The God of the Labyrinth

by Colin Wilson

  What then happened was that Boswell and Esmond helped Thérèse to undress, and while she stood in her shift, both men began to caress her. Each one of them fixed his mouth on one of her breasts, while Thérèse held their two erect members in either hand, and commented that she had never held such fine speci­mens of lusty manhood. They removed her shift and laid her naked on the bed and Esmond performed an act of cunnilingus. Then Thérèse, groaning with excitement, gasped ‘Vite’, and both Boswell and Esmond tried to hurl themselves on her simul­taneously. Boswell, being slighter, got the worst of the crash, and while he was still picking himself up, Esmond had penetrated her. His description of Esmond and Thérèse making love will undoubtedly rank as a classic of its kind. I had time to jot down only a few lines.

  Though small, she was of remarkable strength and vigour, and made him cling to her as though she had been an unbroken stallion impatient of her rider. Donelly clasped her buttocks firmly in both hands, and rammed as though he hoped to drive her head through the wall. As I stood there in my shirt, with my lance upraised as though present­ing arms, I was unexpectedly struck by the absurdity of my position, and how it would have appeared to Dr Johnson or General Paoli, had they been able to stand there and observe me. But then, while they were still galloping in mid-career, Donelly of a sudden cries: ‘Now it’s Bozzie’s turn’, and unsheathes his weapon, upon which our maid groaned and murmured: ‘Unkind.’ So as to minimize her inconvenience, I leapt upon her like a brigand and drove my pole into the succulent embrace. But here my headlong fervour undid me, for she had no sooner received my tool than she also received a wombfull of gushing seed, which leapt forth before I could prevent it or admonish myself to practise self-conquest. At this, my own head drooped so low as that of my tool, and my cheeks imitated its colour; but I was scarcely off her before Donelly had replaced me, and was soothing her disappointment with strokes that made their bellies smack together.

  The description continues for two more pages, but this was all I had time to copy. The nurse was helping old Bates to remove the plastic bag, so I quickly read on to the end, describing how Boswell, after his first failure, redeemed himself by fucking her vigorously, ‘with such style that I regretted that I could not stand by to see it’. He was immensely gratified when Thérèse murmured: ‘Ah, it is a sad fate to be an old man’s mistress.’ He, Esmond and Thérèse spent the night in the same bed—which was big enough for them—and all three found the situation so piquant that they would doze off for a while and then return to lovemaking. Boswell fell into a deep sleep while Esmond was persuading Thérèse to allow him to sodomise her, but he later rolled her on to her back and moved on top of her again. By this time, even Thérèse’s long-pent-up desire for a young stallion had been satisfied, and she lay passively, gasping slightly, as Boswell made love for the sixth time. ‘I was the last to possess her that night,’ he records exultantly, ‘but in honesty am compelled to admit that Donelly did it seven times to my six.’ The following night, Boswell fell sick with a stomach ailment, and spent the night in Esmond’s bed. He admits that his heart has gone out of the sport, ‘although we saw a young girl of about fourteen in the baker’s who could have inspired me for the rest of the week’. The following day, Esmond informed them that business would keep him in Calais a few days longer. As the boat took them from the harbour steps to the ship that would carry them to England, Boswell looked up and saw Esmond standing on the quay—with the pretty fourteen-year-old. Thérèse, luckily, did not notice them. On returning to Dover the following day (February 12), Boswell’s published journal resumes: ‘Yesterday morning had gone to bed very early, and done it once; thirteen in all. Was really affectionate to her.’ He does not record how his score compares with Esmond’s.

  Clive Bates caught my eye and shook his head warningly. The nurse was removing the plastic tent. I closed the manuscript which I had just finished, and slipped my notes into my pocket. I picked up a pamphlet by Ruskin, and when the old man asked me what I had been reading, declared I found it fascinating. His grandson said we ought to be leaving, and the nurse seemed to agree.

  ‘Has your friend asked me all the questions he had in mind?’

  I said hesitantly: ‘There’s just one, sir. About Esmond Donelly . . .’

  ‘Donelly? Who’s he?’

  Clive explained. The old man said:

  ‘Ah yes, I remember now. Now he was a member of the Sect of the Phoenix.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Let me see . . . how do I know? Ah . . . Yes. Wise told me. It’s in that letter I wanted you to find. That pamphlet you’ve been looking at—it’s not by . . . whatever they’re called. It’s by another man, a friend of Donelly’s. I can’t remember his name. He had a title.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been Horace Glenney, could it?’

  ‘Ah yes, that’s the man. Lord Glenney.’

  ‘But how did Wise know this?’

  Unfortunately, Bates interpreted this as another attack on Wise, and launched into a long defence of his old friend. I decided to leave it at that. Besides, I was hungry. I thanked him, promised to call again, and left. Outside, Clive Bates said apologetically:

  ‘You see, the old boy’s pretty ga-ga.’

  ‘Have you read that piece of Boswell I was reading?’

  ‘Ah, you knew it was Boswell, did you? Yes, of course I’ve read it. I think it’s a superb piece of bawdry. I keep trying to persuade him to send a copy to that chap who’s editing the Boswell journals, but he won’t.’

  ‘Naturally. It doesn’t belong to him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I outlined the story of the Boswell papers. He said:

  ‘He always claims he bought it for five pounds. He says Lady Talbot came across it one day and asked her husband to destroy it. He said he would, but he agreed to sell it to Grandfather for a fiver.’

  ‘It could be true. Does he have any more Boswell papers?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. That’s the only one I’ve seen.’

  It had started to rain as we parked opposite the Shelbourne. I said—conventionally—‘Thank you for taking me. He’s a delight­ful old man.’

  ‘Oh, he’s all right. You don’t know him.’

  I was curious, but decided not to press him. There was no need to. As we sat in the bar, drinking red wine, he said:

  ‘I would imagine that my grandfather is one of the worst compounds of unlikeable qualities that you would find in Dublin at the moment. To begin with, he’s a liar. He pretended he couldn’t remember Donelly’s name. Nonsense, of course. He knows it as well as you do.’

  ‘Then why . . .’

  He interrupted me: ‘Second, he’s probably the meanest man in Ireland . . .’ For the next five minutes, he offered me examples of his grandfather’s meanness that were certainly convincing enough; it may be an Irish type, for Maturin describes another such at the beginning of Melmoth the Wanderer, who begs, with his last breath, that he might be buried in a pauper’s grave. Then followed stories of his grandfather’s petty dishonesty. ‘Then there’s that poor girl who looks after him. She’s only a student nurse, so he pays her next to nothing. But he gets her to sleep with him by promising to leave her money in his will. Of course, he wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I was astounded; he didn’t look healthy enough to survive a wet dream.

  ‘Of course. She sleeps with me on her night off.’

  I was beginning to feel depressed. Clive Bates was describing his grandfather’s faults with a relish that I found rather ghoulish.

  ‘Why don’t you tell her he doesn’t intend to leave her money?’

  He winked. ‘She might leave him. That wouldn’t benefit him or me.’

  I suggested that we should take our wine in with us to the dining room. He said:

  ‘Would you mind if we ate in the long bar downstairs?’


  ‘No. If you prefer it.’

  We found a table by the window, looking out on the street. I asked:

  ‘Who is your grandfather’s heir?’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Then why do you dislike him so much?’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with it. He’s an old swine. Anyway, I don’t need his money. I’m fairly well off. That’s why he’ll probably make me his heir. His nephew Jim—Jim Hurd—needs it more than I do . . .’

  He broke off and stared out of the window. It was still raining, and a ragged-looking child was looking in at us. They stared at one another, then he grinned. I asked:

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No.’ But nevertheless he was beckoning to her with his finger. She shook her head. He got up and went out. I expected to see her vanish before he arrived, but she stood there, looking cold, wet, and rather grubby. He said something to her; she shook her head. Then he took her by the shoulder, and propelled her ahead of him. A moment later, they were back at our table. He said:

  ‘You don’t mind her joining us, do you?’

  I said no. But I was more concerned about how the manage­ment felt. She was older than she looked through the glass—fourteen or fifteen, perhaps. Her hair hung in rats’ tails, and her nose was running. She wore a short jacket with puffed shoulders and only one button. The rain had made streaks in the grime on her face. She looked as if she hadn’t washed for a fortnight; and to be honest, the rain seemed to bring out smells that con­firmed this. Clive asked her:

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Florence.’

  ‘Do they call you Flo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The voice was cockney. She sat there, chafing her cold hands together, looking a picture of misery. Our waiter was looking at us disapprovingly, and I thought the manager was about to come over and ask us to leave—he was staring very hard. Clive said:

  ‘Would you like some fish and chips?’

  She nodded, but continued to look numb and lifeless. Clive beckoned the waiter over, and gave the order with a sort of bullying flamboyance. My own feelings were mixed. If he had invited her in out of kindness, then I approved, although I would have preferred to take her to somewhere quieter and darker. But he was such an odd and complex character that it was difficult to be sure of his motives. I thought the girl looked uncomfortable and out of place. I finally suggested that we might go up to my room, and have the meal sent up.

  ‘No, no. Why should we? We’re all right here.’

  I was sitting next to the girl, and would have preferred to be less close. I took her jacket from her to hang it up, and it smelt as if she had found it on a rubbish dump, and as if it had at some point been used for wrapping fish. I have an unusually sensitive nose; but even so, it hardly seemed fair on our neighbours.

  The meal was one of the most uncomfortable I have ever had, and I ordered another bottle of wine in an attempt to forget the awkwardness. I could not understand why she had agreed to come in. She answered questions in monosyllables, obviously afraid of raising her voice, and sat in a crouched position, as if still cold. Clive seemed oblivious of the atmosphere. He talked loudly and cheerfully, telling me anecdotes about the Cannes Film Festival, and Bergman’s latest film, that failed to arouse the slightest flicker of interest in me. I tried to talk to the girl, but it was clear that she preferred to be left alone. I felt easier when the people at the next table left; and when her fish and chips arrived, she swamped them with vinegar and tomato ketchup, and her own damp, fishy smell was less noticeable. The girl refused a sweet, to my relief. I had intended to put the meal on my hotel bill; instead, I paid cash and left the waiter a large tip. I didn’t feel like admitting that I was staying in the hotel.

  Clive said, in his loudest and most aristocratic voice:

  ‘Well, if we’re not having anything more, we may as well go and have cheese and biscuits back at my place, eh?’

  I was so glad the meal was over, I made no objection. Besides, I expected that the girl would now leave us. The sight of her unhappy face was making me gloomy. The waiter’s pleasure at the size of the tip was a minor victory.

  Outside, Clive said: ‘Well, I don’t know how we can all pack in my two-seater.’ I thought this was intended as a hint to the girl; but she only stood there. He said: ‘Oh well, we’ll manage it. Come on’, and grabbed her arm firmly. I said:

  ‘Won’t your parents be expecting you home?’

  She shrugged indifferently and said: ‘Naow.’

  In the Porsche, she sat on my knee. In the enclosed space—and Clive Bates asked me not to open my window—the fishy smell was stronger. She had to press back against me to get her knees in. Clive patted her on the knee, saying: ‘We’ll soon be home—oho, you got a hole there’—he was referring to her stocking. Then he winked at me, and said: ‘I envy you.’ I looked at him with mild amazement. Surely he couldn’t find this damp, snuffle-nosed child sexually desirable? Perhaps he had no sense of smell?

  Her passivity struck me as odd. When we stopped in front of his flat, I expected her to raise some objection. After all, how did she know we didn’t both intend to rape her? But she stood there indifferently, until Clive took her arm and led her to the door.

  She looked even more out of place in his well-furnished room. She threw off the coat on to the settee, and went and crouched near the fire. She seemed totally uninterested in her surround­ings. Clive said:

  ‘Let’s play some music, shall we? Do you know James Oswald’s Dust Cart Cantata? No? You ought to. It’s delightful.’ I won­dered if this was supposed to be a satirical reference to the girl, but he produced a record of that title, and put it on the turn­table. He offered her a drink, but she refused. He brought out cheese, biscuits and stuffed olives; she refused these too. But when he offered her a large tin of assorted biscuits, she took it without a word, and sat munching them, her legs spread apart in front of the fire, dropping crumbs on his modernistic armchair and on the white carpet. I took a chair on the other side of the hearth, but Clive moved close to her. I began to wonder if she was drugged; her small, sharp face remained utterly indifferent. It was not even sullen. When he talked to her, she either answered in monosyllables, or merely nodded or shook her head. When she had crunched her way through an incredible number of biscuits, she asked for a drink. He went to the kitchen and brought her a bottle of Coca-Cola with a straw. When the Dust Cart Cantata was over, she asked, with mild asperity: ‘Whyn’t you play something decent?’ He produced a record of Mantovani and his orchestra, and this seemed to satisfy her, although she said nothing.

  I wondered whether he was hoping I would go home and leave him alone with her; but when I suggested that it was late, he immediately contradicted me, and switched on the television news. I sat there, sipping a brandy, knowing I should be feeling drunk, and yet feeling as if I had been drinking water all day.

  The news was followed by a programme on the political troubles in Northern Ireland. Clive tapped me on the arm and pointed at the girl. She was asleep. He said softly: ‘Rather nice, don’t you think?’ I found it hard to think of a reply; finally, I said: ‘She needs a good bath.’ He looked unexpectedly sad, lowering his eyes. ‘Yes, poor thing . . .’

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to get her home? Her parents could cause trouble?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. She could sleep here if she wanted to.’

  I gave up. He knew his own business best.

  She had fallen asleep with one leg over the arm of the chair, the other stretched towards the fire; a change of position made her skirt slip back on her knees. Clive grinned at me, leaned forward, and carefully peered up her skirt. I expected her to wake up, but she didn’t. He turned to me. ‘Look.’ I shook my head. ‘No thanks.’ ‘But look.’ He gave the impression he was trying to show me something important. I changed my position and looked up the sk
irt. The thick lisle stockings were all holes and ladders. She was wearing aertex cotton knickers, and they were so badly torn at the crotch that nothing was hidden. I looked away quickly—not out of prudishness, but because I would have felt ashamed if she opened her eyes. I said:

  ‘What about it?’

  He looked sad and thoughtful again.

  ‘She obviously comes of a poor family. No wonder she’s not very clean.’ He touched her shoulder. ‘Do you want to sleep here?’ She stirred, but did not open her eyes, and I suddenly wondered if she was shamming. He felt the cloth of her skirt. ‘She’ll catch cold if she wears these much longer.’ He stood up, placed a hand under her arm and another under her knees, and picked her up. She moved her head and said something. It struck me now that she was either pretending to be asleep, or he had put something in the drink he gave her. If so, it must have been chloral hydrate, to produce such total oblivion.