Free Fiction! Excerpt from a new Novella "The Diary of Tristan Young"

This is an excerpt from a novella due to be released in September 2022. Based in Tristan und Isolde, the tale of a young gay man who crosses Canada on behalf of a friend, only to find himself falling in love.

June 24, 1927

Dear Diary,

This is my first entry and it's late in the evening. I bought this diary to record the bits and pieces of my life. I don't know why. I suppose I can look back on it in my later years and reflect on the goings-on. I hope I don't embarrass myself, I shall endeavor not to, but I also want to be honest about my feelings and thoughts. These days so many people write things to impress others. I don't think my life is very interesting. In fact, to be honest I think it's rather boring. I have no love life other than trysts, and I'm not wealthy, working for a haberdasher. Perhaps all that will change one day.

But here I am and here I will begin.

Today I met with Mark over an early supper in a quaint little bistro on Yonge Street after my work. We had lamb cutlets with vegetables, salad, and all followed by a pudding. The food was passable, but not delicious. We also drank, probably too much. After that we took a taxicab back to his house on Jarvis Street. He does have a wonderful house, full of the latest in Chinoiserie and Egyptian designs which are becoming more popular these days. I only wish that I had half his money, but my earnings will only furnish my flat with the simplest of things, but I do have a very nice radio that cost me $10.00.

He played his radio, a live jazz broadcast from a hotel in New York City. What an amazing thing is radio, that we can listen to live music from so far away! Mark and I did not dance, although I suppose we might have. He's really a very handsome gentleman, with his full mustache and a full head of hair. He may be graying, now that he is in his forties, but nonetheless, I can see why all the young men flock to him, and not just because of his money. He has broad shoulders and a fine physique. I dare say that I feel quite enamored with him.

I must be off to bed. I'm working by myself tomorrow as Mr. Fine is off for his Sabbath.

Tristan Young lived in a small flat, really a bedsitting room, on Cumberland Street, not too far from Church and Wellesley. He was 26 years old, slender and kept his dirty blonde hair in the latest fashion, short and slicked back, with a bang that occasionally found its way over his forehead. His favorite suit was a brown tweed with a high collared white shirt and a neat brown tie with dark green stripes. He worked in a Haberdasher's shop on Queen Street, for Mr. Fine, a cranky old man, or at least that was his assessment of him. The work paid him thirty-seven dollars a week, but that was more than enough to keep his flat and allow him to spend money on some few extravagances.

Dancing was a passion for Tristan. He loved to go to the local dancing hall and, picking the right partner, would perform the foxtrot and the Charleston, which he had learned through a dancing teacher. He always chose those women who sat at the sidelines, wallflowers, who seemed to be so dreary and unhappy, that at least he could provide them with some entertainment. The flappers were never his choice - they always wanted something more than dancing, and if one of his dance partners ever suggested that he should accompany them home, he simply told them that he had to work in the morning and would then make his departure.

Life in Toronto was pleasant enough. There were the cinemas and the dance halls; plenty of restaurants, some of them quite fine, and of course, his small group of friends. Mark Cornwall was almost like a second father to him, although he did find him quite attractive, but their relationship was strictly platonic. Other of his friends were Damian Smith, who was at times quite insufferable, but at times very funny, especially after several drinks. Ethan Gold was Jewish and rather somber most of the time, but Tristan enjoyed discussions with him and they spent a lot of time together. They would talk about all manner of politics and the state of the world for hours on end. Then there was Alexander. Tristan and Alexander Beaton had been lovers briefly, and even now they would on occasion meet to fulfill their lustful passions, but they had grown to be more friends than lovers.

Often, Mark would host men over to his house for a dinner party and perhaps to dance afterwards. He called it "The Gentlemen's Club". There was always plenty to drink. Prohibition in the United States made the purchase of some spirits difficult. When they did attend parties, the blinds would always be drawn. It was suspicious enough that there were no women present, but if by chance anyone saw the men dancing together, there would certainly be a raid by the police and the lot would be locked up for gross indecency or sodomy.

Mark had been planning such a party for Dominion Day on the 1st of July and Tristan had received his invitation in the mail. That would be an exciting day. There was to be a parade in the city, with bands and floats and festivities. And then to follow this with a party and dancing in the company of men was everything Tristan dreamed about.

***

Tristan made his way to work by trolley, down Yonge Street to Queen and then transferring trolleys to the garment district. This place was bustling. There were the fabric shops and the dress shops, haberdashers and milliners. Ladies' maidservants would scurry about looking for the latest in fabrics from China and India to labor over as they sewed new gowns and dresses in the finer homes of Toronto.

Entering Mr. Fine's Haberdashers, Tristan was met by the owner and his usual scowl. Surely the man was the most miserable thing Tristan had ever met.

"You're late," Mr. Fine said. "I expect you to stay an extra ten minutes on that account."

"Yes, Mr. Fine," Tristan replied hanging up his jacket and straw boater..

May in Toronto could be many things as far as the weather was concerned. This day was particularly pleasant. There was a cool breeze that flowed through the streets and there was not so much congestion of traffic to stop the air from its usual foul smell and instead allowed for something more pleasant off Lake Ontario.

"We have several orders for jackets today," Mr. Fine told Tristan. "I'll expect you to work on those as well as serve any new customers. With Dominion Day coming, I suspect we shall have new orders."

"Yes, Mr. Fine," Tristan replied and went to the back room to start with cutting and sewing the new orders. He was always adept at the sewing machine and knew how to use the treadle quite well. He'd learned the skill from his mother, whom he would help in sewing the families clothes during the War years.

He worked until one o'clock and then took lunch at a nearby cafe. Tristan always loved watching the people bustling about: the women in their feathered hats and fancy skirts and the men in their three piece suits and straw hats. Luncheon was always simple for Tristan, as Mr. Fine only allowed him one half hour before returning to work. The delicatessen was Jewish and served the most delicious corned beef sandwiches. After eating and having a cigarette, he made his way back to the shop and to work.

When he arrived back at the shop, there were several gentlemen all looking over the garment racks. He approached one man and asked if he could help him.

The man turned around and Tristan went completely red. He'd met this man before. It was a brief tryst in a park off Church Street. The man was married, as were many of the men who looked for queers in the local parks.

Looking stunned, the man seemed unsure of what to say. "I - I was looking for a new jacket, " he finally said.

Tristan gathered himself and started rifling through the jackets on the rack. He quietly asked, "What size are you, if I might ask?"

"Perhaps I should simply try several on?" the man asked. "I know my neck is eighteen inches, but I'm not certain about my arms."

"Certainly, Sir," Tristan responded and found several jackets for the man to try. "One of these should do."

There was a slight relaxation now. There were no secrets to be exposed, no chatting besides the business at hand. This much Tristan knew - never, ever give up the secrets of others. Wear the mask.

The man purchased a tweed jacket and left the store. There were no words other than "thank you" and "glad to be of service" between the two.

This was what it was to be a sodomite in Toronto: the sealed lips, the knowing glances, the quiet acknowledgments, the painful silence.