"I know," I broke in, "why don't you get me a drink. I find it hard to concentrate without one, somehow. Also, I'm fucking miserable, fed up."
"Oh . . . what is the matter?" He looked round as if the explanation might be to hand. "Are you by yourself here tonight?"
"I was," I said rudely. "I'm waiting for someone. Well, Cherif, you remember him."
"Oh him," said Ty condescendingly. "He's a stupid young man."
"He's living with me at the moment," I said, not exactly to contradict him. And then in a few sentences I told him how I was despairing in love, trapped in my own home by a boy who was in love with me, and now my place of work had been infiltrated by someone I hated. I doubt I would have poured it all out so succinctly and bitterly to anyone capable of responding, but to formulate it to Ty was a distinct lonely relief. All I kept back was the repeating shock of Dawn's being dead, my own regret at his not having said goodbye, the guilty certainty that anything I did was something he couldn't do.
His reply was blithe but still surprising. "Well, I know what you are like. You must tell your love to the boy, otherwise you will never have peace with yourself, and try to find out the good side of the Rex Stout person, which there must be, and say to someone who has just come into the bar that he must go and live somewhere else and go to hell too."
"Thank you," I said, as he got up and finger-waved goodbye. I wondered what had happened at the man's house in the country. Perhaps he ran a moral self-help centre. I heard Cherif give his mocking hoot at Ty as they passed behind me.
"Baby, why do you call Ty Mouchoir?" I asked him, when he'd settled and fussed over me enough. He grinned and pointed between his legs.
"Because it is not real. Just a rolled-up hanky."
"Don't be ridiculous."
He shook his head with a little moue of incontrovertibility. "I know," he said, clearly not wanting to offend me with the details of proof. Actually, I thought the story might help to pass the coming hours. I longed for Edie and wished she would come back again, with her gift for sharing and judging my feelings at the same time. She didn't know how many imagined dialogues she took part in, how often her friend addressed his silent pleas and exclamations to her. Still, soon I would be beyond caring, the wave of drink would rise and after a pretence of doggy-paddle I would embrace Cherif and go under.
We sat in silence for a while in one of the side bays, like a couple of forgetful old drunks in the Golden Calf, who had known each other all their lives. When I looked up and across I saw the darker far reaches of the bar, towards the lavs. There was a group of men there who only appeared on Sunday nights, heavily leathered, cropped, studded and tattooed, quiet amongst themselves, like steady-nerved conspirators, holding each other's eyes as they contemplated whatever it was they were about to do. I suspected it would be something demanding and uncomfortable but I envied them—they gave off, in their sexed and sombre way, the certainty that it was what they wanted. Then I heard Luc saying, in his Ealing FUms toff accent, "Well, what's it to be?"
For a second I thought the question was addressed to me. I started and then sat very still. A girl's voice replied, "How frightfully kind!" and a rowdy young man said, "Simply splendid!" I reddened at this English mockery, turned, mad and frowning, to face it, but in fact the high varnished back of the stall cut them off from view: they couldn't have known I was there. My heart was pounding with danger and opportunity—the Three right here in the Cassette, joking in spiffing English that no one younger than Perry Dawilsh used, though they still clearly thought it was spot-on. I felt crowded and troubled. Why were they here? They were the world beyond, the bar was where you came for refuge and solace from them. I hushed Cherif to hear them better as they dropped into Flemish. It was possible they had just blindly and high-spiritedly stepped in for a beer, or they might think it coolly affirmative to drink in a more or less gay bar; what I dreaded was the note of mockery flaring up again, the trouble there sometimes was with het trash. I would have to join them, of course; I was destined to go through that little purgatory.
"Cherif, darling, I'm sorry I shushed you then, I was just thinking, which you know I find hard enough." I was rather feline in my pissed decoying movement, my nest-plunder obliquely in view.
"Sometimes I don't understand what you are thinking about," he said serenely, even proudly. I looked down and smiled.
"Well, I'll tell you. If you promise not to be upset." He was silent, as though considering his rights. So I went into a long spiel, full of lulling reasonableness, about how I wasn't used to spending so much time with someone else, the years that had passed since I'd had an affair like this, how my sex-life had pretty well petered out before I came to this country; how of course it was all amazing and wonderful, but how I was still naturally a rather solitary person, and also, as he knew, trying to be a writer, and messing round with a few ideas. . . The thing was that just now and again I would need a bit of time to myself. I'd like to go back by myself tonight, and could he go out to the hostel?
As a lie, this one had the merit of being almost entirely true, but Cherif didn't see the charm of it. His head jerked back as if from a blast of heat, his jaw rounded biliously. The whole clumsy plan depended on the fact that he had never seen Luc and his friends, and on the last bus out leaving surely any moment . . . I was prepared for a sulk but hoped to avoid a row. I pressed on him with a sort of blind volition, at the same time struggling to appear honest, weary, calmly elevated, the saint sighing for his cave and his lion. After a fashion it worked. I sucked the sting out of it, made the little passionate avowals that came automatically to me now, adding in a bit of reproachful cant about maturity and trust, and by the time it was over he had to sprint to the Grote Markt. I was amazed at myself—I had been watching my own performance as if I were Luc, say, craning over the back of the booth.
I went for a pee and then waited, as if soliciting, just inside the door. The Durex machine was beside me, I bought a packet of three for something to do; then I washed my hands with anxious thoroughness and checked myself in the mirror under the illusionless strip-light. I was terrified. Someone murmured something to me—I stared blankly at him in the mirror and he shrugged and went away. There I was again, but now entirely by myself in that further observable world; I leaned forwards as I might have to study a portrait that was brilliantly but ambiguously painted. What was it that made the subject tick? It was hard to tell. I stooped closer, in a kind of vertigo of detachment. I saw that the lenses of my glasses were covered in dust—smoke particles, stuff out of the air, tiny flakings of skin and scalp.
Luc had his back to me, as I came along the bar, and I took him in for the first time, relaxed, holding forth, speaking a bit loud perhaps to show he was at ease among the heedful queens. He was wearing the exact clothes of the morning I fell in love with him, the suede jerkin, the white jeans slightly bagged and tucked up his arse as he lolled with ankles crossed, the nerdy discord of the trainers. I thought how I never knew just what size and shape he was—it must be because I worked on him so much in my dreams that I always found him different, always frightening and always remotely banal.
He was saying, "He rewrote the whole thing, though, that was the point—he didn't just cut bits out and add bits on. The 1850 text is usually much better written than 1805, more concise and vivid and I think even witty." I saw Patrick's stance of tolerant boredom, as at something that might be useful to him at some stage, and his slow double-take on me waiting at Luc's shoulder. I gave a little smirk made up of such warring elements, pleasure at Luc's plonkingly retailing what I had said to him in the fragment of our lesson, regret that he wasn't passing on my feelings in favour of the 1805 Prelude and its youthful life (the pain of only half-remembered words), paranoid suspicions again that I was somehow being mocked, even a hint of a mime of rueful, clumsy love; and love itself: not the cool blue pilot-light but the rumble and flare as the clock came on . . . I began to feel hot in the face, my mouth and neck were hot, my balls ached helplessly.
"How's your cold?" was the best I could do.
"Oh, it's gone away," he said, with a lyrical gesture as if lifting a veil from his face, though there was still a wisp of hoarseness to his words.
A silence fell in our group, and I wondered if they could hear my heart pumping. Perhaps they were waiting for me to move on or out, they didn't know I'd come to stay; or maybe they knew all about me and my pathetic unwelcome passion. I looked up shyly at Sibylle, who was herself looking humorously at Luc; then glanced at Patrick—but he immediately flicked to Sibylle. Then, "This is my friend Patrick," said Luc. I nodded and smiled. I hadn't seen him since the morning I found him in Luc's bedroom; I still didn't know what damage I'd done. "And this is my friend Sibylle, Sibylle de Taeye"—with a hint of his own pride in a distinguished name. "And this is my friend Edward Manners." The rhythm of the scene demanded that he call me his friend, but still it made me very happy.
We simmered in our introduced state for a moment, as if each pondering afresh the bracing mystery of our being who we were. I longed to be who I was, to be natural and funny, but I knew I was doomed to be someone else by the violence of my needs and the enigmatic little circuits of the Three. They'd only been talking about Wordsworth, but they gave me the feeling I'd broken dampeningly into some far more intimate and sophisticated transaction. They may have been bored, but they were bored in their own satisfactory and really rather amusing way. I found my hand was oddly empty and pushed myself among them to the bar. I heard myself booming, "Well, what's it to be?"
First of all I talked to Sibylle—I was suddenly too upset to manage Luc under the scrutiny of his best friends. I half-turned my back on him, though I kept picking up his chat with Patrick through the thin medium of our own conversation. I thought if I was very charming and could somehow imply a closer knowledge of Luc than I had then she might let some commonplace thunderbolt drop—"When Luc and I get married", something like that. She had great composure, as of a child brought up to talk well to strangers, and keep cool under the pressure of extravagance or bad behaviour. Her face was round and calm, a convent-girl's face, lightly made up to suggest other attainments. She was wearing white jeans, in ominous twinship with Luc, and a shirt open over boyish white collar-bones and buttoned firmly between unboyish breasts; there were old, elderly pearls at each ear. I wanted to find her naive or even brittly snobbish in the English way, and was rather daunted by her poise and openness as she assessed my career and aptitudes.
"You also teach my friend Marcel, don't you?" she said.
"Oh yes, I do." I was tracking a story of Luc's about a holiday in Italy . . . Padua . . . Galileo . . . the anatomy theatre . . . How formal he was with them tonight. I wanted to shout "At ease", to drag him back to the beach, kids sparring in the sand . . . "Yes, he's, he's a nice lad. Of course he's had a difficult time."
"He's very frightened of you," she said, in a way which showed conclusively that she wasn't. But I respected fright this evening, I knew the warping pressure and panic that another person's presence could cause.
"He has no need to be," I said. "In fact I don't think he can be any more—we've become great friends." I pictured him at home, pottering with the pastry scraps, always reaching back for childish solace, just the opposite of these three, drinking beers in a gay bar.
"He tells me you've been doing work for his father."
"Yes, that's right."
" . . . incredibly handsome Italian men . . . " Patrick was saying.
"I always think he's rather a pathetic figure."
"How come?" I said, with a cross little laugh.
"Oh, having lost his wife in that bizarre way. Marcel and I talk about it a lot. We think he hasn't had the heart for anything since."
"He's extremely fond of his son," I said warmly, wondering if even so I did justice to his devotion.
Sibylle shook her glossy bob and leaned back on the bar. I thought I didn't really like her confidence. She said, "My father says he'll never finish this famous catalogue. He says that Paul Echevin used to be a first-class scholar when he worked on Rembrandt, but for some reason he gave it all up to work on Orst, since when he's written no more than a couple of articles. My father thinks he's lost hope."
"I can't tell you how wrong you are," I said. I'd had this before, from Helene. I was sick of the conspiracy against my friend. "For a start he works on the catalogue every day. I've never seen such a hard worker. He's a real scholar, you know, he wants to get things right. It will be finished by next spring. And he's written far more than a couple of articles, I can assure you." (I certainly recalled seeing three.)
But she stuck by her high-up father's opinion, even if she distanced herself from it in some canny way. Patrick was giving Luc an update on St Narcissus gossip, tales of nicknamed masters, football news, told in his sturdy bollocksy voice but full of the shiver and gloom of winter school. Luc laughed and I felt his exclusion from it all, a hint that he would rather not hear about it.
"And how do you find my lovely Luc to teach?" Sibylle asked loudly, to be heard and perhaps break up our pairing and its faint antagonism.
I swivelled round to take him in, my heart punching with foreboding, and gave a sickly smile, while Luc himself turned with a cough and showed an interest in the bunched leather-queens. I saw one of them catch his eye and smile, and he swung back with a blush. "Oh, your, your Luc is a joy to teach," I said. "If he's not in a bad mood."
He put an affectionate hand on my shoulder, but it made me jump, and then curve apologetically against him, bungling his easy gesture. "Last time I was in a very bad mood, and poor Edward just had to turn on his heels," he explained, and gave my arm a squeeze that wiped out all the pain of the last week. I felt my throat streaming, pulsing like a dove's with unspoken "I love you"s, I wanted to kiss him all over his face and burble them into his flushed ears.
"He's been in a silly mood for several days," said Patrick, and Sibylle shot him a frowning glance, and Luc narrowed his eyes at him. I still had no idea of Patrick's role or influence; he might have been the jester, the outsider, or he might have been their leader, if they admitted one. A silence extended and I soaked up how healthy and sexy he was, in a heavy jersey over a blue shirt that hung out over frayed old jeans. I thought, if the queens in here knew what he had between his legs . . . I was basking for a second or two in the simple randy thrill of being with a truly huge-cocked kid. "So you like Luc, do you?" he said. I couldn't tell if he was needling me or hoping to get a good price for him.
A moment came when Sibylle refused a further drink, slid from her bar-stool and quietly stated that it was time to go. "Some of us have got school in the morning," she said. Patrick seemed happy for me to buy him drinks all night, but let himself be persuaded. So it was over already—it hadn't lasted an hour. I saw my futile excitements, as though through glass or as the sceptical barman must have seen them, setting up round after round for me, the boys getting noisy, heartbreak waiting —and what else could I have expected? I began to think wistfully of Cherif.
Then Luc said, "I'll stay for a bit longer."
Sibylle peered around, assessing the imprudence of this decision. "Okay," she said, with an upward flick of the eyebrows. Patrick had sauntered hunkily to the lit console of the juke-box, and we all watched as he thumbed in a coin and deliberated over the corny menu of titles. I couldn't think of anything to say, I didn't dare look at Luc. Then a button was pressed and after several seconds a distantly famular intro came at us from all sides. It was one of those rhetorical songs you heard in a late-night minicab, "I want to be w
here love is", drunk yourself, and the requests read out—Darren, don't keep breaking my heart . . . I need you but I need time—as you accelerate through the glittering streets.
Luc kissed Sibylle on both cheeks. "Be good," she said, "sois sage." And Patrick rolled up with a grin and barged him and kissed him on the mouth. I thought, Ah, you do that, do you? —or was it just young sportsmen's faggoty closeness, their high butch pained regard for each other and themselves? It wasn't the treatment I was going to get—I gave a little absolving wave, but he grabbed my hand in mid-air and shook it: it was a bit like jiving. "We'd better leave them to it," said Sibylle. Patrick turned at the door and grinned again; I wondered if I was the subject of some broad joke—but then if I was, Luc must be too. all that mattered was that he wanted to stay for a quarter-hour more, even if only to grouse about his troubles away from his smothering critical friends.
It had been a terrible time. I had watched myself trying different gambits, donnish to start with, pursuing the matter of the 1850 Prelude, then holding forth about Milton, Schubert, F. R. Leavis etc etc and clearly being the greatest bore on earth; then I smoked a cigarette (which they hated) and swore a lot (which seemed to displease them too); then gave them maximum charm, which they resented as a puzzling form of satire. At one point I was even nodding about to a song on the juke-box, but Sibylle stilled me with a glance. I was young and lively and clever, I told myself as I blundered like some awful Ronald Strong figure from rebuff to tacit rebuff. And then Luc wanted to stay.
There was a lovely sense of cleared space, of spreading calm, like sunlight out to sea, in the gold and copper cabin of the bar, as we drew two stools closer and settled ourselves knee to knee and the song wailed grandly on and then faded out.
"Oh dear, Edward, I'm sorry about that. But I'm very glad you were there!"
I was astonished. I was gesturing for a drink with one hand, not wanting to miss a moment, a single muscular movement of his face. When he smiled there was a fleck of spinach above a tooth at the side and I hungered to suck it away. "What are you sorry about, and why are you glad? I was going to say sorry for barging in on your drink."
The Folding Star Page 35