Patrick had said, ‘I went to London once.’
Paul remembered smiling because Pat had sounded so unlike himself, more like a young boy who didn’t want the adults to think he hadn’t had such an experience. He remembered he had used the tone he would use on a child when he’d asked him, ‘Did you have a nice time?’
‘It was during the war. I didn’t have enough leave to get home.’
Of course: it was impossible to imagine Patrick going to London at any time in his life other than during the war; holidays, sight-seeing, going anywhere just for the sake of it, none of this was in his nature unless he was there to share the experience. He had imagined Patrick trailing around the city streets purposelessly, or perhaps spending his whole, too-short leave in a hotel room, sleeping the exhausted, restless sleep of someone who knows how quickly time passes but who still can’t resist the need for oblivion. He wouldn’t have gone to a show, as he himself had on a similarly short leave; nor – also as he had – would he have made himself available. Patrick wouldn’t have gone down a back alley behind some grand hotel to be buggered by a Royal Marine between overflowing bins, the stink of rotting food mixing with that of expensive dinners wafting from the clattering kitchen. Patrick wouldn’t, because he wasn’t such a bloody idiot to take such a risk, but also because he had more dignity and pride, and because Patrick wasn’t so sure of himself in those days. ‘Until I met you,’ Pat had told him, ‘I didn’t know what I was.’
Paul remembered doubting him, thinking that this was only a sentimental lie, with all his lusts and frustrations, all his anguish and self-disgust edited out. He sensed that Patrick needed to tell himself that he was his first and only love, needing that purity because how could he feel like this about another man, any man? Wholly discriminating, that was how Patrick liked to think of himself: a man who would have lived and died a virgin were it not for meeting him.
Later though, he came to understand that Patrick truly had been, if not unsure, then fighting hard against his own desires; during that leave he would have kept to himself, Paul was quite certain. And the girls would have turned their heads as he walked by, smiling at the sergeant who was so handsome, so very right and proper in his graveness. Behind his back, the girls would have exchanged looks, laughed a little perhaps, because there was something unaware about this man: he didn’t play the game. Perhaps he was a fool, or a god, perhaps.
Paul walked down a few steps, then back again. He should count all the steps, anything to keep from thinking about Patrick and his own unfaithfulness. The rain eased off and he shook out the umbrella; he saw that a rainbow had formed and thought of the colours he would mix to paint it: Cadmium Red, Cobalt Violet, Indian Yellow; the mixing would absorb him, leaving no room for any other thought, such a fine escape. He drew breath, exhaled, steadying himself. The boy was coming, walking quickly, a smile beginning on that sensuous mouth of his. Paul straightened his back and walked down the steps to meet him.
Edmund saw the rainbow too and thought that it was a good omen. He had been worried that the rain would help Paul to change his mind about meeting him: why venture out in such weather, why bother at all with getting wet and cold on the way to meet a stranger? Because, another more sensible voice told him, he likes to fuck you, a sound enough motivation for risking a chill. He listened to this voice and told himself that now he was entirely sober, in the unforgiving light of day, he was under no illusion about Paul-Francis-Law-Harris. Harris was a dog, a filthy, dirty, panting dog, and that was fine by him; that was good, in fact; this was nothing after all, just fucking.
He touched his black eye. Examining it in the mirror in the café’s lavatory, he’d thought it didn’t look as bad as he’d feared, not nearly as noticeable. Now, as Paul walked towards him, he was less sure. Paul frowned with concern at the bruise, and Edmund found himself laughing self-consciously.
‘Do I look a sight?’
‘No, not at all.’ Paul glanced over his shoulder as though afraid they were watched and that his concern had been noted, before turning to him again. Lightly he said, ‘I thought we might walk back to my hotel. You can point out any sights of interest on the way.’
Paul slept and Edmund got up from the hotel bed and went to the window, opening it a little to let in some air. On the street below a couple strolled arm in arm; a man hurried past them, glancing at his watch like the white rabbit. Two porters in the hotel’s livery loaded suitcases into a taxi as a woman in a mink coat and an ink-black feathered hat chided her companion. ‘And you bring me here,’ she said. ‘Here, of all places!’ The man looked up and seemed to stare directly at him. There was a vacant look on his face, as though the woman’s words were in a language that was just foreign enough to be of no interest. Edmund stepped back out of sight; he was naked, shrivelled by the cold, his body ached and a throb was beginning behind his eyes, lack of sleep catching up with him.
Lack of sleep also caused this mood, he knew, this feeling that the world was bleak and hostile, that everyone spoke in a language that wasn’t interesting enough. Behind him, on crumpled, stained sheets, a man was sleeping, a stranger who had thoroughly, systematically fucked him.
He was much practised, this man, in his consideration, in the time he took, in the noises he made and attempted to suppress. There was gentleness and strength, stamina and patience – he had needed all his patience – and there was a kind of understanding, albeit of a superficial kind. Paul had held his gaze only once, only for a moment – perhaps he understood more than Edmund gave him credit for, because surely he would have held his gaze far longer otherwise. He would have smiled that knowing smile of his, perhaps cupped his face in his hand with his well-rehearsed tenderness. As it was, Paul had looked away and his expression became that of a stranger who had inadvertently caught one’s eye. A moment later and Paul had brought himself to climax as though he had decided that there was no point in wasting any more time, rolling away and fumbling on the bedside table for his cigarettes, tossing the packet to Edmund when he had finished with lighting one for himself. When the cigarette was smoked – in remarkably little time, he inhaled deeply as though he wished he could draw the whole thing into his lungs at once – Paul slept. Not a single word was said through all of this.
Edmund went into the bathroom. Last night’s soiled towels had been replaced, the towel Paul had used that morning hung carefully over the rail to dry. The bath had been rinsed clean, although there was a subtle scent of bath oil, a very expensive, very masculine smell that had him inhaling deeply to catch more of it. There was a bottle of this oil on the shelf above the sink, along with Paul’s toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and shaving brush and soap. He shaved very cleanly, and Edmund imagined the care he would take, the time spent looking in the mirror, not seeing his reflection but only the drag of the blade over stretched skin.
Avoiding his own eye in this same mirror, Edmund unscrewed the top from the bath oil and lifted the bottle to his nose. He closed his eyes, concentrating on this essence of foreign queerness. Impossible to buy scent like this in England, he was sure; impossible to smell like this in England. He smiled, despite himself. What would his father say?
He replaced the bottle’s cap, making sure he screwed it down tightly, and placed it back on the shelf in just the same position. He met his gaze in the mirror and saw how haggard he looked with his black eye, so well and truly done over, and thought how he should run a bath for himself, pouring in too much of the oil so that globules would form on the surface of the water, making him slick and slippery, considerately lubricated. Perhaps he would use Paul’s razor so that his cheeks would be soft and boyish, rub some of his toothpaste around his gums so that his breath would not offend. And then he would lie down beside the sleeping stranger on the crumpled bed and wait for him to wake so that he might guide his hand down to his erection.
He wanted Paul constantly; that was the trouble: wanting him and not liking him and knowing that he had never loved anyone like this before. Even
though he tried to persuade himself out of this knowledge – because how could one trust a feeling that had come so suddenly – he knew it was hopeless to imagine this was only artful, selfish fucking. In the end it came down to this one, dazzlingly simple feeling: he loved him. ‘So there,’ he said softly to his reflection. ‘I love him, so there.’
He went back into the bedroom and climbed into bed. Paul slept on and Edmund took this opportunity to look at him properly. He saw someone of around thirty, although it was possible he was a little younger, but no older. This thirty-year-old man had dark, neatly cut, very short hair and well-defined eyebrows, and although his eyes were closed, he recalled that they were green, although the eye made of glass was a slightly different shade. He had a straight, narrow nose, and his cheekbones were sharply outlined because he was too thin, really, and fragile-looking in this grey afternoon light. There was a scar beneath the false eye, white and raised against his tanned skin. His ears were small and neat, like a child’s. His neck, like his face, forearms and hands, was tanned, but the rest of his body was quite pale, the mass of dark hair on his chest made to appear even darker in contrast to this paleness. He was surprisingly hairy for such a delicate-looking man, but that was all right, he could get an erection just thinking of this contrast.
The sheet covered the rest of his body; Edmund imagined his cock soft against his thigh, against that jagged scar that had earlier stayed his hand and mouth.
Discovering that scar, Edmund had wanted to spring from him – finally reunited with his sense of propriety. He was fucking a man who had worn the same uniform his brother had worn, who had fought in the same battles, a man Neville might have known, might have brought home on leave. And he would have been in awe of his brother’s comrade, shy of him, just as his uniform made him shy of Neville, made him a child with no experience of anything at all. Touching Paul’s scar, he was thirteen again, and the disconnection between mind and body that protected him from the ridiculousness of sex almost reconnected. Only his overwhelming desire for Paul saved him from shrivelling, his lust too savage to be held back by thought, even thought that involved his brother. The idea that it was heretical to fuck him was forgotten almost as soon as it entered his head.
Edmund wondered how he might bridge the gap between them, how he might not appear as so hopelessly lacking in gravitas as to be no more than a child in Paul’s eyes, a boy. Though he had told Paul that the war hadn’t made him a sage, of course in his heart he believed it had. He couldn’t convince himself that such experience wouldn’t teach a man everything he would ever need to know.
Paul stirred beside him, keeping his eyes closed and reaching out, as if to check that he was still there. As his fingers brushed his, Paul opened his eyes; he appeared confused for a moment until it seemed he realised where he was. Still he went on frowning at him, as though he couldn’t remember his name. His voice broke a little as he said, ‘Did I sleep long?’
‘No. Half an hour, perhaps.’
Paul took his watch from the bedside table. ‘Six o’clock.’
‘Have you an appointment to keep?’
‘No.’ After a moment Paul asked, ‘Have you?’
‘No.’
‘So,’ Paul drew breath and exhaled heavily. ‘So …’
He was being dismissed. The realisation came to him with a jolt, his stomach lurching as though he had tripped on stairs. He got up at once, too ashamed at his own foolish lack of sensitivity to be still. Making a great effort to be calm he said, ‘I should go.’ He began to dress, remembering how idiotically he had behaved last night, cringing as he recalled how uncontrolled he must have seemed to him.
Paul reached for his cigarettes, a careless action that all at once incensed him. Shoving his arms into his shirt with such force he almost ripped the cloth, Edmund said, ‘Is there ever a moment when you don’t smoke?’
Paul shook out the match, squinting against the smoke. ‘It’s childish, isn’t it?’
Edmund stared at him. ‘What is?’
‘Smoking like I do. I do so enjoy it, though.’
‘It makes you stink.’
‘I daresay.’
‘It’s probably all you care about.’
Paul laughed. ‘Probably.’
‘Because it shows in your work, you know – your lack of care.’
‘You’re right.’ Flicking ash, he said, ‘Absolutely right.’
‘Why do you paint?’
‘Money.’
‘Liar.’
Paul gazed at him and Edmund allowed himself to meet his gaze brazenly, as if he didn’t care that he might have hurt him. He was still standing at the end of the bed, the same place he had stood last night, the same crack in the lino sharp against his sole, the same perspective on Paul, in bed, the sheets hiding him from his waist to his feet. He would paint him like this, sex soiled, weary, his cigarette burning to a long quiver of ash between his fingers. He would have to keep putting down his brush to fuck him, but this would be serious work, he had no doubt about that.
Edmund turned his back on him and pulled on his trousers. He had hung his jacket on the hook on the door, and he remembered how nervous he had felt when he’d taken it off; he should have left then; he should have behaved decently and not given in to his lust. He swung round to face Paul.
‘You were right, last night. I do despise men like you.’
‘Do you? You make a bloody good show of disguising it.’ Paul stubbed out his cigarette. Evenly he said, ‘Why don’t you just fuck off?’ He looked up at him. ‘Fuck off back to that girl, you spoilt little bastard. I’m sure she’ll make you feel better about it all.’
‘All what? What the hell would a second-rate, jumped-up little nobody like you know about anything?’
‘I’d really like you to go now.’
‘I bet you bloody would.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘No – everyone should know what a fake you are.’ He glared at him, breathless and knowing how shamingly red his face would be, he could feel it burning. He also knew that if he blinked, the tears would fall down his cheeks and he would be gasping, as blind, deaf, and breathless as a child in a tantrum. All at once Neville was standing in front of him, telling him what a brat he was and why didn’t he just bugger off somewhere far away from him. Swiping at his eyes impatiently he said, ‘Why did you paint those bloody pictures?’ Paul was silent and he repeated, ‘Why? You must have known, you must have –’
‘Known what? What was I supposed to have known?’
Edmund wiped his eyes again, making an effort to control his voice as he said, ‘We have to look. Is that what you think? We have to look at the corpses –’
‘No. You don’t have to look.’
‘And if I don’t look, what then? You can call me a spoilt little bastard, is that it – as though I don’t know anything? Every painting in that exhibition was facile, sentimental –’
Paul got up and began to dress; his face had drained of colour and Edmund could see that his hands were trembling over the buttons of his shirt. The cuff-links he had placed down so carefully earlier, when Edmund had wanted only to tear off his clothes, glinted in a sudden shaft of sunlight as he struggled to thread them into his cuffs. Paul had transformed again, this time into a frail, humiliated boy. Remembering the scar on his thigh and how often his fingers would go to his false eye, Edmund felt all his anger breached by pity. He crossed the room quickly, making to take the cuff-links from him. ‘Let me do it.’
Paul jerked away. ‘I’d much rather you left.’
‘No – listen, I’m sorry –’
‘Please go.’
‘No. Paul, listen, please. Please, I’m sorry – that was wrong of me, to criticise your work like that, and maybe I’m jealous …’ He laughed tearfully. ‘I don’t know … It’s just that you make me weak … Weak in the knees, heart … head. And now I just sound like some bloody silly song –’
‘You sound like a fool. Crying over a man you
don’t know – it makes me wish I hadn’t picked you up.’
‘Picked me up?’ Edmund wiped his eyes, horrified at his tears. ‘Is that all I am? Someone you picked up? You do this all the time, don’t you? Well I don’t –’
‘No, I know you don’t.’ Angrily Paul said, ‘Stop crying. For Christ’s sake I can’t stand it! I don’t know what this is about but it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘It’s everything to do with you! You must know how much I want you.’
‘Well, you can’t have me.’
‘Why not? I know you’re attracted to me. And the sex –’
‘Let’s not talk about that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s just sex – nothing. Sex is nothing at all –’
‘Nothing? What – am I terrible at it or something? Christ. Maybe you could teach me all you know!’
‘Just go. Go back to your girl.’
‘She’s not my girl – I’m not interested in her.’
‘And I’m not interested in you! Do I really have to spell it out?’
‘Yes. Yes you do. Because I see the way you look at me – and you can pretend to be a swine but I know you’re not like that, I know that you … you like me and I didn’t mean to say those rotten things about your work –’
‘But you did say those things.’
‘And I’m sorry I hurt you.’
Paul laughed emptily. He sat down on the bed and lit another cigarette; his hands still trembled and Edmund had to suppress the urge to kneel at his feet and beg for forgiveness. He took a step towards him and Paul looked up to meet his gaze. After a little while he said, ‘I didn’t think the paintings would sell. I was prepared to make all kinds of excuses for them if they hadn’t sold, but mainly I thought I would imagine that they hadn’t been understood.’ He laughed again, looking down at the tip of his cigarette. ‘But of course they were understood – you understood them. Even the men who bought them knew exactly what they were buying: titillation.’
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