Music, in a Foreign Language

by Andrew Crumey

  The hypocrisy of the situation is nowhere more apparent than in the pronouncements of Cecil Grieve, whose own taste for young men is well known.

  Robert had argued that the line should be dropped – that King was implicitly attacking what he was trying to defend. King said it was the hypocrisy he objected to, not Grieve’s proclivities, and refused to make the cut. In fact, he was pleased with the opportunity the pamphlet gave him to attack a political figure for whom he had a particular contempt. Nor was Robert at all sympathetic to the man who had been so vigorous in the campaign for ‘social morals’, but he felt hurt by the attitude which King had revealed.

  The line stayed. Robert typed the five pages of Flood – the two articles, two translated poems, and three of his own which he signed ‘Ganymede’. Then King made clandestine use of the photocopier in the physics department to produce fifty copies. Some were placed in people’s pigeon-holes in the university, others surreptitiously slid between the pages of magazines in newspaper shops, or left behind in cafes. One found its way onto the noticeboard of the history department.

  It was all little more than a prank – the sort of thing which everyone was doing during those three or four months when it seemed that the rules were no longer completely rigid, but could be subjected to a little bending. For King, it was simply a chance to feel that he was doing something. Robert, on the other hand, did his part with a sense of release and abandon. The copy in the history department survived for three days on the noticeboard – Robert stopped once to read it, admiring the poetry as if it were the work of another. He imagined his words being discussed by people he had never met – sympathetic souls who were out there somewhere, though he had no knowledge of them.

  Within a few days, the pamphlet had been completely absorbed into the stream of human life – all copies were gone without trace. And that was the end of it, as far as King and Robert were concerned. They had the satisfaction of knowing that their efforts might perhaps have made some impression.

  But it was that line, about Grieve, which was to lend to Flood its lasting influence. Without it, the pamphlet was illegal only because of the unauthorized way it had been produced and distributed – the contents of the essays and poems would never have got past the censor, of course; but in the atmosphere of liberality prevailing at that time they probably would not have been regarded as warranting any further action. But the line about Grieve raised it onto a new, far more illustrious level – the level of sedition. The copy which Robert admired on the notice board of the history department was sent by the relevant Party representative to the police, where it was put on file. And this was what Mays would find five years later, long after King had forgotten everything he had written.

  How strange and ironic, that such a subtle difference can be so crucial! Like the poorly chosen phrase which can turn an intended compliment into an insult. How strange and ironic that a man should die because of a poor prank.

  Charles and Robert continued their musical sessions, though they became gradually less frequent. And Robert grew closer to Anne. At his suggestion, the three of them had begun to go out together – to films, or weekend excursions. Soon, King began to find excuses to make himself absent, and leave the other two in peace. When he was with Anne he felt a tension which he could do without.

  It was Anne who eventually seduced Robert – in her grave and serious way, she reached the decision that it would be the right thing to do. They had already become firm friends – like brother and sister was how Robert described it. He had often been alone with her in her flat; neither had made any kind of move. One evening, Anne came and sat close to him, then kissed him firmly. He felt it would be impolite not to respond positively.

  This was the gesture which led to a night of love making – tentative and uncertain at first, but then gradually less awkward, as fears and nervousness were overcome. It was a night which allowed Robert to convince himself that he was not after all doomed to a life of hopeless liaisons with members of his own sex – although he would subsequently find that he had been wrong in this conclusion. And Anne was gratified by the delicacy with which he treated her body; like a fragile flower to be studied and explored – not merely plucked and catalogued (which was Charles’s way). It was only through this union with Robert that she came to realize how much resentment she felt against her former lover.

  And yet she still found herself longing for him, in those early days when her affair with Robert was just beginning, and the one with Charles felt not quite over.

  One evening she went to Charles’s flat to return a book of his which had lain on her shelf. It was less than three months after that time when she had heard them both play the Kreutzer sonata, and her eyes had been heavy with tears held back. And it was three weeks after her first night with Robert. She felt ready now to seek some form of redress, and the book which she took to King’s flat was nothing more than a pretext. She had come because she wanted King to know she no longer needed him.

  And yet she ended up in King’s bed. Was this what she had really wanted when she came to his flat?

  He showed her in, and asked how she was, and Robert. He had seen less of him since the completion of Flood – about which King had said nothing to Anne, and he had assumed Robert would have done the same since to do otherwise would have meant compromising himself.

  Something in Anne’s reply – when she spoke about Robert – told King what the situation was; that they were now sleeping together. He saw again that vision which had appeared to him while accompanying Robert’s violin; he saw her body – less familiar now, the memory becoming indistinct – shaded by that other figure. Would Robert have known what to do? King longed to ask.

  He could see again that film of mystery which had covered her like a gauze, when he had first watched her lead a troop of schoolchildren round the museum. And he could sense that her apparent indifference to him – the ease with which she spoke – was only feigned. He had that special pleasure, of talking to a woman as if she were a comparative stranger, while savouring the memory of her body, and its particular forms, textures, odours.

  He had no desire to speak about the past; it was Anne who brought it up. ‘Can we forget it all now, and just be friends?’

  ‘I already had forgotten it,’ said King. He did not say this in order to hurt her. Even so, she was hurt – and King would not have minded if she had left at that moment.

  ‘I do miss you sometimes,’ she said. She was one of those women who try to cure an injury by laying themselves open to a further one. King told her that he also missed her, and they agreed that they had had good times together.

  Then as the conversation continued, Anne said, ‘You were very good for me, Charles – in a way. Sexually, I mean.’

  If she had come to King’s flat with an intention other than that of going to bed with him, then this comment was a mistake. Why had she made it?

  When she first slept with Robert, she was impressed by his gentleness. Now already she had begun to wonder if this was really a symptom of a lack of interest on his part. Already she had had the feeling that when Robert was with her he was thinking of someone else. Which had in turn led her to let her mind wander elsewhere, towards other figures. The night before, while Robert made love to her, it was Charles who had been in her thoughts.

  Charles now asked himself a question which had not previously seemed of any significance. Did he like Anne? When they were sleeping together, this was of no importance. But now she was proposing that they be friends – a much more serious matter. And the way that she had come here with a book as her excuse, in order to try and make him tell her that he missed her, made him wonder if there was something malign in her personality which should have been apparent to him earlier. He had the feeling she was flirting with him – perhaps this was because she knew no other way to behave. But he began to feel worried about what Robert might be letting himself in for.

  She had come and sat down close beside him. She was asking
how his work was going, and his piano playing, and whether he was seeing anyone else now.

  King had not had sex for many weeks. The way that Anne had placed herself close beside him made him feel resentful. He reminded himself of how he had lain sleeping beside her body, its charms gone stale for him. Yet still he imagined that body, and the memory of it seemed far more interesting now. What was difficult to visualize, was how it was that he could have lain beside her nakedness and not have wanted to turn and embrace it. He felt resentful, yet aroused. These two sensations gnawed at each other like struggling creatures.

  He began talking about Robert; what a fine musician he was. Anne agreed, but Charles could sense now that she was not in love with him. When she spoke about Robert, it was with a barely suppressed sigh. She admired him, liked him – clearly trusted him. And perhaps she had already decided that this was the man whom she should stay with. But Charles could tell that there was no real passion in her feelings for him.

  ‘He’s very good for you,’ Charles said. ‘I think he’s the sort of man you needed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she moved away slightly from his side to look at him better. She drew her hair back behind her ear.

  ‘Well, you seem a lot happier now.’

  ‘I do?’ By confirming what she had wanted to hear, Charles had now made her doubt the truth of it. Yes, she said – she was happier now.

  She was sitting close enough for him to feel the pressure of her leg against his. She was wearing hideous blue slacks.

  Charles felt he was being manipulated by her; the way she had placed herself beside him – and this conversation about past feelings, in which it was clear at every stage what she wanted him to say. If he were to put his hand now upon her leg, she would move away and tell him crossly to behave himself. Perhaps the sole purpose of her visit had been to give herself the opportunity of refusing him, just as he had refused her.

  She seemed not to want to discuss Robert – always the conversation was brought back to things they had done together; she and Charles. He could smell her perfume, and he could taste both the mystery of their first encounter, and the irritation of this futile flirtation. She put her hand on his forearm as she talked. Soon it was his knee which was being subjected to brief taps with which she punctuated her speech.

  At what point did King decide that a hand placed on her leg would not be removed by her? Thinking about it afterwards, he would realize that it was none of those mannered gestures of hers which had told him they would end up in bed together. Nor was it anything in what she was saying. But there was a moment, between words and gestures; a pause, when her mouth hung slightly open in hesitation, and he watched her open mouth and her eyes, and their heads were close enough for him to catch the unmistakably female scent of the breath she let out in that brief moment of silence. And then, once he knew that any advance made by him would not be repulsed, he became all the more determined not to make any. If a move was made, it would have to be by her.

  This went on; the ballet of signs offered and declined, until at last Charles grew weary of it all. He looked at his watch – it was ten o’clock – then stood up and told her there were some papers he wanted to read before tomorrow. Anne said she had better go, but still she waited. Then spoke.

  ‘Why did you really want to finish things between us, Charles?’

  He turned and looked down at her. ‘I never said I wanted to finish things. Only that I felt things had grown too stale for us to go on as we were.’ He could see again that strangeness in her which had fascinated him once in the museum. She stood up, and moved to kiss him good-bye.

  Which one was it who decided to prolong that kiss? If they had not both agreed to hold their lips each against the other’s, then the kiss could not have been anything more than a peck. But it was a long embrace, sustained by old familiarity, and arms fell with ease into position – waists and shoulders reached for, held. Tongues long acquainted – most innocent of pleasures; a kiss which was no more than what had once been too trival for comment. A kiss which need have gone no further. Hands on thighs, and now on the borderline between flesh and clothing. Soon, the loosening and unbuttoning.

  Then she stopped him – held him still in front of her. She said they should go to bed. And King reassured himself that he could not be betraying a friend for whom a woman’s body could never be an object of sexual desire. As she lay beneath him and he went inside her, he thought of that time weeks before when the fingers of Robert’s hand had reached across a page towards his. Innocent searching of fingers; innocent sliding of flesh against shared flesh.

  It was a time of betrayal; a time which would be remembered for its lost hopes and abandoned dreams. A few days later, the so-called period of Consensus was brought to a sudden end. There were tanks on the streets, and pale faced young boys in ill-fitting uniforms stood with guns at the ready. The moment had been lost – the dam which King had written about had withstood the reservoir of discontent. Old sins were forgotten; new ones could take their place.

  Some weeks passed – King saw nothing of Anne, and during the occasional musical sessions, Robert gave no indication that he might have found out what had taken place. Then one day when he arrived he seemed agitated. Anne was pregnant, and they were to be married.

  King’s first thought was that it must be his. But Robert didn’t seem to suspect anyone else, and Charles was certainly not going to say anything to make him think otherwise. Robert’s feelings were mixed – he spoke of his love for Anne, and his responsibility, and he even said he regarded it as a chance to make a ‘fresh start’. He still believed that he would be able to put aside thoughts about other men.

  At the wedding, King acted as witness. Anne maintained towards him a cold civility which would last until long after Robert’s death, five years later. King congratulated her, kissed her lightly on the cheek. They exchanged pleasantries. Six months later, Duncan was born.

  It was not long before Robert saw a young man who caught his eye, and he rediscovered the joy of the only natural act of physical love he knew. Others followed – some who broke his heart, and made him long to explain his feelings to the woman whom he loved as a sister. And furtive encounters which made him loathe his secrecy and his infidelity.

  Charles also continued the familiar cycle of sexual exploration and disillusion. Meanwhile, the two men would meet now and again – to play music, or else simply to talk. Then one day, in London, Charles met a girl mending her bicycle, and she said her name was Jenny. And Robert told him that he had been chosen to write a book on the history of revolutions.

  23

  King’s interview with Inspector Mays left him feeling frightened and confused. Mays knew that he and Robert had written Flood – but seemed not to be particularly interested in pursuing the matter. It was only an excuse to persecute Robert for his homosexuality; a means of black-mailing King into informing on his friend.

  That night, King tried to decide what course of action he should take. Of course he wasn’t going to betray Robert; but he had to satisfy the police somehow. Simple deceit would easily be seen through – and if he were to try and give some kind of warning, then how could he be sure the police wouldn’t find out about it?

  What was at stake? The worst they could do to King would be to prosecute him for his part in Flood. Six months, perhaps – or even a fine. For Robert, the situation was considerably worse – as he himself had said, when he had come to King’s flat the Sunday before last to tell him about the book, and the search (little more than a week ago!) – as Robert had said; he risked losing his job, his marriage – not to mention five years in prison.

  In the end, King could only see one course of action. He would do nothing. Faced with such an impossible dilemma, he felt like a hedgehog which runs neither one way nor the other, but curls itself into a ball and trusts to its spines. He would avoid Robert; if he saw him, he would say nothing – no use trying to warn him; Robert knew already what the danger was.

&
nbsp; And Jenny? She had to be involved – why was that strand of her hair buried amongst his papers? There was no way that Flood could have been linked either to himself or to Robert, unless someone had given information to the police. The word FLO on a scrap of paper – what did that prove? There was Robert’s typewriter, but that only gave Mays confirmation of what he had already known.

  He would go and see Jenny at the weekend. As well for him in any case to stay away from Cambridge as much as he could, until things calmed down. Perhaps he would take a holiday somewhere.

  It was only Tuesday evening; the time until the weekend, when he might at least discover what was going on, seemed unending. Work was impossible under such conditions.

  On Thursday, Joanna came into his office and asked him if that madman had been back.

  ‘Warren? No, I don’t think we’ll see him again. He’s more of a danger to himself than to anyone else.’

  Charles was sitting at his desk; Joanna had half-perched herself on it, close beside him. His eyes naturally directed themselves to her legs.

  ‘They’re the ones you gave me – the stockings. Nice, aren’t they?’ She had glanced at the open door, to see that the corridor was clear, before stretching a leg to show him the stocking. ‘I still owe you one for these. I won’t forget.’

  Another cycle was beginning in Charles’s life. Before long, he would sleep with Joanna.

  There was no word from Robert, which for King was a relief. On Friday morning, King phoned Jenny at work and told her he would come to London tomorrow. It was a strained conversation; yes, there were some things they needed to discuss. And he had to get his spare key back from her.

  Next morning, he took the train to London for his last visit to that small flat in Bayswater. It was less than ten weeks since he had first seen her in the Mall, mending her bicycle. Still not difficult to recapture the thrill of that promising wedge of cleavage beneath her low-hanging blouse.