Back then, some quarter century ago, the nuns knew little about anatomy. Modest by nature and training, they either didn’t look or never noticed that my testicles didn’t drop. They had nothing to drop into, I was born without a scrotum. Many were too timid to even look at my penis. It’s just an organ, Sister Elfriede said. Without it none of us would be here. 

It’s dirty, some said. 

Dirty but necessary, Sister Elfriede rejoined. The two or three nuns who were least squeamish – they had brothers, they’d been around – were assigned to care for me. The others were excused. 

This was in a remote part of East Tyrol. Visitors, wealthy, middling, or impoverished, were, despite the abbess’ hopes, rare. 

My caretakers were musical. They hummed and sang religious music, hymns mostly but sometimes plainchant, as they washed, fed, or comforted me. I heard more song than conversation until I began my secondary education. 

Once I passed my toddler years, they let me walk the grounds unaccompanied. My voice, closer to a countertenor than anything else, was influenced by the chittering of the creatures I heard in the woods and clearings during the day, the distant sound of yodelers, and the screeches of the beasts culling their ranks in the night. 

I received my earliest formal education in the convent. The sisters had no way to send me to the nearest school, kilometers away. They suspected public education anyway. 

Progress came to our corner of the Alps. When I was twelve or thirteen, the road in front of our convent was paved. We started receiving visitors but no benefactors. One of our new guests mentioned there was a school bus stop a kilometer away. The nuns conferred. The following September they enrolled me in an all-boys prep school. I was a scholarship student. 

My first class was gym. We all had to strip. The teacher wasn’t gay. We’re in a gymnasium that believes in first principles, he said. Back to the Greeks! We stood in a line while he inspected us. He pulled me aside. 

Where are your balls? he asked. 

Balls?

Your testicles. 

Testicles? 

He marched me, still unclad, to the principal’s office. A woman’s group was in the waiting room waiting to speak to the headmaster about who knows what. Since the gym teacher had seniority, besides he had a class to teach, the receptionist waved us in ahead of the committee. They seemed more incensed about being bypassed than by my nakedness. 

The principal allowed the headmaster to return to class then called the convent. Sister Elfriede was indisposed. The second in command said she never noticed anything irregular about my anatomy but then she’d never seen me naked. The principal wrote out a slip, told me to report to the nurse’s office. I couldn’t find it till midway through second period. The nurse palpated me, said she couldn’t feel anything irregular besides my missing equipment. She gave me my clothes, which my gym teacher had a boy deliver, then sent me to the nearest hospital a village or two away. 

There I was X-rayed, MRI-ed, massaged again, made to cough and perform calisthenics. It was the first time I’d ever exercised. They had me lay on an examining table. Someone took pictures, others took notes. They planned to write an article about me for some Munich medical journal. 

A specialist came in. He explained that the procedure to create an external scrotum for my gonads to drop into was risky and very expensive. He doubted Sister Elfriede, given her poverty and beliefs, would pay for it. He’d seen the videos of the round nurse rubbing me, saw my erection. Your desires are normal, he said. You don’t need the operation. He wrote a lengthy note. Give this to your gym teacher tomorrow, he said. We saw you exercise. We know his type. He’ll go easy on you. 

The gym teacher read the note next morning. You must be a sissy, he said. Drop and give me ten. 

Ten? 

Ten pushups! 

Pushups? 

He dropped and demonstrated. He must have done fifty. 

I lowered myself then came halfway up. 

You may dress, he said. I need to get the boys ready for competition. 

I sat in a corner and leafed through a book about Salzburg’s heyday while the gym teacher forced some students to run laps around the gym and others to perform soccer drills. Those who weren’t on a team could do as they pleased. Most of those played basketball or used the gymnastics equipment. 

Next morning I had music first class.

I bet you didn’t expect to see me, the gym teacher said once we were all seated. I didn’t know what to expect. 

There’ve been a few budget cuts, the teacher explained. It’s all for the better. Franz, the old music teacher, retired. I hear he’s composing and conducting now. I don’t have the musical talent that old Franz has but I do know some things. He then yodeled for five minutes. As he ranged from low to high and back again, we sat in our seats dumbstruck. After our applause died down, he asked each of us to sing a short passage. He took notes on our voices. We’ll meet again next Wednesday, the gym teacher said at the end of class. During the peak of sports seasons, we’ll have music once a week. Later, towards Christmas, we’ll have music two or three times a week, depending on how much time I need to prepare you to sing in the concert. 

The following Wednesday, he arranged us in a semicircle then stood facing us. I was on his far left. The next closest person was a few yards away. Not all of you will be choristers, he said, just as not all of you will perform on a sports team. Since this may be your first formal exposure to music performance, I’ll give you all a chance to make the squad. 

He handed out sheets of music. The first song was a Christmas carol, “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht”, of course. I’d heard it, we all heard it, many times. 

As we filed out of the classroom, the gym teacher asked me to stay behind. 

You have a wonderful voice, he told me. You haven’t just made the choir; I want you to be a soloist. He gave me a book of songs. I want you to practice as much as you can, during gym class of course, but also at home. 

The nuns of course were pleased that I succeeded at something. 

I was the featured soloist at every performance my first three and a half years there. Bored with the repertory, I added melismatic effects and other trills and tremolos to my parts. Audiences looked forward to my eccentric interpretations, never knowing what to expect. I changed them from evening to evening not so much for them as for me. 

In the spring of my last year there we performed an operetta, von Suppé’s Galatea. The female roles were sung by students of a nearby girl’s school similar to ours. That was the first time I saw Lotte, who played the lead. I was cast as Ganymede. 

I played the role straight, as straight as I could. Like all my schoolmates I was smitten with Lotte, a medium height fraulein with black curls, freckles, dimples, hips, and what we imagined was a stupendous bust. The production was a great success. The last performance was a matinee, the Sunday before school let out. Backstage we heard that Pelagio, the famous impresario, was in the audience. Lotte, usually composed before we went on, was jittery. I held her hand. How can you be so calm? she asked me. I didn’t tell her I’d never heard of Pelagio, had only a vague idea of what an impresario does. You’ll be fine, I said.

Lotte sang and acted better than she ever had, better than anyone who’d ever appeared on our schools’ boards. The audience applauded a full fifteen minutes, demanded she perform an encore. She sang a Lied by Schubert a cappella since the musicians had already left. 

As the star, Lotte had the only private dressing room. The rest of us shared a long dingy green room. Many of my classmates were going to fancy dinners to celebrate the capstone of their scholastic musical careers. I had to take the last bus to the nunnery where I’d eat cold leftovers from the communal dinner. The abbey’s finances hadn’t improved much. I’d be lucky if any meat was left for me. 

Worried that I’d miss my bus, I was on the threshold of the doorway out when I felt a familiar hand upon my shoulder. 

Thank you so much for encouraging me, Lotte said, then turning to Pelagio, who was with her, this is the man who inspired me to my greatest performance yet. Lotte turned me around, kissed me chastely on the lips. It was the first time I was ever kissed. 

Have you completed your farewells? Pelagio asked. 

Till then, it hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t see Lotte after my final performance or, for that matter, most of my classmates after the coming week. I wasn’t accepted to any universities, had no job offers. 

Come fall, I’ll be studying at the Mozarteum University, Lotte said. 

Ah, Salzburg, I thought. 

In Innsbruck. Pelagio will visit me at least monthly and arrange that I get extra instruction. After I graduate I may sing in one of his opera troupes. 

That’s fantastic, I said. 

I told Lotte I didn’t know what I’d be doing when she asked. Lotte batted her eyelashes at Pelagio. You’re a major benefactor to the Mozarteum, she told Pelagio. Surely you can find something for our Ganymede there. 

His voice is more than adequate for someone with his training, Pelagio said, but it’s not up to university standards. The school always needs janitors. He turned to me. Can you push a broom. 

I can learn, I said. 

After much back and forth, though only after Lotte threatened to give up music or go to another school, Pelagio agreed to hire me. I’d get room and board plus a miniscule stipend. 

Lotte’s parents emerged from the shadows. Her father gripped my hands hard, her mother smiled at me. They both thanked me for my pep talk. Let’s celebrate our deal! Pelagio said. He then took Lotte and her parents out to dinner.

I missed my bus. I didn’t get home till just before the front door was locked. They’d never given me a key. The sister who let me in told me that the leftovers for dinner were already added to the compost heap. We’re becoming a green nunnery, she said. 

The next morning I told Sister Elfriede of my plans. She agreed that I could stay at the convent till the new school year. She’d even let me wash walls and floors. I didn’t realize that they planned to banish me once my education was complete. 

I worked mostly with Turks and Arabs. My voice deepened though it was still higher than most. There wasn’t any demand for a singer with my range. My deepest note was at the high end of a light tenor’s range. 

At the beginning of my second year there, Bruck, a wealthy Englishman or an Anglophile, I couldn’t tell the difference, sponsored a performance of Purcell’s The Fairy Queen. Tryouts were winding down when Pelagio appeared at my locker at the end of my shift. He spent most of his time in Vienna and Milan, sometimes in Salzburg, rarely in Innsbruck. He asked me why I didn’t try out for a role. 

They only ever want baritones and tenors, I said. I was told to stick with my brooms. 

Not for this piece, Pelagio said. He showed me the part for the Chinese Man. Bruck is a very wealthy man, much wealthier than anyone your nuns will ever know. This is the first piece he’s sponsoring. We need to wow him. 

Next day I won the part. My partner was a Korean woman, not Lotte. My supervisor gave me time off to rehearse and perform though I wasn’t compensated for the hours I missed. 

Bruck was detained by some lucrative business in Cambridge. He was only able to attend the final performance, another Sunday matinee. Lotte, who played not Titania but Juno, approached me before we went on. She asked me if I was nervous. 

No, I said. It’s a small role. 

I’m worried, Lotte said. Bruck isn’t like the other burghers who sponsor our productions. I hear he’s very knowledgeable and demanding. The stakes for our institute are high. 

I held Lotte’s hand. She calmed. Pelagio appeared. What’s this? he said. 

Nothing, Lotte answered. 

He left, most likely because he didn’t want to disturb Lotte before her finale. 

We all performed splendidly till the last line of “Yes, Daphne” my final song. The rest of the cast carried on as if I didn’t flub my part. 

Pelagio was already in the green room when I entered. We could still hear the audience’s applause. It may have been the loudest ever heard at the Mozarteum.

What do those yahoos know? Pelagio said. I sat next to Bruck, saw him wince as you concluded your part. I told him you weren’t part of our academy, just an outsider we decided to bring in, we didn’t want to make it a breeches role. 

I’m an aesthete with a cultivated ear, Bruck said. Even so, I understand that singers don’t always hit their notes just as athletes and actors sometimes miss their marks. Besides, this is a music school not the Royal Opera. That was the last he said to me. He left as soon as the final curtain fell. I’m ruined and it’s all your fault. 

Lotte approached as Pelagio finished his tirade. He left the green room apparently without seeing her. 

Pelagio wasn’t ruined. We didn’t stick around to find out. Instead, we flew – where else? – to New York. 

I’m fed up with Pelagio, Lotte said on the plane. I didn’t know if she was angered by his attention or lack of attention to her. 

We had to share a room our first night in Manhattan. Lotte sent me out for pizza while she showered and changed into her nightclothes. After we ate she told me to shower and to come to her naked. 

I approached her side of the bed more excited than I’d ever been. She touched the tip of my quivering penis, examined the fair hairs around its base, gazed at the spot where my scrotum should be. You may dress, she said. 

That’s it? 

I just wanted to see if you’d passed puberty, she said. I should have known from the peach fuzz on your cheeks. Who castrated you? 

I wasn’t castrated. My testicles didn’t drop. 

That’s gross, she said, but we’ll still be friends. 

Lotte, her parents, or someone that they knew has connections in New York. We soon found work. Lotte was accepted at Julliard. 

I went a-whoring with all the spare money I scrounged. The whores didn’t notice or didn’t say anything about my missing equipment. This went on till the director of the troupe pulled me aside. Lay off the hookers, he said. Satiety is bad for your acting. Remember the part calls for you to long for your beloved. 

He didn’t prohibit sex, I just had to seduce or be seduced by my partners. The few cis women I slept with were queasy about my equipment. I had better luck with trans women. Our company had an about equal supply of both. Lotte sang with us summers and during winter breaks, her duties at Julliard were that demanding. Wholesome as a milkmaid, she stood out from the rest of the troupe.

Lotte graduated from Julliard with honors. She wasn’t able to find many roles. Casting directors for conventional media – TV, mainstream theater, even film – looked at her history with the various groups she played in, considered her healthy appearance, and scratched their heads. My troupe evolved. We didn’t have any major roles for singers with Lotte’s talents and appearance. She didn’t want to play mere foils to major characters. One day the director fired her. Lotte came to me straight after. I don’t know what to do, she said. My father is sick, maybe dying, my parents have to cut my allowance. 

The following Sunday – we no longer performed matinees – I took Lotte to a pier in the West Village to help her forget her troubles. We brought mountain bread, a hunk of gray cheese, and Grüner Veltliner in a wineskin, my treat. It was the first fine day of spring. For some reason we had the pier to ourselves. After we had a little bit to eat and drink, we sat on a blanket at the end of the dock, our legs dangling over the Hudson. I held Lotte close, was about to kiss her when we heard someone shout, What’s this? 

We turned. It was Pelagio. He put the cheese and knife in his bag, slung the wineskin over his shoulder. Do you have any idea how far I had to walk to find you? he said to Lotte. Come, I’ll get a taxi, we can still catch a 6 pm flight to Vienna. He tore Lotte from my arms and dragged her to the street where a cab was waiting. I reached for the wine, found only the bread, a sort of flattened boule, tore a chunk off, and chewed it. I, who ever since my rescue by bony Sister Elfriede sought solace only in buxomness, had a long empty afternoon and Monday ahead of me.

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He woke up one day and when Scotch Tape came to greet him in bed with a lick of the feet and a wag of the tail, Jeremiah gave him a pat on the head as he had always done, and the next thing he knew, there was a tiny tyrant standing before him. 

“Well, now you’ve done it,” said Napoleon, “Look at me. Just look at me. I’ve been dead for almost two hundred years, and you brought me back just to fetch a frisbee.” 

Jeremiah assured Napoleon that he didn’t mean to resurrect him. He had no idea why patting Scotch Tape on the head had resulted in such a transmogrification. The ten-year-old was not a magician or even interested in magic. He also loved his dog very much, and he had very little interest in dead military commanders. 

Not knowing much about Napoleon, but recognizing him from a children’s book his grandfather had given him that centered around famous angry Frenchmen, Jeremiah brought Napoleon downstairs so that he could show his parents what had happened. His mother was making Belgian waffles, and from behind him, Jeremiah could hear Napoleon making a comment about those lousy Belgians and their lackluster waffles, but not wanting to absorb any discrimination, he simply focused on the task at hand.

The trouble was, as soon as he tugged on his mother’s sleeve, she turned into Napoleon as well. Turning around, she scowled at the boy. 

“Look what you’ve done,” said this other Napoleon, “I don’t even like waffles–let alone Belgian ones. Sit down and I’ll make you a French omelet. It’s time we had some real food in this house before I go off to war.” 

The Napoleon that had once been Scotch Tape shook his head, but he sat down at the table, and put a napkin under his chin. Jeremiah didn’t understand. Did touching people now meant he was reviving Napoleon’s? Or were these beings still the beings they were before but trapped in some sort of Napoleon shell? 

While Jeremiah contemplated what to do about his two Napoleons, his father entered the house with some kind of stain on his tie. 

“Spilled coffee all over my–” 

Before he could finish his complaint, he noticed the two historical icons standing in the kitchen.

Jeremiah’s father slowly began to back away. 

“Jeremiah,” his father said, “Would you meet me out in the driveway, please?” 

The boy went running towards his father hoping for a comforting embrace, but his father side-stepped him. He looked pained at having to dodge his son, but he motioned to the front door as though some kind of answer would be waiting on the other side. 

Out on the driveway, the April air seemed to want to heat up, but couldn’t quite get there. Across the street, the Muscatellos were packing up a moving van. Jeremiah realized that it was a good thing he hadn’t hugged his father, because then he might have turned him into– 

“Napoleon. You would have turned me into Napoleon.” 

When the boy asked his father how this had happened, his father leaned against the driver’s side door of his Nissan Rogue. There was a small dent where Jeremiah had banged into the car with his bike. His father had not been cross when that happened, chalking it up to the kinds of things that occur when you have a son, and how lucky he was to have such a good son, who never did anything wrong aside from riding his bike a little too fast and not eating all his peas when they were served each Tuesday and Thursday. 

“Jeremiah,” his father said, “I was worried this might happen.” 

“Worried what might happen?” 

“When you were born, the doctor did some tests on you, because you had this strange birthmark on your back that looked like Napoleon. We asked what it meant, but the doctor–I think his name was Roberto–he was being very cagey. Anyway, you seemed fine, so we took you home. A few days later we got a call from someone who sounded like Dr. Roberto, but identified himself as D.R.R. He told us that one day our child would wake up, and everyone he touched would turn into Napoleon.

Not knowing much about history, we didn’t see the problem. Your mother always confused Napoleon with Charlie Chaplin, which doesn’t make much sense, but she always did associate disparate things. I knew who Napoleon was but he always seemed kind of cute to me. Your grandfather was familiar, and very concerned, which is why he bought you that book as a child and had you read it. He wanted you to be prepared for what might happen if and when the day arrived when your Napoleon syndrome would kick in.” 

As his father was telling him this story, the mailman was walking down the street. A bee flew near his face, and he began to run to avoid the bee, because he always suspected he was allergic, even though he had no evidence to back that up. While running, he slammed right into young Jeremiah, and the moment he did, he turned into Napoleon. 

“Sacre bleu!” the mailman shouted, “Now I am Napoleon? And I still have so many letters to deliver. What a garçon irréfléchi! Wait, is Napoleon allergic to bees?” 

Jeremiah and his father looked at each other, and then the mailman. 

“I don’t know,” said Jeremiah, “I think he might have suspected he was, but I doubt he had any evidence to back that up.” 

Napoleon the mailman walked away muttering to himself, and this is how Jeremiah learned that Napoleon was a mutterer, which is something they don’t usually teach you in history books. Jeremiah’s father ushered him into the house where Napoleon the Former Dog and Napoleon the Former Jeremiah’s Mom had found the board game Risk in the closet and were engaged in a heated game. Napoleon the Former Dog looked as though he might prevail, but Napoleon the Former Jeremiah’s Mom was giving him a run for his money. 

Jeremiah’s father led the boy upstairs and had him get into bed. The boy had never changed out of his pajamas, so for a moment, he wondered if he could close his eyes, open them, and find out the entire thing was a dream. Only the dirt from the lawn at the bottom of his feet would prove otherwise. He couldn’t fathom living with Napoleon for a dog let alone Napoleon for a mother, and certainly not Napoleon as a mailman. 

And could he really go the rest of his life without touching another human being for fear that they might try invading Russia in the dead of winter? 

“Now listen,” said his father, “I know this morning was confusing. You’re going to have a lot of confusing mornings in your life. Some more than others. This will, hopefully, be the most confusing, but I can’t guarantee that. The good news is, you’re a kid, so you can just get back in bed and sleep until whatever this is wears off. It might take all day, but I’m sure it’ll go away with time. Just to test it out, I’ll have a few historians stop by this evening to see how you’re doing. One of them might even allow you to try turning them into Napoleon, and if you can’t, we know the worst is over.”  

Jeremiah’s father patted a spot on the pillow near Jeremiah’s head, but was careful not to touch any part of his son since the worst was clearly not over. 

“Some days you wake up and nothing makes sense, Jeremiah,” he said, “And when you get older, you can’t go back to bed. You have to just press on and try to avoid connecting with anyone. Keep your head down. Power forward until things feel all right again. One morning I woke up, and every time I went to have a sip of coffee, it was Greek yogurt. I don’t know why. It only lasted one day, but I couldn’t go back to bed. I had to keep working, and I was so grumpy, because I couldn’t have any coffee, and I don’t like Greek yogurt all that much. This will pass though. This will all pass.” 

With that, he patted the spot near Jeremiah’s head one more time, left his son’s bedroom, and closed the door behind him. 

Not sure what to make of anything his father had just said, Jeremiah tried to sleep, but when he began to dream, he could only have Napoleon dreams. It seemed that even touching an image in his mind was enough to transform it. A dream of him taking a test in school became a dream of him writing a letter to Josephine. A dream of him riding his bike became a dream of him riding a horse into battle. A dream of him playing soccer became a dream of Napoleon playing soccer and losing the game, because Napoleon had no idea how to play soccer.

When the dreams became too much, Jeremiah opened his eyes and saw that moonlight was streaming through his windows. His father had forgotten to close the curtains before leaving him. He went to the window, and saw that the moon was hovering right above the house where the Muscatellos live. Without thinking, Jeremiah touched the glass that separated him from the moon, and, to his surprise, the moon became Napoleon. 

“C’est bon, Jeremiah,” said the Napoleon Moon, one of the kinder Napoleons, “Go back to bed. Le meilleur remède pour le corps est un esprit calme.” 

The best cure for the body is a quiet mind. 

Jeremiah got back into bed, and Napoleon dimmed his moonlight a little, but just a little. He wanted the boy to know he was here, but that he would be gone in the morning. 

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