The Anti-Death League

by Kingsley Amis

  "Ayscue here."

  "Hold on, sir, call for you… You're through, madam."

  "This is the secretary of the museum library," said a voice Ayscue recognized.

  "Oh, good morning, and what can I do for you?"

  "On the question of that manuscript you were interested in, you remember, Major? I've had a word with my chief and he says it's all right for you to have it if you make a donation to a charity of which he's the chairman. Would ten guineas be reasonable, do you think?"

  "Oh yes, I think that's a very fair sum. Can I take down the address?"

  "I'll give it to you when I next see you-there's no urgency. As regards the other matter you were interested in…"

  "Yes?"

  "As you know, my chiefs very busy these days. But he says he can give you an interview this evening if it's convenient."

  "Splendid, this evening will do very well. What time shall I present myself?"

  "Ten o'clock. If you arrive at exactly ten my chief will be able to fit you in without any fuss or bother. He understands completely about you not wanting to have to chat to other people in the waiting-room and so on."

  "He's a very considerate man, your chief."

  "Well, you know, he's had a lot of experience of people and their ways. Now, you just come to the side entrance of the museum at ten-it's very easy to find-and I'll be there myself to take you up to my chief's office."

  "Right, I've got all that, thank you."

  "My chief says he's very much looking forward to having a chat with you."

  "Have another."

  "Yes, please. It's terrific stuff. What is it?"

  "It's called green Chartreuse. I'm glad you like it."

  "Won't it make me tight? It tastes terrifically strong."

  "What do you care? We're on the loose tonight."

  When this brought only a smile by way of reply, Hunter searched his mind for things he could say. There were plenty of things he wanted to say, but they would hardly have been sayable unless Signalman Pearce had been in his arms, instead of sitting very up-right on the far side of a hotel restaurant dinner-table. This was a perennial difficulty. Only by having been to bed with somebody was it possible to attain the pitch of conversational intimacy that was needed as prelude to getting them into bed. So, at least, it often appeared to Hunter at this stage of the proceedings. From this point of view there was much to be said for the heterosexual scene, where any old gap could be effectively got over by inquiries whether anybody had ever said how beautiful the other person was, by statements about eyes being like stars, and even, perhaps best of all, by wordless and mindless graspings of the hand.

  The waiter appeared before this particular gap had stretched too far. Hunter looked up at him with approval as well as relief. Although instantly recognizable as one of the boys, of the persuasion which invited pursuit rather than that which pursued, he had not once rolled either eye or hip in course of serving the meal. Such self-restraint, Hunter knew, was rare. It helped to make up for the restrained contempt and amusement in the head waiter's demeanor, and for the unmixed and unrestrained amusement of the two young businessmen and their women at the next table. Pearce had seemed not to be aware of all this, but it was Hunter's guess that he was.

  "A large green Chartreuse here, please, some more coffee and the bill."

  "Certainly, sir."

  "What do you think of the padre, Max?" asked Pearce suddenly when the waiter had gone.

  He had said "Max" and not "sir" every time since being asked to, as if it came naturally to him. Hunter did not bother to speculate how or why it should. He was just delighted.

  "Old Willie Ayscue? Not a bad chap for a God-botherer."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Well, you know. Always suspect somebody who goes down on his knees in front of an instrument of torture, even if it is an out-of-date one. But never mind about that now. What made you think of Willie all of a sudden?"

  "He asked me to go and see him this afternoon. About music, he said it was."

  "Well, wasn't it really?"

  "It started off with that. He showed me a piece of music he said he'd found somewhere. A classical piece, it was."

  "Oh, I know. Thomas Shithead or some such name."

  "Roughead, that's right. He's an old-fashioned composer. This piece of his is a trio. There's a violin in it, which the padre said he reckoned he could tackle himself. There's a piano, and he reckons there he could easily get one of the locals to do it. And then there's a flute, and he asked me if I thought I could have a go at that. He'd heard from somebody that I double on flute in the group, you see."

  "That was probably me, I'm sorry to say. Anyway…"

  "Well, what he's got in mind, he wants to put this piece on in a concert. I was just wondering what you thought of the idea."

  Hunter refrained from answering while the waiter came back with their order and the bill. He poured the coffee efficiently and unobtrusively. Lighting a cigarette, Hunter noticed the smooth firm Une of his jaw, and vaguely contemplated a little luncheon-party à un at this table while he was still in the area. He counted out money for the bill, adding a tip that was just perceptibly more than one-eighth of the total. The waiter took this in and bowed.

  "Thank you very much, sir," he said politely. "I hope everything was all right?"

  Hunter gave a friendly smile. "Better than all right. You were very nice to us."

  Only somebody who was watching for it would have seen the waiter's eyelid move.

  "It's a pleasure, sir," he said, and went away.

  "Oh yes, about Willie's concert," said Hunter. "I should say from your point of view all you needed to know was how much practice and what-not you'd have to do."

  "I'd have thought you'd have been against it never mind how little practice there was to it."

  "Why should I be?"

  "Well, it's music, isn't it?" Pearce grinned faintly. "I'd have thought that'd be enough for you, that it's music. The first time I came and talked to you in the hospital you sounded off against music."

  "So I did. What a good memory you've got."

  It was unlikely, considered Hunter, that Pearce remembered that occasion as well as he did himself. He had looked up at the sound of Pearce's boots on the block floor of the ward and seen him approaching past the table with all the flowers on it, blushing a little at perhaps intruding upon an officer who had chatted to him casually two or three times only, everything about him full of sensuality, empty of lechery or coquetry. For the first time in Hunter's experience he had felt a sharp desire not to have a drink.

  He went on now, "You don't want to take me too seriously about that sort of thing. Did you look at the stuff? Can you play it?"

  "I don't think there's a lot to it. It looked pretty simple, what I saw of it."

  There was a short struggle within Hunter between his opposition to serious music, which was perfectly sincere, and his fondness for the prospect of Pearce's developing an off-parade life into which he, Hunter, could plausibly wander from time to time. Principle lost.

  "In that case why don't you have a crack at it? It might be quite fun."

  "I might as well."

  Pearce took a sudden swig of his Chartreuse and licked his upper lip with a darting movement of the point of his tongue. Hunter's lips opened slightly in turn.

  "Anyway," said Pearce, "I told him I'd think about it, the padre, and then… Well, he started off by asking me how I was feeling these days. He meant about… you know."

  "Yes."

  "So I said I thought I was beginning to get over it a bit, during the days at least, but I couldn't really be sure. And he didn't say anything for a bit, but you could tell he was, you know, sympathizing. But he looked terrifically ill, Max. All haggard. Is he really ill?"

  "I don't think so. He's looked like that ever since I've known him."

  "I see. Anyway, then he wanted to know if what had happened had made me angry. Angry with life, sort of. I said not
particularly, just sorry. Was I sure I wasn't angry with God, he said. I had to tell him I didn't believe in God, so I couldn't very well be angry with him. By this time I was wondering what it was all about. The next thing he said really floored me, though. Had I ever written any poetry. What do you think of that?"

  "He must have been out of his mind is what I think of it."

  "I thought the same for the moment. But then he explained that someone had sent him a poem for this magazine he's trying to run, and it had upset him a lot because it looked as if whoever wrote it was very unhappy and had it in for God, which according to him is very dangerous, so he's trying to find the author. Apparently the chap hadn't put his name on it or anything."

  "Did he show you this poem? Poem, Christ. I feel rather more strongly about poetry than about music. At least with music the general sense of uneasiness and misery isn't tied down to anything. Poetry's got messages in it. You know, above love and spring and getting into a state. It says you ought to notice things."

  "I don't see any harm in that."

  "I do. The best way of dealing with the problem would be to send any author to prison who wrote a book that sold less than a million copies. That would put paid to most of the stuff I'm against. Anyway, it's not important enough to go on about. This poem that's got Willie all of a twitter. Did you get a look at it?"

  "No, he'd got it locked away somewhere. It wouldn't really do for people to see it, he said."

  Hunter laughed silently. "So presumably the editor will very much regret being unable to find a place for the contribution. Good old Willie. I never realized he was such a loyal son of the Church. I wonder he didn't burn the thing on the spot."

  "No, but he really was upset, Max. He said now he knew it wasn't me who'd written it he didn't know what he was going to do about finding out who had. He was very low, honestly. You could tell."

  "Well, there's no need for you to start worrying. Old Willie gets these moods. They don't necessarily mean a hell of a lot. I'll have a word with him in the morning. Quite likely he'll have forgotten all about it by then."

  "I wish you would. Sorry, I'm holding you up."

  "You're not in the least. Take as long as you like."

  "No, I'll just…"

  Half an inch of Chartreuse at once was too much for Pearce. He choked and coughed. Hunter got up and beat him heartily on the back. He saw that the four at the next table were watching, with half-smiles of different kinds but the same high level of offensive-ness. Fixing on the younger of the men, a shop-soiled faun with a small mouth, he gave him his best public-lavatory leer over Pearce's shoulder. All four heads turned away as if twitched by the same string.

  Pearce gave a final gasp. "Really does the trick, doesn't it, thumping? Sorry about that."

  "So I should hope. After that exhibition the least we can do is leave quietly."

  They did so. Outside it was still light. Hunter explained that where they were going was only a few hundred yards away, so they might as well leave in the hotel car-park the pick-up truck in which they had driven over. The street they walked along was crowded, but on one side there was part of a canal with yards and warehouses that looked deserted. Twice Hunter's shoulder brushed Pearce's as they moved to avoid groups of passers-by.

  "Here we are," said Hunter.

  They went into the entrance-hall of a small block of flats dating some thirty years back. There was no lift.

  On the stairs Pearce said, "Tell me again about this bloke."

  "He's called Vincent Lane. About thirty. Unmarried. Friend of my brother's. In the insurance business. He spends about half his time here and half in London. I don't know who else he's asked tonight. It should be quite fun."

  By this time they had reached the second floor. Hunter pressed a bell. They heard it ringing, but then nothing happened.

  "Mm, this doesn't look too good," said Hunter, ringing again.

  More silence. Hunter stooped down and turned back a corner of the doormat to reveal a latchkey. He opened the door of the flat with it.

  "What do you think's happened?" asked Pearce.

  "He may have got held up. He wouldn't mind us letting ourselves in like this. Let's see if he's left a note."

  Off the tiny hall was a long, rather narrow sitting-room with faded rugs, leather armchairs and an expandable dining-table against one wall. On this table they saw a sheet of paper with typewriting on it. It read,

  Sorry boys-called to London late this afternoon. Urgent (they say). Couldn't seem to get you at the camp, Max-left a message with some moron which if you're reading this you can't have got. Managed to put everybody else off. Insist you have a drink now you're here. As many as you like. Help yourselves. Feel free. Give me a ring next week, Max. Many apologies for dragging you all this way.

  Then, in a shaky hand,

  In haste,

  Vince

  Pearce gave a quick glance at Hunter, walked down the room to the window and stood looking out.

  "Can I get you a drink?" said Hunter to his back.

  "No thank you."

  "Do you mind if I have one?"

  "Of course not."

  Hunter hesitated for a few seconds, then joined Pearce at the window. From here the canal was in view. There was still nobody to be seen near it. After another pause, Hunter put his hand on Pearce's nearer shoulder. He did this not because he thought this was the right moment, but because he could think of nothing else to do and nothing whatever to say. With his heart seeming to shake his whole chest, he turned slowly and put his other hand on Pearce's other shoulder, noticing the coarseness of the cloth there. Pearce's eyes were shut.

  "Oh, Andy," said Hunter, calling him by this name for the first time.

  He kissed Pearce gently on the cheek near the mouth and felt him grow tense. When he kissed him again, on the corner of the mouth, Pearce strained away slightly. For a moment neither moved. Then Pearce stepped back and Hunter's hands fell to his sides.

  "I'm sorry, sir," said Pearce in a trembling voice. "It's not that I don't like you. I just can't do it after all. I thought I was going to be able to, if it came to it. I wanted to, at least I wanted to want to, because you've been terrifically kind to me and I like you very much. I'd have given anything to be able to."

  A tear fell out of Pearce's eye.

  "Perhaps I might have been able to," he went on, "if we hadn't mentioned… you know… him. Not that there was anything… He and I were friends. You know, nothing more. But it just set my thoughts going and I couldn't go on. I'm sorry."

  "That's all right," said Hunter, looking out of the window. "We can't have you apologizing. It was my fault. I should have known better."

  "I didn't mean to call you sir just now. It just slipped out."

  "Of course, I understand."

  "I've been very bad about this. Until you… until just now I was telling myself some of the time I wasn't sure what you were after. But now I know I knew all along. You've spent all this money on me and I haven't given you any return."

  "Oh yes you have. It's been marvelous just talking to you. You mustn't think of it in that way. I enjoyed your company. And I've got lots of money anyhow."

  "I won't tell anybody what happened."

  "I know. You're a thoroughly… You wouldn't do a thing like that."

  "If I'd known earlier on I wasn't going to be able to do it I'd have let you know somehow, I'd have got out of coming along here, I wouldn't have had to hurt your feelings like this."

  "You haven't. Don't you worry about any of that. Signalman Pearce, your conduct has been exemplary in every particular. Your superiors have no fault to find with you. And now… let's have a drink. You can have one now, can't you?"

  "Yes. Yes, Max. A drop of Scotch if there is any."

  "There is. I'll be back in a second."

  Out in the extensive and lofty cupboard which was the kitchen, Hunter leaned forward, put his hands on the edge of the sink, and took half a dozen deep, slow, quiet breaths. After th
at he mixed a very strong Scotch and water and drank it, mixed another of the same and an ordinary Scotch and water, took both glasses into the sitting-room and gave the one with the ordinary drink in it to Pearce, who had sat down on the arm of one of the leather chairs.

  "Cheers," said Hunter, grinning. "Very generous with his whisky, old Vince Lane. And very discreet too. You might call him the perfect host."

  'There isn't anybody called Vince Lane, is there?"

  There must be somewhere, but this particular one is a child of my ever-fertile imagination. I don't think I'd like him much if he existed. He'd be the sort of chap who's always known everything he wanted to know. Good fun, but with a serious side to him. I'm glad we missed his party. There'd have been terrible people at it. Men whose personality consists of being self-assured and peevish girls with tiny chins and pearl necklaces."

  "Have you never gone for girls?"

  "Not very hard. I can see the point of them, though. They must make life much easier for a chap. Especially if he's got anything in the way of a sense of humor. However hilariously you may behave over a girl you always feel it could be all right for somebody else. I mean it's just that you yourself are too ugly for her or too old or too poor, too something anyway, or not something enough, and that's all that's ridiculous about the situation. Whereas consider what you're taking on when you get frightfully fond of the postman or the chap in the place where you get your hair cut or your old school chum's uncle. There's no way at all for that not to be funny, whoever's doing it. Oh, you can t help admiring someone who's prepared to do his best to heave a respectable middle-aged merchant banker in black coat and sponge-bag trousers onto his lap and ask him to run away with him. Lots of guts there."

  "I can't quite see you in that position," said Pearce, smiling.

  "Thank God for that. Actually one can't complain. As far as I'm concerned, not being able to keep a straight face under certain conditions does sometimes work as a restraining influence. And if you somehow never find yourself being restrained by things like prudence or propriety or conscience you need all the help you can get, believe me. Now what I suggest is this. We choke these down now as fast as we can and go back along the road to a pub I know of where there's a garden you can sit in without the management seeming to mind much. What do you think?"