“Jeez, I don’t know, Rid. Using up the one and only all-afternoon permission I’ve got this month on an opera. I don’t know . . . .”
“Trust me. You’re going to love it. We’ll get something to eat afterward. It’ll be a great afternoon. Just the right thing to do before we begin Holy Week and then Easter.”
“How long’s an opera?”
Groendal chuckled. “With intermission, maybe three, four hours.”
“That’s a lot of sitting, Rid. I’ll make a deal with you: We end the day with a couple, three games of handball.”
“Handball! You’ll kill me!”
“I’ll go easy. Just exercise. That’s what you wanted in the first place, isn’t it?”
Groendal laughed. “You’re on.”
During the next ten days, as often as they could get together, Groendal explained and demonstrated on the piano the intricacies of Carmen.
Secular newspapers, including Detroit’s three dailies, were not permitted in the seminary. So Groendal was unable to read the previews and reviews of the various operas the Met presented during its single week in Detroit. But he knew which works were being staged each evening, and he explained the plot of each to Hogan.
Hogan considered the plots ridiculous. Groendal admitted that the plots, generally, were mere props on which the composers hung their unmatched music. Thus Hogan was cajoled into listening to many recordings of many operas.
Finally, Saturday arrived. Hogan could not help being caught up in Groendal’s excitement. They arrived early for the matinee at Detroit’s mammoth Masonic Temple. As usual during the Met’s week in Detroit, there was a nearly full house. Many patrons wore their best finery.
Hogan would have preferred waiting outside to watch the people arrive. But Groendal could hardly wait to get inside and absorb the atmosphere.
Finally, the orchestra filed in, took their seats, and unlimbered their instruments. The house lights dimmed as a warning to latecomers. Then all was darkness except for the small lights of the orchestra’s music stands. The maestro arrived at the podium, bowed to applause, shook hands with the concertmaster, raised his arms expectantly, and lowered them to the crash of Spanish chords that usher in the tragic tale of Carmen.
Indoctrinated as he had been by Groendal, Hogan understood and appreciated many nuances of this ageless masterpiece. It was a glorious afternoon.
Afterward, they stopped at a department store on the way back to the seminary and had a snack at the lunch counter. It was not much of a meal, nor were the opera seats all that expensive, but the afternoon meant a considerable outlay for Ridley.
There was a déjà vu quality to all of this for Groendal. He had been on only one other date. Both occasions were connected with the theater. Both times he had been strapped for money and had chosen extremely inexpensive places to eat. One had been with a young woman, the other with a young man. He shrugged off the comparison. It was apples and oranges.
It was a violation of rules to return to the seminary later than dinnertime. But Groendal, as a prefect, and thus in charge of law enforcement to some degree, would find the loopholes.
True to his word, Groendal joined Hogan in the handball court. There were eight indoor enclosed courts, only one of which was a singles court.
The rest of the students were finishing dinner, after which they would go to the chapel for the communal rosary. So Groendal and Hogan were alone in the subterranean courts. It was odd not to hear other voices, other handballs ricocheting off other walls. The only sound was their labored breathing, the squeak of their sneakers and the lone ball bouncing from wall to floor to wall, then being slapped again by a gloved hand.
In order to prolong the games, Hogan restrained himself from killing the series of easy setups that Groendal kept lobbing against the front wall. Nevertheless, three games were completed in less than forty-five minutes. Hogan had hardly worked up a sweat.
Not so Groendal. Even with his basketball workouts he still was not anywhere near in shape. So it was impossible for Hogan to talk him into another game. The agreed-upon three games would be it— Hogan, of course, easily winning all three by lopsided scores.
At that time of night, with no one around, that section of the building could be eerie. It was reasonable for Groendal and Hogan to use the same locker room. Ordinarily, Groendal would have used the college faculties and Hogan the high school. Tonight both used the high school faculties. Actually, it had been Hogan’s suggestion. Groendal thought it sensible.
One could always depend on the seminary powerhouse for hot water. Even with hundreds of young men using gallons of hot water daily, the supply seemed infinite.
The question of where all this hot water came from did not cross the minds of either Groendal or Hogan as they stood under the showers’ strong jets. It just felt so good and relaxing.
“This has been a really great day.” Hogan had to speak very loudly to be heard above the cascading water.
“What? Oh, yeah ... it has.”
“Carmen could have been a little slimmer, though.”
“Slimmer?” Groendal wondered what slimness had to do with singing the classic role. He was so used to opera’s tendency to cast solely on vocal ability that it never occurred to him that a nondevotee might prefer a heroine who more nearly resembled a seductress.
“Yeah,” Hogan went on, “when she did that dance, I thought the table was going to give way under her.”
Groendal smiled. “You’re supposed to be listening to the tones she produces.”
“How can you overlook that both Carmen and Don José were so fat they never could have gotten together? So why did Don José run away from the army? He would have been better off there than trying to get close to Carmen.
“And another thing: That bullfighter—Escamillo—he was really built. When he and Don José had that fight, Jeez, Escamillo could have broken Don José in half. Who’s going to believe they fought to a stand-off?”
With all this talk of physiques, for the first time Groendal regarded Hogan’s body with more than casual interest. This was the first time they had showered together. The first time Groendal had seen Hogan nude. It was a revelation to Groendal that Hogan had an—yes—attractive body. It resembled Michelangelo’s David.
Now that he noticed it, Groendal could not keep his eyes away from Hogan’s body. Groendal was beginning to be aroused and there seemed nothing he could do about it. Hogan, intent on showering, did not notice.
There can be too much even of good things, Hogan thought. He felt as if his skin would shrivel if he stayed under the hot water any longer.
He turned off the shower. So did Groendal. Hogan grabbed a towel from the shelf and threw another to Groendal. Together they went into the large drying room that separated the showers from the locker room.
Groendal preceded Hogan, who playfully snapped Ridley’s rear with the towel. Instantly, Groendal turned and grabbed at Hogan. Their still wet bodies locked in what began as a lighthearted tussle. Later, Groendal could not fix at what point the wrestling bout ceased being playful and became, for him, erotic. But there was no doubt that it did.
When the evolution occurred, Charlie Hogan reacted first in utter disbelief, then in shocked surprise. For a while, he tried to act as if it weren’t happening. He tried to kid Groendal out of what was becoming for Ridley very serious business.
At last, when Hogan could no longer pretend that what was happening was not happening, he began to fight in earnest. Although Groendal was considerably larger, he was not the coordinated athlete Hogan was. In no time, Hogan had beaten him off.