A Conversation with Lambda Finalist Jess Faraday

 

Jess Faraday’s debut novel, The Affair of the Porcelain Dog, is a Lambda Literary Award finalist for gay mystery. Writer Jeffrey Ricker talked with her recently about her debut, her upcoming novel, and how historical fiction can be relevant to and address contemporary issues.

 

Jeffrey Ricker: Congratulations on being a Lambda award finalist! I loved The Affair of the Porcelain Dog. It was one of those books I couldn’t put down; I frequently overshot my lunch hour because I wanted to read one more page. How did the idea for that book come about?

Jess Faraday: Thanks! The book actually evolved from an exercise I did with my writing group. The exercise was to take a character from something we were working on and put that character in a completely different time and place. I took a sorcerer’s assistant from a swords-and-sorcery piece and put him in a Sherlock Holmes story. The more I worked on it, the more I realized that there was just so much more to be said.

JR: You’ve trained as a linguist and translator. Tell me a little about what that entailed. How would you say that’s influenced your writing, if at all?

JF: I’ve always been fascinated by language and words—not just nuances in meaning, but the rhythm, color, and music of it. I’ve always loved these things, and I try to incorporate them into my writing, hopefully without going overboard. I love translation because one has to really think about the shades of meaning of key words, and the greater picture created when all the words come together. It’s the same when writing a story: the rhythm, color, and music created by the language gives the story a certain feel that affects setting, plot, and character, but registers on a completely different level.

JR: What is the most challenging thing about writing?

JF: Getting through the first draft, which will always be completely crappy. Subsequent drafts are easy. Fun, even. Because it means turning garbage into something nice. But getting through that first draft can be a nightmare.

JR: What made you decide to write a novel from the point of view of a gay man in Victorian London? Did you ever have any concerns about creating an authentic voice for that character?

JF: I think every writer wants to create believable, sympathetic characters. I do, and I hope that if my characters lack authenticity as either gay men or as Victorians, that they’re at least believable as people.

I did a lot of sociological research about London in the late Victorian era—not just specifically about the lives of gay men, but about relationships between men and women, different races and social strata, and how these things fit together (and also lighting, personal hygiene, battlefield medicine, pollution of the Thames, and the history of envelope sealants).

The idea to make the main character the crime lord’s lover, rather than just his assistant, sparked when I came across the Labouchere Amendment, which aimed to protect women and girls from exploitation by criminalizing “indecency” between men (huh?)—not only actual sexual acts, but attempted acts, with no evidence required. It sounded so much like today’s hysterical “think of the children!” rhetoric that I had to include it somehow. Also, it made the resolution of the plot that much more pressing!

JR: Part of the writer’s function is to engage with and comment on contemporary culture. You wouldn’t think that historical fiction could do that, but Porcelain Dog was a very accessible novel, and seemed to resonate and not be so far removed from modern culture, while at the same time being grounded in Victoriana.

JF: We like to think that human societies are continuously evolving forward, becoming better, smarter, more enlightened, etc., with every passing generation. But it simply isn’t true. We keep dealing with the same conflicts over and over. Money. Sex. Power. Love. How we think about them may be different in different times and places, but the conflicts are always the same. They’re never solved forever, and they never go away. I think addressing the universal conflicts that have always been with humanity, and always will be, is what makes historical writing interesting and accessible to others.

JR: What are you working on now? How is it similar or different from Porcelain Dog? Do you think you’ll ever revisit the character of Ira Adler in a future book?

JF: Right now I’m finishing another mystery, this time set in early 19^th-century Paris. The protagonist is the last remaining female Sûreté agent after the resignation of Sûreté founder Eugène Vidocq. Unlike Porcelain Dog, this book has a significant supernatural element. I’d say it’s closer to speculative fiction than to pure historical fiction.

The next book on the docket is the sequel to Porcelain Dog. =)

Eye of the Tyger

Bold Strokes Books author Justine Saracen always gives her readers a glimpse of history from a unique perspective. Her latest novel, Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright, is no exception.

Leni who? Oh, that one. Eeek!

by Justine Saracen

When I was asked at a talk last year about my work in progress and I replied, “a thriller / love story set around the world of Leni Riefenstahl,” I got two reactions. One, mostly from the under-forty audience, was a complete blank. Evidently, the younger generation does not dwell on the tumults of the 1940s. The other, from the older women with longer memories, was a squint of consternation. Then afterwards, I heard it in words.

“What?! Leni Riefenstahl? That Nazi bitch!”

Leni

Poor Leni. Brilliantly talented, she created the most powerful propaganda documentary of the 20^th century, but alas, it was for Adolf Hitler.

Oops.

For my novel Tyger Tyger, Burning Bright, set in Nazi Germany, I read Riefenstahl’s autobiography in her rather elegant German. I expected to find her despicable, but she was not. In fact, she was awesome. Narcissistic, too, but how could she not be. Slender and pretty, she started as a dancer, then in the 1920s discovered the infant film industry. In short order, she reinvented herself as an actress. She made mountain climbing movies before the era of the ‘stunt double’ and climbed her own icy cliffs and pinnacles and slid off her own icebergs. By her own report, she allowed herself to be covered by a small avalanche, merely for a good bit of film footage, and it nearly killed her. Audacity was equaled only by her vanity, and both drove her to success in the Berlin film community.

But what she is both remembered and condemned for is her work on the other side of the camera. With little directorial experience, but an instinct for the visually dramatic, she created two of what the cinematic world uniformly acknowledges as masterpieces.

In Triumph of the Will and later Olympiad she astonished the world with new photo angles, distance shots, mobile cameras, ingenious juxtapositions, and an overall compelling vision. She filmed marching troops as if choreographed in geometrical patterns, Hitler’s plane emerging from clouds and casting a shadow ‘blessing’ over the streets of Nuremburg, red party flags flowing like a river of blood onto a field, the Führer himself with sunlight radiating from his face and hands. In Olympiad, she presented fencers as dancing shadows, long distance runners filming their own feet, high divers swooping like dive bombers — all with manual-wind cameras and 1930s technology. Her talent and genius were recognized internationally, but her time of glory lasted only as long as Hitler’s did. After the war, her friendship with Hitler and her complete silence about the crimes of the Nazi state established her as heartless and ruined her professionally.

Can one iconize someone who is so morally compromised? The answer, I think, is yes-no-maybe. Before we condemn her, we must look at the moral compromises that our own current media – and its consumers — have made. If Riefenstahl was morally indifferent, so are millions of us, to the illegality of US drone missile assassinations, to two wars of aggression, to children starving in Africa, to the near enslavement of people who make our designer clothing and laptops, to waterboarding, to the suffering of the animals we eat.

I do condemn Riefenstahl, the ‘friend of Hitler.’ Most certainly. But I also admit to an extreme fascination with her. For starters, you have to admire the sheer stamina of the woman. Tainted by her association with fascism and unable to work in the industry after the war, she went all on her own – in her sixties – to live with and film the Nuba in Africa.

Leni

Then, at the age of seventy(!), she learned how to scuba dive and started a fourth career as an underwater photographer. With the help of a young male assistant, she was scuba diving into her 90s and was active artistically until her death at the age of 101 (after partying with Siegfried and Roy and their white tigers).

Rest assured, I would never make her the heroine of my novel. She was brilliant but she was not sexy. For all her creativity and genius, she was too tainted by association with an evil that had no glamor. Her appeal is that she makes an excellent foil for those who do resist, and resistance is very sexy.

A few resisted unequivocally; Jews in the Warsaw ghetto, students in the White Rose organization, partisans in the east, German anti-fascists, and the spies of foreign intelligence.  My novel, in fact, is dedicated to three such women spies who died horribly in concentration camps.

In contrast, my novel’s heroines (and its heroes) are not so morally pure. These are Katja Sommer, a “good German” who late in the game discovers honor in treason; Frederica Brandt, active in the highest circles of power; Rudi Lamm, homosexual camp survivor and forced SS killer; and Peter Arnhelm, a half- Jewish terrorist.

I trust my readers will be nuanced in their judgment of them and, for that matter, of Leni Riefenstahl too, for who of us, without benefit of hindsight, could resist such temptation. None of us are media stars, and none of us have been offered the chance to have instant fame by signing on with the Pentagon, so we don’t know.

As a fiction writing media mouse, I hope I will be forgiven for my fascination with Leni, and my envy of her talent. I know for sure I would not sell my soul to a malevolent political party (though millions of Americans apparently have). But I do want to wield a virtual pen the way she wielded a camera and create vivid and compelling works that will last in people’s memory. I want to have a third and fourth career when the first two peter out, and be able to afford a facelift when I am seventy. I want to be scuba diving at the age of ninety, and still look good in a wet suit. I want to party with lions and tigers.

Is that too much to ask?

It’s a dirty job, but…

by Justine Saracen

With some fifty pounds of lead and equipment weighing down my poor body, I leapt from the boat into the sea. Instinctively, I held my breath, then released it and took a long inhalation through the regulator. Bemused, I heard my own exhalation bubbling up over my head toward the surface. All the rest was silence. The only voice was the one in my head, congratulating myself on my first dive in ‘wild waters’ with full scuba gear.

The idea for the novel had come first, and so had the title. Beloved Gomorrah, and a heroine named Joanna. Another ‘ancient artifact’ thriller, in which my brave lesbian would make a shocking discovery that could shake the world. But having my heroine flee the bad guys across desert dunes, war-torn Berlin, or along Venetian canals just wasn’t heating my blood any longer. It had to be Really Dangerous. It had to be where there was no air. In a distant sea, with biblical associations, perhaps. The Red Sea, for example. Egypt, for example. Which would require a research trip. No problem.

To be sure, I had to learn how to scuba dive, get certified, buy a ton of equipment, and join a club that would take me on a scuba diving cruise. Moreover, living in Brussels, I had to do it all in bloody French. No problem.

And OHMYGOD, was it worth it! For there I was, finally, in that amazing blue world. The first thing I did was turn slowly on my own axis like an ice-skater, to get my bearings. The sense of three-dimensionality was so completely different from the horizontal of solid ground where you never need to look overhead or beneath your feet for orientation. Here I was suspended at the center of a sphere, seeing divers above, beside, and below me, all with long column of bubbles rising from their heads. I recognized no one, for all were uniform in wetsuits and masks. And yet, in that warm nutrient-rich water, that eons ago had spawned our most ancient ancestors, every nerve of my body told me I was home.

Then I saw the fish, in such gaudy glowing colors they seemed cartoons. They swam by unfazed, and a few hovered teasingly within reach until the last second, then darted off. A shoal of silvery sweepers engulfed me, like a shower of coins, surrounding but never touching me, as if magnetically repelled, then swept away. It was so awe-inspiring, so – literally — breathtaking, that in twenty-five minutes I was already on my reserve air tank. Oh, Joanna was going to LOVE this.

But if under water was paradise, on-board reality was tough going. The gear was heavy and cumbersome, and being a woman d’un certain age, I dreaded stumbling on the boat deck. Fortunately, the Egyptian team helped us loading and unloading, and at the end of the dive someone was always at the ladder to remove my tank. All I had to drag on board was the leaded weight belt and my own exhausted. derriere. Much harder, though, to remove the wetsuit and attach the vest and regulator to a new tank in preparation for the next dive.  It was tortuous to stand lurching back and forth on the heaving stern while peeling off skintight neoprene as the dive-master took roll call. Then, with teeth chattering from the cold wind blowing along the port side, and without my glasses, I had to squint to thread the regulator screw into the new air tank pipe. This part, obviously, was not going to be in the novel.

While the boat moved on to the second dive site, we went below decks for lunch. Though largely vegetarian, the meal sometimes had little sausages, which the men referred to as “Camel poo.” They weren’t, of course, but I did not inquire further. Joanna was not going to eat those.

After lunch we geared up again and I discovered that the only thing worse than peeling off dripping wet neoprene in cold wind was wrestling it back on again.

But by the second dive, I was becoming adept at snaking, eel-like, over the vast gardens of soft coral. I could not have landed on them anyhow since they were huge spongy growths that, even if they didn’t sting, would swallow me up like gargantuan overcooked cauliflowers. What would Joanna think of them, I wondered. Or should I entrap her in one of them?

Knowing my fast consumption of air, I regularly checked my tank pressure, made the “T” sign for “Half tank” to my monitor and he signaled back “fine.” We explored the terrain, coming across a moray eel, scorpion- and stonefish, both of which are in the “for-godssake-don’t-touch-if-you-want-to-live” category, and a variety of more benign flora and fauna. We were not allowed to dive with gloves, so all of us fastidiously obeyed the No Touchy rules. But after another twenty minutes, I checked my pressure again and had to give the fist on the head sign that meant “I’m on reserve. Get me the hell out of here!”

I got better and went deeper every day, and on the sixth dive went down to the Giannis D, a wrecked cargo vessel that lies about 90 feet below. I was struck first by its size and I felt quite small as our group swarmed around the vast steel hull like so many seagulls in slow motion. My monitor suggested entering the bridge and the engine room, but since I was at my depth limit and had visions of being trapped and DYING A HORRIBLE DEATH, I declined. Watching from outside, I was entranced to see glass fish in the thousands in the interior spaces, and brooded on how to trap poor Joanna inside until her air nearly ran out.

Because we were at 90 feet, nitrogen accumulation in our tissues became a factor. But we had been trained in the dangers of decompression sickness and knew to ascend from the wreck in timed stages, letting the nitrogen dissipate. My wrist computer indicated the required time at each stop, and my monitor also confirmed when it was safe to move on up. Could I torture Joanna in this way too, or should I save it for one of the villains? So much pain. So many characters to spread it over.

All went well until the last dive when perhaps the spirit of Joanna took its revenge. Typically, I hit reserve long before my monitor did, and before he had time to lead us back to the anchor rope, so when we surfaced we were very far from the boat. Bloody hell. With no more air to submerge, I had to surface swim, which is very difficult with a tank and inflated vest. I paddled and crawled and breast-stroked like a crazy woman, but I could make no headway against the current. The boat was still ominously distant, and I was spent. O crap, I thought, momentarily panicking. I’m going to be swept out to sea and they’ll find my shark-shredded remains washed up on the shores of Saudi Arabia!

 

Fortunately both my monitor and dive partner were stalwart men, and when they noticed my helpless thrashing and my fading into the background, they returned and towed me much of the way back. Humiliating, but way better than ignominious death.

Alas, more humiliation was to come, in the initiation ceremony for first-time Red Sea divers. After we repeated a long oath to the sea, in barely comprehensible French, mind you (so I think I may not be legally bound) the veterans smashed eggs on our heads, rubbed flour into it, making a sort of cake mix, and dumped us back into the sea without benefit of wetsuit and fins. All in good fun, of course, and there were no fatalities, but sea water is not optimum for washing egg paste out of one’s hair.  I was pulling tiny shell fragments from my scalp for days.

The heroine of Beloved Gomorrah will not have egg shells in her thick amber hair, nor will she need to be hauled by strapping men back to her boat. She will be pursuing villains, surviving explosions, falling in love with dangerous and impossible women, and discovering truths that will astound the world. It was to bring her to life that I leapt into the sea in the first place.

Greater love hath no author than that she risketh her neck for her characters

I'm at the center, 'on the line' for the decompression stop

The Initiation ceremony. Quel horreur!

At the Mercy of Strangers

by Justine Saracen

Readers who grew up in pre-gay liberation times, or who come from conservative religious families, will remember the loneliness of the deep closet.  Mine, in the 1960s was no different, but was exacerbated by my living in a foreign country.    

In the 1960s, Europe was still a very foreign place: few people spoke English, the food was strange, the clothing was different, and you couldn’t even telephone the USA directly. I’d lived with a German family but then, to immerse myself in German culture, I moved to a room in Frankfurt and audited classes at the university. It was like learning to swim by leaping into deep water. In the arctic.

Studies kept me busy, and I had a few acquaintances, but there was that continuous hunger which I’m sure you all remember. Not for sex, or even romance, but for someone who lived in the same emotional world that I did.

A school friend, a very effeminate boy who I was certain was gay, was studying in Bordeaux, France, and at some point, when I couldn’t bear the loneliness, I decided to visit him. I thought we could commiserate and I would know that at least I had an ally some place.  Being poor, I hitchhiked. Alas, my feeble attempt to reach out was wrong, reckless, and unrequited. In a word, folly.

The hitchhiking to Bordeaux went smoothly, but the friend was way too deep in his own closet to deal with me. He insisted he had a girlfriend at home, and was going to marry her. He was still a flaming queer, only a frightened one. After a desultory few days, I headed back to Germany.

I must have started too late, and got too few rides, because night fell and was on the roadside and still in France.  Finally a car stopped, and I climbed in gratefully. But the moment the car door closed and we took off, I sensed I had made a mistake.

The driver kept asking in French if I was a ‘good girl,” but I feigned ignorance, and kept saying “’Allemagne, s’il vous plait”,  and “je ne comprends pas.”  Just how much trouble I was in became clear when we passed a highway sign that said “Allemagne” and he turned instead in the opposite direction, back into France, while I sat cowering and clutching my knapsack. Finally he turned off the highway and onto a dirt road into the woods. Woods. That was it. That was the place were I was going to be raped.  I wondered if he would kill me too.

What kept it from happening immediately was his bladder. He must have known that I would run the moment he stepped away from the car, because he came around to the passenger side and leaned against the door, imprisoning me, while he relieved himself. Then he zipped up and got back into the driver’s seat and laid his hand on my knee. At that moment I threw myself out of the car and ran full bore into the woods. I don’t know when he stopped chasing me, or if he chased me at all. In any case, there I was, in the woods. Somewhere in France. In the dead of night.

I stumbled through the woods for hours before finding a road into a tiny village. No one in sight, of course. I began knocking on doors, trying to find someone to talk to. After several cold receptions, a woman opened who spoke German and I told my story. She said she could not invite me in, but she’d seen the town mayor in his barn and maybe he could help me. The mayor fortunately also spoke German so I asked if I could sleep in the barn. I must have looked a wreck, for he took pity and said yes, then left. Five minutes later he returned and said he wife insisted on inviting me in. Their son was in the army and his room was free. Groveling with gratitude, I went with him, and was promptly put to rest in the son’s room.

I spent a restful night, in the house of complete strangers, putting the lie to the idea that there is a French national character, of rudeness or aloofness. The next morning, the family gave me breakfast, packed me a lunch, and brought me to the highway to Germany, where I resumed my trip. I arrived in Frankfurt that afternoon, wiser, soberer, and still gay. I had not found any comfort from my closeted friend, but a renewed appreciation of human unpredictability.

This is a commiseration story, for those who are still struggling, with no particular moral to it except that, if you are lonely, you probably should not hitchhike to France.

Broodings on Sarah, Son of God

by Justine Saracen

 As anyone who has read my novels knows, I have no love for the traditional western religions.  Mainly because they have no love for me.  To be sure, Moses himself brought down no Commandment against homosexuality from the mountain, and Jesus never made a single utterance on the subject. But religion, alas, has ever been practiced according to the edicts of commentators, preachers, prophets, rabbis, imams, and their holy books. These are virtually unanimous in their condemnation. 

Judaism: Leviticus, 20:13 (God speaking): “If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death. Their blood shall be upon them.”

Christianity: Jesus’ main publicist, Paul (Saint, apparently) wrote to the Corinthians (Cor. 6: 9) that “Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards,… shall inherit the kingdom of God,” and to the Romans (1:26-27) “For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature.”

Love, Paul (Saint)

 Islam. The Hadith (sayings attributed to Mohammed) are damning as well. They announce, “When a man mounts another man, the throne of God shakes,” and hold multiple condemnations of “what Lot’s people did.” For the biblically uninformed, Lot’s people tried to bugger angels.

On the basis of these Scriptures, homosexuals have been tortured and murdered throughout history.

But, you say, that was then and this is now.  And surely modern liberal believers do not take these proscriptions literally. I agree. In fact, liberal Christians, Jews and Muslims take very little of Scripture literally. Some religious scholars also re-interpret the original Greek or Aramaic documents to develop an alternative theology. And yes, some churches/temples now have gay clergy. That’s all very well and good. It is also self-evident that some gay people want and need religion, for the same reasons that everyone else does, for comfort and community/identity, for rules of behavior, or in the hope that a divine power is looking after things. I do not begrudge this need.

But western religion has an ugly centuries-long record of mistreatment of women and dissidents of any sort, regarding faith, social behavior, sexual desire, and even dress. For the insidious element of most religions is the concept of purity. Purity of faith, of thought, of behavior and body. We are not pure. We are animals that do animal things – and most animal of all, we lust, and religion cannot abide this. The ritual bathing, baptizing, ablutions, and slicing off of ‘unclean’ infant private parts, arise from religion’s obsession with sex.

It is strange. Religion proclaims a Creator of the Universe, who crafted the galaxies, star systems, black holes and the unfathomable depths of space. Yet this same deity peers into our bedrooms and bars, even into our thoughts, ever on the lookout for impurity.  And that’s just rude.

On behalf of all of us whose lusts are particularly ‘impure,’ I take issue with this. If God reproaches me for my sexual habits and partners, I reproach Him for His cruelty. If I have to answer for sodomy and cunnilingus, then God has to answer for birth defects, childhood cancers, and the suffering of countless billions of animals and other innocents. I particularly accuse Him of callous indifference for the earthquake in Haiti, and for the tsunami of 2004 that in a single day killed over 230,000 people in fourteen countries, nearly all of them believers. If there is a divine authority that intervenes in our lives, it is surely malevolent.

With this kind of deity on offering, we should not feel grateful when a church or mosque or temple withdraws its condemnation and allows us to put on its costumes and join its rituals. While they grudgingly make a place for us at the table, I have concluded that it’s not all that great a meal.

How much better to look into the cosmos, or the biosphere, or the living cell, or the atom, and see ourselves as part of life’s infinite variety, and never, never, ask for forgiveness for what we are and who we love. We are the newest, most complex children of nature. Eons of evolution have developed animal caring in us and so we have the makings of a moral foundation already in our genes. It does not come from on high.

And yet, we have our tales, our parables, our visualizations of perfect love and martyrdom and meaningful suffering. We can’t erase them from the cultural landscape and we shouldn’t. But we can examine them, put a rational stamp on them, and make them mesh with our modern understanding of ourselves.

Sarah, Son of God is such a re-telling of a story we thought was set in stone, but it never was. It weaves through the shifting fabric of culture and anyone can change the threads. I have simply rewoven it now for us.

Here endeth the lesson.

The Accidental Mommy

by Justine Saracen

I didn’t wanna do it.

It is a truism that most lesbians have pets. I myself have helped make up this population for thirty years as an owner/servant of cats, and then for another five or six as a co-habitant of budgies and lovebirds.

However…full disclosure here…I was a pet snob. I didn’t do dogs.

Dogs, I felt, were for a more rough and tumble, less refined lesbian than I. Dogs could be loveable, I freely acknowledged, but they were over the top, had body odor, and stinky breath, and they tended to lick you under the chin and leave pungent saliva on your hands. And then there was the twice-daily ‘walkies’ and the warm steaming plastic bag you occasionally had to carry away. Not for me, thank you very much.

Then, out of nowhere, my friend Françoise called to say her friend Adele had suffered a sudden stroke. Adele’s aged cat was already put to sleep, and since Françoise’s house was already full of animals, Adele’s family was frantic to find someone to take the dog so that they wouldn’t have to kill her as well. To be specific, they desperately needed someone who 1) loved animals, 2) was thoroughly responsible, and 3) worked at home, like a – ahem— writer.

The description sounded eerily familiar.

What kind of dog, I asked hesitantly, sensing the unmistakable presence of a hook about to lock into my jaw. I live in a tiny house, so if it was the big romping-on-the-beach kind, I’d be off the hook, so to speak.

No, it was a lapdog, Françoise replied. A mix of two adorable small breeds, who could melt glaciers with her big brown eyes.

Welllll, I said. I’ll take a look at her. But I had asthma, and too much dog hair in the house could kill me. And I didn’t even have a good vacuum cleaner.

No problem, Françoise said. And I’ll help you pick out a nice dust-free, anti-allergic vacuum cleaner. It could raise your whole standard of living.

Oooookay, I mumbled and about four seconds after I hung up, Françoise was at the door, doggie in arms.

Well, it took one look for my maternal hormones to kick in. The sad little creature was so adorable, I nearly lactated. But she was also bereaved, having been kept for a week by a guardian while her owner lay in a coma before succumbing. The dog whimpered and ran to the door at every sound, expecting it to be Mommy come at last to take her home. But of course it never was, never would be.  It was heart breaking.

Even if time does not erase sorrow, it dulls it, and so in a few days we got to know each other and negotiated a modus vivendi. ‘Negotiate’ may not be the right word. I had, for example, made an ironclad resolve NOT to let her sleep with me – a resolve that evaporated the first night. Then I explained to her that she had to stay far away from my face, upon which she made herself comfortable on my chest.

She got a new name, Cherubino, which my friends immediately changed to the French Cherubin (Sher oo ban).

The dog was free, though I knew the whole project would involve some cost. Most important was asthma prevention. Françoise accompanied me to the appliance store and took command of my credit card. I heard only the rapid and largely unintelligible discussion in French about ‘l’aspirateur le plus anti-allergique” and the obedient clicking of my fingers typing out my pin code into the little machine at the sales desk. Then, the deal was done. I had bought a Dyson vacuum cleaner, for 400 Euros. I swallowed hard, but moved onto the pet store where I purchased a handsome carrying sack (40 Euros) a doggie winter coat (60 Euros), a stretchy leash, 2 squeaky toys, puppy shampoo and three kilos of special chow (45 Euros).

When I got home, with Cherubin alternating between my lap and my chest, I calculated: I had spent five hundred forty five Euros ($726).  For a used dog.

It was worth every penny.

What an experience to have something that loves you grovelingly, submissively, and unconditionally. Who whimpers with ecstasy when you scratch her chest, goes hysterical with joy when you come back from the grocery store, lets you put on her clunky but stylish winter coat and parade her through the streets of Brussels. Who doesn’t mind being shampooed after she gets into the garbage. Who looks up at you with big sad eyes when she pees in the park to make sure you know she has held it until the right moment.

So THIS is why lesbians have dogs. Who knew?