When Curt discovers I speak French, he demands I say everything twice: once in English, and once in French. He does this to everyone he meets who speaks more than one language. Curt has a special fondness for foreigners, for people who have learned English as a second language. He talks to all of them, insists they tell him things in their native tongue. He has them teach him words. This is briefly endearing, and later obnoxious, especially as it goes on. He wants me to repeat things back in French when I am angry, when I am upset, which only bothers me more.

He tells me nothing. All of his stories are about his friends, all of his stories are anecdotal. I can't get a clear grasp on him, which is what I really want. Isn't that why we tell each other stories, to explain ourselves, to clarify our lives and feelings? But when he tells a story, he keeps himself in the background, never springing into focus, and with every one I understand more how much there is about him that I don't know. And when I ask him direct questions, he gives trick answers, never telling the truth, never really answering the question. This makes me want to know more, makes me crave the answers the way I never would have otherwise.

He watches foreign films without subtitles. I tell him we could get subtitled versions. He doesn't want them. He says they're better this way. Why? Je ne sais pas.

"Language," he says, "doesn't come close to telling the truth. How do you tell a true story? You can't. We don't have enough words to really recreate what happened. I can tell you this story, but I don't know the words to make it like it was. There's no way of being really honest. And I'm sick of lying."

What have you lied about?

Todo.

"I could tell you everything," he says, "but what I would say would only tell you what happened. I could tell you events, dates, times, and you would know a whole lot of facts, like a history book. You could know all the facts, but what difference would it make? I can't make you know the feeling, which is really more important, don't you think? What happened when is secondary to how it felt. And there's no way to make anyone understand that."

And music?

Es universal.

"Take my uncle," he says. "He could tell me about Vietnam, but he could never make me understand what it was like. I can listen to stories all day, but I won't understand them--not truly. They say a picture is worth a thousand words? The only reason for that is because you do have a reaction to pictures. No one has to tell them for you. There's no middleman."

Unmediated?

"Yeah, sure. You know the picture, right, of the little girl running from the napalm? And she's naked, all her clothes have been burnt off? You see it and you have a gut reaction, right? You feel something, you see that. It's like--"

Visceral.

"Yeah, yeah, that. And someone telling it? It's not real anymore, because you are getting their emotions, not yours. And theirs are, like, filtered, yeah, through this language that doesn't say as much as it should."

Isn't that better than to not have known anything about it at all?

"No. At least then you know you don't know anything. You don't have any illusions."

But there are things he does tell me, tracing out the ridges of my ribcage with calloused fingers, he does tell me certain things. And I know enough not to repeat them. I might not know much, but I do know that.

"This one time?" he says. "I spent a whole month without saying anything. A whole month, I didn't say a word. If I needed something, I would point at it. If I couldn't make people understand, that was just too bad."

Pourquoi?

"I was sad. I didn't want to talk for a while."

Did it help?

"Sure. I learned a lot."

Like what?

Todas las idiomas del mundo.

"I forgot them again, though, as soon as I started talking. I wasn't able to communicate properly anymore, as soon as I opened my mouth again."

"Words are like magic," he says. "Once you say something, once you describe it and give it a name, it's part of the world. And it wasn't before. It was like--mist or something. But now it's something physical, something you can touch-what's the word, tangible. So if something happens but you never tell anyone, it's like it didn't happen at all. And if you can forget something--you've erased history. It's not a part of you anymore. So it never really happened."

When Curt does tell me things, I keep quiet. I know he doesn't want me to hold him or tell him I understand. He wants to be alone with his pain. We can't ever feel each others' suffering. No one can. After a period of time, he tells me more and more, tentatively, slowly, afraid that after all these years of silence, putting things into words will give them power enough to strike out and kill him.

Curt says, "There were times when I wanted it. When I would just play with him, to make him want me. I liked knowing I could turn him on. I liked knowing I had him like that. There are always ways for you to have power. And that was mine. I could control him like that, by making him want me. And I liked it. I liked him watching me, thinking like that about me."

Je ne comprends pas.

His stories come out slowly at first, hesitant, and then seems to realize that the dreadful power he feared words had was illusory. Then, to get revenge for all the times words had tricked him into thinking they could create and destroy, he tells everything.

"And then there were times when I hated it. When I was scared to come home. When it hurt. And I hated myself for liking it. And it seemed like--divine retribution for my locker room fantasies, yeah?"

No entiendo nada.

Infinita tristeza!

Curt says, "I hate talking about this. When you tell something, it makes it real. We invent things with words, and we erase them when we don't talk."

So you've just made this real?

Antes, era solamente imaginario.

Un rêve.

As Curt tells me his stories, I begin to suspect that he was at least partly right. Once something is spoken, it exists, it carries a weight that is almost physical, and I watch him wrap his arms around himself and wrinkle his nose as he searches for the right words to describe the indescribable, to tell the stories no one should ever have to know. As Curt begins to tell me his stories, I begin to stop telling mine. I want to deny certain things, as well. I want them to be secrets, unknown to anyone but myself. Because telling something makes you vulnerable. I never understood that before now, watching Curt in pain. Once someone knows how to hurt you, they own you, they truly know you, and you will never be completely safe again. Your secrets, fears, hopes, dreams--they are only safe when nobody knows them but you.

And so I wait until the dark of the night, as he is sound asleep, I whisper all of this to him, safely assured that if he doesn't hear them, they don't matter to anyone but myself. And so, as he breathes deep and even beside me, I whisper: "Je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime."