by John Boyne
‘I don’t believe I would have,’ said Maurice, shaking his head.
‘It’s easy to say when the question is a hypothetical one. There are people who will sacrifice anyone and anything to get ahead, after all. They’re rather easy to spot if you know the signs to watch out for.’ An uncomfortable silence ensued, during which Gore looked rather pleased with himself, Howard appeared amused, Dash seemed outraged and Maurice looked entirely out of his depth. ‘Of course, I’m talking about Ackermann,’ added Gore eventually. ‘Not you, dear boy. I’m sure you’re a fellow of great integrity.’
‘And have any of Ackermann’s friends stepped up to defend his reputation?’ asked Howard.
‘No one would have the gall,’ said Dash.
‘What was it Woodrow Wilson said?’ asked Gore. ‘That loyalty means nothing unless it has at its heart the absolute principle of self-sacrifice? Something along those lines?’
‘And you think other writers should sacrifice themselves for the likes of Erich Ackermann?’ asked Dash. ‘Would you?’
‘Probably not. But then I barely know the man.’
‘Well, then.’
A silence descended on the table, a mutual understanding that, were they to pursue this topic, the evening could end in an argument that no one had the stomach for. Howard opened another bottle of wine, poured a fresh drink for everyone, and the clinking of their glasses determined the end of that particular conversation.
‘Can I ask how long you two have been together?’ asked Howard when the silence became uncomfortable, looking back and forth between Dash and Maurice.
‘Well, it’s difficult to put an exact—’ began Dash.
‘We’re not together,’ said Maurice, speaking over him. ‘We’re friends, certainly. But that’s all.’
‘You’re not lovers?’ asked Gore.
‘We’re friends,’ repeated Maurice.
‘But you’ve been lovers? In the past, I mean?’
‘These are such personal questions.’
‘Are they? I don’t see why. You’re not a child and we’re not gathered together at the annual convention of Stick-up-your-ass Puritans. There’s nothing so peculiar about being lovers, is there? What say you, Dash?’
‘As Maurice says,’ replied Dash quietly, looking crestfallen, almost as if he might cry. ‘We’re friends. Very good friends. We care enormously for each other.’
‘It doesn’t matter a damn to Howard or me, you understand,’ said Gore. ‘So there’s no particular reason for secrecy. But if you want to keep the nature of your relationship ambiguous, feel free. Although I can’t help but think it’s a little ridiculous. It’s 1990, after all.’
‘From a purely logistical point of view,’ said Howard, ‘we need to know whether you require separate rooms tonight. Naturally, Gore and I assumed that you’d be two gentlemen sharing.’
‘If you only have one prepared,’ said Dash, ‘then please don’t put yourself to any trouble on our behalf. I’m happy to share if—’
‘Separate rooms, please,’ said Maurice, looking at Howard. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep Dash awake with my snoring.’
‘But you don’t snore,’ said Dash.
‘Ah,’ said Gore with a smile, winking at Dash, who blushed scarlet then looked up at his host, biting his lower lip.
‘I’ll let Cassiopeia know,’ said Gore, ringing a bell and passing some instructions in Italian to the maid who appeared on the terrace above them. ‘Anyway, whatever your arrangement is, I’m sure it’s a very sensible one. Howard and I have always maintained separate rooms and we find it a very satisfying way to live. Dash, will you have some more wine?’
‘No thank you, Gore,’ said Dash.
‘You look upset. Has someone said something to distress you?’
‘No, I’m just tired, that’s all.’
Gore softened a little. Dash was a fool and, worse, a mediocrity in his chosen profession, but there was no reason for him to be so ill-used by a child he’d taken under his wing. He had known boys like Maurice all his life. When he was young and starting to make his way in books, they’d come crawling out of the woodwork, attaching themselves to him, and then, once they made a name for themselves, dropping him without a second thought. At first, their Machiavellian ways had proved hurtful. Then, for some time, it had simply been annoying. But soon enough he mastered the rules of the game and used the boys purely for sex, giving them nothing in return, throwing them out before they had an opportunity to ask for favours. If only Dash could be so shrewd. Time to cheer him up a little, thought Gore.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I meant to tell you that I’ve read your new novel.’
‘You have?’ asked Dash, looking up hopefully.
‘Yes. It’s your best in many years, if you don’t mind me saying so. I thought I might write a little notice about it for the New Yorker, if that’s all right with you. Something to recommend it to readers.’
‘That would be very kind of you,’ said Dash. ‘Every little helps, as you know.’
‘Maurice was telling me earlier that he was reading it on the plane,’ said Gore.
‘Yes, I must admit I was flattered when he plucked it out of his bag as we took our seats.’
Gore, lifting his wine glass, set it down and looked from Maurice to Dash and back to Maurice again.
‘You brought the novel with you?’ asked Gore.
‘Of course, I posted him a copy upon publication,’ continued Dash. ‘But I know how busy he is and didn’t expect him to find the time to read it.’
‘I thought you said that Dash gave it to you at the airport,’ said Gore, looking at the boy.
‘You must have misunderstood,’ said Maurice. ‘I said that there were many copies of it in the airport bookshop.’
‘Is that what you said?’ asked Gore. ‘I remember differently.’
‘It’s a fine piece of work, Dash,’ said Maurice, turning to his benefactor. ‘Very moving and insightful on the ways of the flesh. I hope to be able to write as well as you one day.’
Dash looked around the table proudly, beaming from ear to ear, while Maurice reached for his wine glass and drained it in one go. Gore enjoyed the look on the boy’s face at that moment, although it was almost impossible to interpret exactly what he was thinking. Why, he thought, he could write a thousand words on that expression alone.
He discovered Dash walking the grounds early the following morning, when Howard and Maurice were still asleep. Gore usually took a walk at this time of day, immediately following his bath, the morning air clearing his mind of the fog that lingered from the night before. In recent times his dreams had become disturbing and his sleep more fretful, a condition he put down to looming old age. He would be sixty-five this year. Pensionable. Neither of his parents had made it past seventy-four and the idea that he had less than a decade to live was alarming to him. There were still so many books to write and, although he feigned indifference to the current publishing world, so many that he wanted to read.
Sometimes he wondered who would go first, he or Howard. Wasn’t there something in Wuthering Heights about Heathcliff wanting Cathy to die before him so she wouldn’t have to go through the trauma of a life spent alone? Or was it the other way around? He couldn’t remember. It had been so long since he’d read the novel. But the line was in there somewhere. Do I want Howard to die before me? he asked himself now; and no came the unequivocal answer. Let me go first, he muttered, appealing to the gods. Let him deal with the loneliness. In ancient times, a sacrifice would have been offered for such petitions. An animal slaughtered and its vital organs burnt upon an altar while the priest wore a mask to prevent himself from witnessing evil rising in the smoke. For a brief moment, he considered how easy it would be to set out a dais at La Rondinaia and how he could procure a young lamb from one of the village boys, but then shook his head, laughing at the absurdity of the notion. Howard would have him committed if he came out to discover him dressed like a monk and chanting incantati
ons on the terrace.
He spotted Dash strolling where the garden met the cliff-face, cutting a ridiculous figure in a garish Hawaiian shirt and shorts that revealed pale, hairless legs. Gore’s first instinct was to walk back towards the villa, where he could breakfast in solitude, but his friend’s dejected gait and unhappy expression persuaded him to walk in his direction.
‘Mio amico,’ he said, raising a hand in greeting, and Dash smiled back, nodding gloomily. He looked tired and Gore suspected that he hadn’t slept well. Cassiopeia had put Dash and Maurice in adjoining rooms, only a thin wall separating the beds from each other, and it was possible that he had heard the young man rising in the night as he went about the business of ambition.
‘Hello, Gore,’ said Dash. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’
Gore didn’t reply for he hated talking about the weather and despised people who did so. But his step fell in time with Dash and they walked in silence at first, looking at the wild flowers as they made their way in the direction of the olive groves and the vineyard.
‘You’re lucky to live in so beautiful a place,’ said Dash eventually.
‘I am,’ admitted Gore. ‘I don’t believe I could ever leave.’
‘Don’t you miss America?’
‘Not particularly. I’ve had enough of America to last me ten lifetimes. It’s not the country it was. Occasionally I even find myself missing Nixon and, when things have reached that point, it’s time to wave goodbye.’
Dash smiled. ‘Who do you see?’ he asked. ‘From the past, I mean?’
‘Everyone. Sometimes when I’m awake, sometimes when I’m asleep. I was sure that I could sense Nina here last month, even though she’s been dead more than ten years.’ He paused, reached down for a stone and threw it casually into the greenery. ‘Jackie comes when she’s in Italy, which is good of her. She and Lee visited together last year, in fact. We got drunk and took turns seeing who could make the most vulgar comments about George Bush.’
‘Who won?’
‘The Princess Radziwill, of course. She may be a terrible actress but she knows more dirty jokes than a sailor and her delivery is always pitch-perfect.’
Dash said nothing as Gore cocked his head back a little, closing his eyes and breathing the scent of the flowers deep into his lungs.
‘You’re working on something new, I suppose?’ Dash asked after a while, and Gore nodded.
‘A compendium of my essays,’ he told him.
‘All your essays?’
‘Well, a lot of them, anyway. It’ll be a big book.’
‘Will you come home to promote it?’
‘My dear Dash, I am home.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I expect so,’ said Gore. ‘I may even stay for a month or two. Catch up with whoever’s still alive and terrified of running into me.’ In the olden days, of course, he would have been invited to stay in the White House when he was visiting Washington but there was precious little chance of that now. He’d slept in the Lincoln Bedroom dozens of times when Jack and Jackie were in charge. Never under Lyndon, who’d frozen him out because he didn’t like the idea of a queer sullying the bedsheets. Twice under Tricky Dick, including a night where they’d got drunk on whisky and ended up making midnight raids on the kitchen, like a pair of teenage boys, leading Pat to come down and give them a thoroughly enjoyable scolding. Ford had never liked him, Carter had never understood him and Reagan had never approved of him. Bush, he assumed, had never even heard of him. So that was that, he was certain, until a cultured Democrat, if such a thing still existed, got elected again. ‘Shall we sit?’ he asked, indicating a bench that stood beneath the shade of an olive tree, facing in the direction of the coastline.
‘What plants are these?’ asked Dash, pointing to a cluster of bright pink five-leaved flowers with serrated edges that resembled the hem of a debutante’s ballgown.
‘Yes, they’re pretty, aren’t they?’ said Gore. ‘But you’d have to check with Howard. He’s the gardener. Are you in love with the boy, Dash? Is that what this is all about?’
His companion didn’t seem surprised by the question or by how suddenly it had been asked. He swallowed and looked down at the ground, where an elongated family of ants were scuttling past in single file, and nodded.
‘It’s ridiculous, I know,’ he said. ‘I’m fifty-eight years old, after all.’
‘And what is he?’
‘Twenty-four.’
‘Is he a bugger? It’s hard to tell. He was so enigmatic on the subject over dinner last night.’
‘I think Maurice is whatever he needs to be, whenever he needs to be it. He’s an operator, that’s for sure. And I don’t much like him, Gore, if I’m honest. Sometimes I think I might hate him. He’s rude and unkind, utterly self-centred, and treats me like a dog. But I can’t seem to break away from him. When we’re together, I’m in torment, but when we’re apart he’s all that I can think about. I wonder who he’s with and what he’s doing and whether he’s thinking of me at all. It wasn’t like that when we met, of course. I had the upper hand then. I’m … well, I am what I am.’
‘A successful writer,’ said Gore, placing a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘And a good one too. A rare dyad.’
‘A competent one,’ said Dash, offering a half-smile. ‘Let’s not pretend otherwise. I can write, yes, but I won’t be remembered. Not like you. My books lack whatever alchemy is needed to ensure immortality. You’ll be read when we’re both worm food, Gore. I won’t.’
Gore said nothing. This was an accurate representation of the future, as far as he was concerned, and he had no wish to patronize his friend by pretending otherwise.
‘When I first met him,’ continued Dash, ‘it was as if every nerve in my body became alert to his presence. I couldn’t take my eyes off him and when I approached him—’
‘Where was this?’ asked Gore.
‘In the Prado.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘I know, it’s the stuff of clichés. Like something out of a terrible Hollywood film.’
‘There’s no other sort, as far as I can tell, these days,’ said Gore. ‘What room was he in?’
‘What?’
‘Maurice. When you discovered him. Do you remember what room he was in? What he was looking at?’
‘The El Grecos. He was wearing white trousers and a navy shirt, the colour of which matched his shoes. He wore no socks and his cologne contained a scent of lavender. He was carrying a rather nice shoulder bag, leather and cream, and a copy of that morning’s El País, featuring a large photograph of Felipe González on the front page, pointing a finger at Francisco Ordóñez.’
‘Oh, my dear Dash,’ said Gore, shaking his head sadly. ‘You do have it bad, don’t you?’
‘Of course, he was with Erich at the time.’
‘With him in what sense?’
‘It’s hard to know, although I’m reasonably certain that nothing physical happened between them. He was simply using him the same way he’s been using me. Poor Erich was in love with him too, of course.’
‘You chastised me last night for using the phrase Poor Erich.’
Dash shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m feeling rather better disposed towards him today. He probably went through the same level of torment that I’ve been going through over the last couple of years.’
‘He doesn’t let you touch him, does he?’ asked Gore, and Dash shook his head. ‘And nor does he touch you?’
Dash said nothing, simply staring into the distance, watching the spin and roll of the early morning waves.
‘I don’t quite see it,’ said Gore when it became clear that Dash wasn’t going to reply. ‘He’s good-looking, yes. He has an undeniable sex appeal and he’s aware of the power of his beauty. Too aware, some might say. But so do most boys his age. What’s so special about him? What is it that you and Erich see in him that I’m missing?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Dash. ‘But whatever it is, I’m enslaved to it. As w
as Erich, I’m certain. I was so incredibly jealous when I first encountered them together. I assumed that Maurice was just some trick that Ackermann had picked up on his travels. But I quickly realized that their relationship was more complicated than I’d initially understood it to be. I wanted to break them up from the moment we met and, once I put it into Maurice’s head that he’d gained everything he could from mentor number one, it wasn’t difficult to persuade him to move on to mentor number two. Someone with an “in” on the New York literary scene. Which Erich never really had, even after Dread.’
‘And, what? He just dropped Ackermann?’
‘Like a red-hot coal. Erich was devastated. Maurice didn’t tell me much, he can be rather discreet when he wants to be, but it wasn’t long before the poor man’s life fell apart.’
‘But surely that was due to the revelations in Maurice’s book?’
‘I think he could have fought his way through them if he’d wanted to,’ said Dash. ‘But I suspect he didn’t have the energy for the battle, not without the boy by his side.’
‘And since then?’
‘Well, Maurice’s novel has been a tremendous success. He’s much in demand, the hot young star of London literary circles, while I’m nothing more than the desperate old fag whose best work is behind him, trotting around after a young boy with his tongue hanging out, humiliating himself more and more at every turn. There are times that I wish he was dead or that I was dead or that we both were dead. Yesterday, while we were driving up the road to your house, I gave serious thought to tipping us both over the edge into the sea. But I couldn’t do it, of course.’