing a bow tie.
Adrien stood at the back. Watching.
Gerard stood on the platform. Waiting.
The auctioneer cleared his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. Tonight's lot is unique. A live installation. A living sculpture. The artist wishes to remain anonymous. The subject has agreed to the terms."
He gestured at Gerard.
"The bidding will start at five thousand euros."
A hand went up. The woman with the diamond earrings.
"Five thousand."
Another hand. The man with the gray beard.
"Six."
"Seven."
"Eight."
The numbers climbed.
Gerard stood still.
His mind drifted. He thought about his mother. Crying on the street corner. He thought about his father. Shouting. He thought about Anke. Filming.
He thought about the word.
"Fifteen thousand."
"Sixteen."
"Seventeen."
The bidding slowed.
"Twenty thousand."
"Twenty-five."
"Thirty."
A pause.
The auctioneer looked around.
"Thirty thousand going once."
Gerard's feet were numb. His hands were numb. His face was a mask.
"Thirty thousand going twice."
A hand went up. In the back.
"Forty."
Everyone turned.
The man was short. Round. Soft. He wore a suit that didn't fit him right—too tight in the stomach, too loose in the shoulders. His face was pink. His eyes were small. He looked like a banker. Or a dentist.
"Forty thousand," the auctioneer said. "Do I hear forty-five?"
No one moved.
"Forty going once."
The woman with the diamonds shook her head.
"Forty going twice."
The man with the beard looked at his phone.
"Sold. To the gentleman in the back."
The room applauded.
Gerard didn't move.
The chubby man walked to the front. He was smiling. Nervous. He pulled out a checkbook. Wrote something. Handed it to the auctioneer.
Then he turned to Gerard.
"Hello," he said. His voice was soft. German. Berlin accent. "I'm Dieter."
Gerard didn't answer.
Dieter looked at Adrien. Adrien nodded.
"Take him," Adrien said. "He's yours until morning."
Dieter swallowed. Nodded.
"Okay."
He looked at Gerard.
"Come."
Gerard stepped down from the platform. His legs almost gave out. He caught himself. Stood straight.
Dieter handed him a robe. Gerard put it on. It was too small.
They walked out of the gallery together.
The night air was cold. Gerard's breath fogged.
Dieter's car was a Mercedes. Old. Clean. He opened the passenger door.
"Please."
Gerard got in.
Dieter got in the driver's side. Started the engine.
They drove.
The city passed. Lights. People. Life.
Dieter didn't speak. His hands were tight on the wheel. His jaw was tight.
Gerard watched him.
"You are nervous."
Dieter glanced at him.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Dieter laughed. It was a small laugh. Nervous.
"I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"This. Bought someone. For the night."
Gerard looked out the window.
"It is just a bet."
Dieter nodded.
"That's what the man said. Adrien. He said you'd say that."
Gerard didn't answer.
Dieter's apartment was in Charlottenburg. Old building. High ceilings. Stucco. A courtyard with a dead tree in the middle.
He led Gerard up three flights of stairs. Opened the door.
The apartment was warm. Cluttered. Books everywhere. Papers. A piano in the corner. A cat on the windowsill.
Dieter turned on a lamp.
"Sit. Please."
Gerard sat on the couch.
Dieter stood in the middle of the room. Fidgeting.
"Can I get you something? Water? Tea? Wine?"
"No."
"Okay."
Dieter sat in a chair across from him.
"I don't... I don't usually do this."
Gerard waited.
"I saw the listing online. The gallery. The auction. I don't know why I went. Curiosity, maybe. Loneliness."
He looked at Gerard.
"You're very beautiful."
Gerard didn't answer.
"I mean that. Not just your body. Your face. Your stillness. You're like a statue."
Gerard looked at the cat. The cat looked at him.
"What do you want from me?"
Dieter blinked.
"I don't know."
"You paid forty thousand euros."
"I know."
"For what?"
Dieter looked at his hands.
"To not be alone. For one night."
Gerard stood.
Dieter flinched.
Gerard walked to him. Stood in front of him.
"You want me to stay."
"Yes."
"Just stay."
"Yes."
"Nothing else."
Dieter looked up. His eyes were wet.
"Nothing else."
Gerard sat on the floor. Crossed his legs. Looked at the cat.
"Okay."
Dieter stared at him.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"You don't want anything?"
Gerard shook his head.
"No."
Dieter let out a breath. It was shaky. Long.
"Thank you."
Gerard didn't answer.
The cat jumped off the windowsill. Walked to Gerard. Sniffed his knee. Rubbed against his arm.
Gerard petted it. Once. Twice.
Dieter watched.
"What's your name?"
"Gerard."
"Gerard." Dieter said it slowly. Like he was tasting it. "Gerard."
"Yes."
"Are you hungry, Gerard?"
"No."
"Thirsty?"
"No."
"Tired?"
"Yes."
Dieter stood.
"There's a guest room. Down the hall. You can sleep there."
Gerard looked at him.
"You do not want me in your bed?"
Dieter's face went red.
"No. I mean—no. Not like that."
Gerard nodded. Stood.
"Okay."
Dieter led him to the guest room. Small. Clean. A bed. A window. Moonlight.
"There are towels in the bathroom. If you want to shower."
"Okay."
"Gerard."
Gerard turned.
Dieter was standing in the doorway. Small. Round. Sad.
"Thank you."
Gerard didn't answer.
Dieter closed the door.
Gerard stood in the dark.
He thought about the bet. About Adrien. About the word.
He thought about his mother. His father. His sister.
He thought about the sign. DON'T HIDE THE NAKED FORM.
He thought about the lecture hall. The pointer. The students.
He thought about Dieter. The way he'd looked at him. Like he was something precious. Something worth forty thousand euros.
Gerard lay down on the bed.
The sheets were soft. Clean. They smelled like lavender.
Like Adrien's apartment.
Like his mother's garden.
He closed his eyes.
The word was there. Waiting.
He didn't say it.
He slept.
And in his dreams, he was standing on the platform, and the people were touching him, and their hands were cold, and their eyes were empty, and he didn't move, and he didn't speak, and he didn't feel anything at all.
Because a bet is a bet.
And Gerard Kain never broke his word.