Turpitude

by Young

  United Kingdom – London, Isle of Wight

  United Arab Emirates – Dubai

  Holland – Amsterdam, Noordwijk aan Zee

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Anomalous Sir Ernest Ozwalt Mossey

  “Great men of action... never mind on occasion being ridiculous; in a sense it is part of their job, and at times they all are.”

  Oswald Mosley

  Late December 1967

  Uncle James was overjoyed to welcome Andy and me. A day after our arrival, we were chatting animatedly over dinner at a private soiree in a soon-to-open, top-of-the-line Chinese restaurant called Mr. Chow.

  Mr. Chow and his then-girlfriend, Grace Coddington, a famous fashion model (who is now the creative director of American Vogue magazine), had invited an assemblage of international celebrities and business luminaries to attend this exclusive gourmet event.

  Uncle James, being the Chief Financial Officer of the Hong Kong & Shanghai Banking Corporation and a business acquaintance of Mr. Chow, was without question an invited guest. Being his protégé had its perks: last-minute invitations were obtained for us through Mr. Chow’s social secretary.

  Dressed in formal attire, we found ourselves hobnobbing with Jean Shrimpton, Penelope Tree, Veruschka – “Supermodels” of the 60s, before the term supermodels was invented. We also met Peter Sellers, the late actor/comedian, David Hockney, the homosexual artist (now famously known for his large, iconic works such as A Bigger Splash), and a host of others in the fashion, music and arts arenas.

  I was beside myself when David Hockney gravitated toward Andy and me. Although Mr. Hockney had not achieved his now-memorable status as the artist of ‘Los Angeles swimming pools’, his 1961 painting, titled We Two Boys Clinging Together and his use of Walt Whitman’s poems and quotations in his work sealed him the nods to homosexuality in his art. A lover of young handsome men, he did not fail to discern my Valet as a possible creative subject.

  A Conversation with David Hockney

  “I’m David.” The artist extended his hand to introduce himself to my chaperone. Andy, caught off guard, turned and uttered a polite greeting before Mr. Hockney resumed, “You look forlorn, sitting here by yourself.”

  “This is not really my scene. I’m here accompanying my companion and his uncle,” he pointed to me as I stood immersed within a group of Ms. Penelope Tree’s admirers. I hung onto every word the celebrated model vociferated.

  The artist added, “I’m disheartened to see a good-looking chap like you not enjoying himself.”

  “I’m having an excellent meal. That’s reason enough to enjoy myself,” my lover effused.

  “You are the type of character I’d like to capture on canvas – woeful and pensive, the kind of person who inspires me to fuel my creative fire.”

  Andy countered, “Looks can be deceiving.”

  “Do you ever travel to Los Angeles?” David chirped.

  “Why?”

  “If you are in L.A., contact me. I’d like to photograph you by the pool. You are a perfect specimen in every way.” Just as I returned to join the duo, he was handing Andy his card.

  “This is Young, my boyfriend,” Andy stressed the word ‘boyfriend’ as he introduced me to the renowned painter.

  “You’re a couple? How handsome!” he exclaimed, staring at the two of us. He paused before adding, “You should stay at my home when you’re in L.A. Have you been to Los Angeles?”

  I tweeted, “We were there for a photo-shoot earlier in the year…”

  Andy interrupted before I could reveal too much: “We’ll be in touch when we’re there next.” He changed the topic rapidly before pointing behind Mr. Hockney. “Young, did you see Uncle James speaking with Baron Pierre?” I followed my lover’s gaze.

  My Valet excused us to join my uncle and the baron. Pierre stood next to an elderly gentleman with a limp who looked vaguely familiar. I could not put a finger on where I’d met this person until I noticed the circular rings of smoke emanating from his mouth. He was the mystery man whom Monsieur Dubois had presented to me. My teacher had handed me a package before I left Chateau Rouge, saying it was from my mystery admirer. The unopened envelope was still in one of the side pockets of my carrier bag. I reminded myself to look at the contents as soon as I returned to our Mayfair residence.

  My Mysterious Admirer

  Uncle James, the baron and the man were in conversation when Andy and I joined them. The baron wasted no time in introducing us. “Ahh, Young! Glad you came to join us. This is Sir Ernest Ozwalt Mossey, a neighbour and a writer from Orsay.”

  The man gave me a sly grin before extending his hand to shake mine. He held onto my hand for several moments longer than was necessary before releasing it to shake my chaperone’s. Though I was certain he was the mystery man I had copulated with a few days ago, he acted as if we had not met before.

  Pierre gave me a secretive wink while my Valet debated a heated political issue. The delicious Chinese delicacies offered by the good-looking waiters and waitresses were too mouth-watering to forgo. I found a quiet spot to relish my plate of Asian tidbits.

  A familiar voice spoke from behind while I was preoccupied with my food. “Son, are you enjoying the soiree?”

  I looked up with my mouth full of food to find my uncle talking to me. At the sight of me gormandizing like a hungry child, James teased, “Don’t scarf your food as if you haven’t eaten for days! The guests will think I haven’t fed you.”

  He continued, “Besides behaving like an esurient lad, how are you, my boy?”

  “I’m fine, sir. And you?” I asked.

  “I’m good. It’s wonderful to see you and Andy. Your mother would be very happy if she could see you now. She asks after you in our regular correspondence. Do you know that she’ll be here in the summer to spend time with you?”

  I was delighted to have a moment with my English guardian. I chimed excitedly, “You mean I’m not to return to Kuala Lumpur the coming summer?”

  “I believe so. She is accompanying you to the continent with a couple of your aunties and cousins,” James replied as he puffed on his cigarette.

  Surprised by my uncle’s pronouncement, I questioned, “Why is she taking me to Europe?”

  “She wants to spend time with you,” James replied. He looked at me inquiringly. “I thought you would be delighted by this piece of information?”

  I was indeed thrilled by his notification. I always dreaded the idea of enduring the summer months under my father’s unscrupulous schemes to butch-me-up. Yet I was also feeling apprehensive. I did not want to be reminded that I’d have to separate from Andy. He had become a part of my life. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him, even though I enjoyed my mother’s and my female relatives’ company. My life had changed since I had left Malaya. For the past two years, I had grown by leaps and bounds. I could not return to the home I had once known. Andy, Uncle James, and the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society were my family now, and London my home.

  James, detecting my wistfulness, comforted me. “Young, don’t look so sad. You’ll only be away from your chaperone for a few weeks. He’ll be back in your life in a blink of an eye. I’m sure your mum and relatives will keep you engaged during your holiday sojourn.”

  “Will you be joining us on our tour?” I queried, hoping he would say yes.

  “As much as I’d love to, duty calls. But I’ll be in London when you return from Europe. I believe your aunties and cousins will be leaving before your mother. She’ll be spending an extra week in London with us. You’ll both be staying with me then.

  “Now, wipe away your forlornness and enjoy the rest of the evening gobbling the gourmet cuisine,” he chuckled.

  I couldn’t help but ask, “How did you know Baron Pierre and Sir Ernest Ozwalt Mossey?”

  “I met the baron this evening. As for Ozwalt…” he leaned close to me as if to whisper a secret. “I’ve something important I need to tell you…”

  Before James could
finish speaking, Pierre, Ernest and Andy had joined us. My guardian left me in suspense.

  As soon as they sat down, Andy asked, “Sir, what genre of books are you writing?”

  “Oh, it’s my time in politics. When you reach my age, it’s time to document one’s life,” Sir Mossey declared.

  My Valet resumed, “You must have led an interesting one.” His lordship grinned unscrupulously. He did not answer. “I look forward to reading your autobiography,” my Valet added.

  Uncle James gave our group a satiric look without seeming impertinent, as if he knew more than what met the eye of his lordship. Ernest voiced sarcastically, “It is not easy to clear up a dung-heap from underneath,” before resuming, “That’s why I choose to live in France rather than England.”

  None of us knew how to respond to the man’s remark. My uncle quickly changed the topic to a newsworthy matter.

  I took the opportunity to excuse myself to the men’s room, only to be offered concomitance by the elderly gentleman.

  No sooner had we entered the rest facility than Sir Mossey locked the door behind him. He caught hold of my wrist, swung me to him and planted a kiss on my mouth. Taken by surprise, I stood dumfounded. He released his grip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I am charmed by your boyishness and got carried away,” he apologized. I did not reply. After a moment’s silence, he resumed, “Did you have a chance to review the contents of my package?”

  I did not know what he was talking about. I stammered, “Err, what package, sir?”

  “The package I entrusted your professor to give you. Did he not hand you the envelope?”

  I had completely forgotten about the envelope Dubois had given me at Chateau Rouge. I answered, “Err… yes, sir. I haven’t had a chance to open the package…”

  Before I could continue, he had returned to his previous eccentric demeanour. “I’ll be expecting your answer. I look forward to spending time with you.” He gave me a kiss on my cheek before disappearing from the men’s room, leaving me to wonder what had just transpired.

  Chapter Fifteen

  An Unorthodox Proposal

  “When I was young, I knew money was an important thing in life. Now that I’m older – I’m positive it is.”

  Bernard Tristan Foong

  1967

  New Year’s Eve

  I didn’t get a quiet moment with Uncle James until he, Andy and I sat down for afternoon tea at the famed Claridges Hotel. My stomach was already rumbling as an array of delicacies arrived in polished silver trays. While I consumed mouthfuls of scrumptious scones and finger sandwiches, Uncle James joked, “Young man, where are your table manners?”

  Andy fuelled jestingly, “This boy acts as if he hasn’t eaten for days, no matter how often I reproach his comportment.”

  “Boys, joshing aside, I have something to tell you.” He continued, “There is something I want to relay to the both of you about Ozwalt Mossey.”

  This remark made us stare earnestly at my English guardian. We waited for my uncle to resume. He said haughtily, “I think you should be told that Mossey’s sordid past is less than desirable. Are you aware he was responsible for the creation of the British Union of Fascists (BUF) in 1932? The BUF was a protectionist organization, strongly anti-communist and nationalistic to the point of authoritarianism.

  “In his younger years, he was a strikingly handsome, charismatic man and probably the best orator in England. The BUF was frequently involved in violent confrontations, especially with Communist and Jewish groups in London.”

  My chaperone inquired, “How did he obtain the title ‘Sir’ if he was such a notorious political figure?”

  James shook his head and sighed, “He’s a shrewd politician and knew how to advance his political agenda by marrying Lady Cimmie, a daughter of India’s Viceroy, Lord Curzon.

  “Their wedding was the social event of the year. It was held at London St James Palace Chapel Royal and attended by hundreds of European dignitaries and royalties, including King George V, Queen Mary, and Leopold III and Astrid of Sweden, the future King and Queen of Belgium.”

  He paused before adding, “Unfortunately, Lady Cimmie died of peritonitis in 1933. Mossey then secretly married his mistress Diana, one of the Mitford sisters from the Berlin home of Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda.”

  Andy voiced, “What happened to him during the World War II years?”

  James declared, “He and Diana Mitford were interned in a house within Holloway prison, along with many active British fascists, and the BUF was proscribed.”

  I questioned, “What happened to him after the war? Was he exiled to France by the British government?”

  “He tried to make a political comeback but failed miserably,” James revealed.

  “Ahh! No wonder,” he uttered, “‘You don’t clear up a dung-heap from underneath,’” Andy iterated.

  “Was that the reason he moved to France to write his autobiography?” I queried curiously.

  “I guess that’s a reason. By the way, Young, had you met him before that evening at Michael Chow?” my surrogate dad asked.

  I replied sheepishly, “What makes you think that?”

  “I saw the look on your face, as if you recognized him when you were introduced.” He scanned my reaction. I wasn’t sure if I should reveal to my uncle what had transpired between me and his lordship. I kept quiet. Andy’s eyes bore into me, besieging me to tell the truth.

  “We met at Baron Pierre’s Christmas festivities,” I muttered embarrassingly, feeling as if I’d committed a heinous crime.

  “And?” James pressed.

  Not desiring to confide the entire truth to my guardian, I stated, “Monsieur Dubois handed me an envelope from Mossey before I left Chateau Rouge.”

  “You didn’t tell me that…” Andy voiced irritatingly. He gazed at me with consternation before he added, “What’s in the package?”

  I stammered, “There’s a cheque and a proposal letter.” The men waited for me to continue. I reached into my shoulder bag, pulled out an envelope and handed to my lover.

  Andy read the contents out loud:

  Young,

  You are a handsome boy. I’m enamoured by your youthful intelligence and masterful lovemaking skills. You possess an innocent naturalness I find difficult to resist. I’m beguiled by you. The short time we spent together was an analeptic sexual rejuvenation for me. I had not felt such virility for years. I’m not the type of person who makes ex tempore decisions, but your sensual sexuality had smitten me to inscribe this proposal for your consideration. I hope you will consider this proposition seriously.

  ● I will purchase a London flat in your name if you agree to be my beau. This will be my gift for your loyalty.

  ● In order for you to travel around the country with ease, a city car together with regular maintenance will also be gifted to you.

  ● To ensure financial security on your part and in the event of my untimely demise, a monthly stipend will be deposited into a Swiss bank account in your name.

  In return, I ask for your confidentiality - never to reveal the nature of our relationship to anyone. Our dalliance must be kept a secret. Please be mindful that I will not hesitate to take legal action against any slanderous aspersions inflicted upon me or my family.

  Please consider my offer. You can reach me at my private number…

  I look forward to your speedy response.

  Yours sincerely,

  Ernest O.M.

  2014

  Andy’s Email Comment

  When you handed me that envelope, I was mortified by Mossey’s proposal. I did not take kindly to the man’s insolence and his implication that you were a boy-toy who could be bought and discarded according to his whims. Thank goodness Uncle James was at hand to offer you counsel. His advice was a valuable lesson for you. I wouldn’t have thought of a better counter proposal to that which he proffered.

  If James and I hadn’t
offered our guidance, you would’ve taken his offer and become one of the many caged nightingales of his latter years. I’m glad James saw through his charismatic demeanour and warned us of his abhorrent past.

  I dug up information on Mossey after I learned of his attentions for you. He had a history of abusive sadomasochistic violence towards his subordinates and to those akin to him. As much as you fancied the idea of being a kept boy, you would’ve regretted taking his offer. I’m grateful that James devised a plan for you to slip away from this abhorrent situation. I must also give you credit for suggesting your counter-proposal to us, making the implementation effortless.

  1967

  New Year’s Eve (continuation)

  When Andy finished reading, a brief silence ensured. My lover was the first to comment, “This is a loathsome proposition – to treat Young in such a manner!”

  “And what manner is that?” Uncle James chimed.

  “Young is my beloved. He’s not to be bought and sold like chattel in an open market,” Andy uttered vexingly.

  My English guardian marked quizzically, “Is there a difference between harem services and those of a kept boy?”

  My chaperone was stunned by my uncle’s remark. He couldn’t think of a championing response, thus leaving my surrogate dad to continue. “I like to listen to Young’s opinion. Andy, you and I can provide advice, but ultimately, it is Young’s decision.

  I, too, was taken aback by this turn of events. I was speechless. My mind raced to find a possible answer.

  Finally, I muttered apathetically, “If I’m to be a kept boy, I’ll expect to be housed in a luxury penthouse, not in a run-of-the mill flat.

  “Secondly, I’ll want a top-of-the-line sports car –a Ferrari or a Lamborghini, not a city car.

  “Last but not least, I’ll insist on a healthy remuneration to keep me in a princely style.”