I cannot remember the man's name. Frank or Roger. Either one would have been his real one, as fictitious names are not needed to protect the innocent in this instance. How old were we? Ten probably. Djonni Kiss, Gumbo, and I collected comic books and Djonni told me an American named Roger or Frank - Let's call him Frank Rogers - had a sizeable collection.

The narrow alley lead to a small courtyard that faced his tiny apartment. It is difficult to believe Frank Rogers would not take care to be less conspicuous in this day and age. Covered with layers of fat that seemed to have stuck to him since childhood, Frank Rogers greeted us with a smile. His thinning dark hair stuck out in all directions and the thick black horn-rimmed glasses seemed intent on escaping from his face.

Djonni Kiss knew Frank Rogers for what he was but chose not worry about it. Gumbo was a future punk rocker. The apartment was neat, to the point of having the generic veneer of a hotel room, and we were impressed to be there as guests in a grown-up's home. Frank Rogers drew the nondescript curtains. Adults were not interested in being friends with us but Frank Rogers was and proved friendly without being ingratiating or unctuous. He complemented us on our English but spoke simply and precisely either by habit or design. Stored in neat white shoe boxes and coated in plastic, his comic books turned out to be in mint condition. I collected Marvel Comics and occasionally D.C. Comics whose main breadwinners were Batman and Superman. The actual comic books are the only detail I remember with revulsion because they were comic strips for younger children, featuring Lil' Abner and Richie Rich.

Frank Rogers showed us Polaroids of Gumbo posing barechested as Tarzan. Djonni Kiss, who received his nickname not for his romantic exploits but because he idolized the heavy-metal band by the same name, was obstreperous as usual. Gleefully Frank Rogers told him to pipe down or he would throw him naked into the street. He asked Djonni how he would like that and went on a tangent how he was going to chuck him out into the street without his clothes.

At some point Frank Rogers would place his hands on our shoulders, slip them under our sweaters and sigh heavily. When my turn came I wrested myself free right away. Frank Rogers did not pursue the matter. Aside from the naked-in-the-street speech and trying to place his hands on our shoulders, our host made no further advances. How confident we were we could handle ourselves and handle ourselves we did. Perhaps we were too old for him.

On the mantelpiece rested a photograph of a thick-set woman with a kind smile. Frank Rogers told us she had once been his wife and did not attempt to hide the affection in his voice.

The boy arrived as the evening wore on. He was younger than we with dark hair and heavy black bags under his eyes. I remember he was riding a bike. He made himself at home but he and Frank Rogers did not speak. He was at ease in the apartment but did not address us at any point. Djonni Kiss and Gumbo seemed to know who he was. I cannot remember his name but I saw his bike later in front of a building not far from my own.

We said goodbye to Frank Rogers but the boy stayed behind. On the whole we had enjoyed our visit.

When I next met Djonni Kiss, I told him I thought Frank Rogers was a homo. We did not disapprove of him because of what we had seen; rather we were mildly censorious  because he was a homo and as such unmanly and liked to kiss guys. Djonni Kiss looked a bit hurt as he evidently liked Frank Rogers. He did concede there was something suspicious about how he kept his curtains  drawn every time they would visit him, even in the middle of the day. Djonni noticed things like that. I also told
Gumbo I thought Frank Rogers was a homo. Gumbo denied this vehemently, retorting Frank Rogers had all kinds of neat stuff and itemized it by way of defense.

Every story has an ending but in this case fate did not supply one, just a footnote of little interest; life does not present itself in a series of homilies. Walking along the school corridor a couple of months later I spotted Frank Rogers standing next to Djonni Kiss and our Principal. Djonni was smirking as usual; so was Frank Rogers. He had a satchel strapped across his shoulder like schoolchildren or
messenger boys and wore a thick blue coat. Frank Rogers greeted me cheerfully and I returned his greeting but kept on. To this day, I have no idea what he was doing there; if he was in any sort of trouble he appeared unfazed. Perhaps he eventually moved or was deported. I walk past the alleyway that led to his apartment every time I go the the small grocery store on the corner or take my children to the playground next door. Passing it I am vaguely reminded of Frank Rogers and I sometimes, but not always, wonder what became of him.

The alley is still painted in bright yellow, a popular color in the late seventies.

Jonas Knutsson is a filmmaker, journalist, translator and a sometime writer.