Ritual in the Dark (2 page)

Sorme hesitated, and at the same time felt angry with himself for hesitating. He was interested by the feelings of attraction and repulsion that Nunne aroused in him. He had no particular dislike of homosexuals, but was aware that the consequences of being picked up by one could be difficult. He said uncertainly:

I don’t know any pubs near here.

I do. Lots. Come and have a quick one. I always like meeting people who are interested in ballet. How are you travelling? Tube?

Yes.

That settles it. They’re beastly at this hour. You’d much better hang around for a while.

Sorme followed him down the stairs. Nunne said over his shoulder:

You haven’t told me your name.

Gerard Sorme.

Sorme? That’s an odd name. What is it, French?

I don’t know. My family come from Yorkshire. My father thinks it’s a Yorkshire version of Soames.

They were passing through the portrait gallery. Sorme asked him:

Do you notice that odd scent?

Yes. Do you know what it is?

No.

It’s called ‘Mitsouko’. It was Diaghilev’s favourite scent. Oriental. You’ll smell it much stronger in here.

They were passing through a room lit by blue bulbs, that had been designed to look like a haunted theatre. There the scent was overpowering. It seemed to emanate from old ballet costumes that hung in the blue air, surrounded by backstage scenery. The scent followed them down a short corridor, through a room hung with caricatures, and out on to a wide staircase that had been decorated with a tableau representing the legend of the Sleeping Beauty. The music met them loudly as they came down the staircase. Nunne walked jauntily, swinging his umbrella. He had the graceful walk of a dancer. There was a faint touch of the theatrical in his manner as he descended the staircase. He asked Sorme:

What made you read my books? Are you interested in ballet?

I used to be once. Not now.

Where do you study?

What makes you think I’m a student?

You’ve got a student’s ticket sticking out of your top pocket. Anyway, you look like one.

They were outside again, standing near the immense Negro statues, and the drizzle fell steadily.

I’m not a student, Sorme said, but for some reason everyone supposes I am. I suppose it’s the scruffy appearance.

He was wondering how he could indicate to Nunne, as quickly and as tactfully as possible, that he was not homosexual. He started to raise the umbrella, but Nunne stopped him:

Don’t bother. That’s my car over there. Let’s run for it.

It was a long, red sports model with a canvas hood. Nunne yanked open the unlocked door and Sorme slid past the steering wheel, into the passenger seat. The car made a neat half-turn and glided forward towards Wellington Place. Nunne grumbled:

I suppose there’ll be a bloody traffic jam all the way from here to Piccadilly Circus.

Sorme stared at the moving windscreen wipers, and at the red light of the traffic-signal that burst in red drops over the unwiped area of the windscreen.

Nunne began to sing softly to himself:

Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles. . .

The car turned into Dover Street. Nunne said softly: It’s our lucky day. Come on, move out, old son.

A car in front of them was pulling out from the pavement; Nunne slid neatly into the empty space and braked abruptly. He said:

Three cheers. We’ve arrived. Open your door.

Sorme stepped out on to the pavement, and immediately raised the umbrella. Nunne slammed the door shut. He said, chuckling:

For God’s sake put that thing down. The local coppers will think you’re soliciting.

Soliciting?

They’ll think you’re trying to advertise your sex to the local queers.

I’m not queer, Sorme said bluntly. He lowered the umbrella. Nunne said, laughing: Don’t be silly. I wasn’t serious. I didn’t suppose you were.

They crossed the road, avoiding a taxi. They turned again into Piccadilly. Nunne steered him towards a lighted doorway:

Here we are. After you.

The air was pleasantly warm. Sorme was helped out of the raincoat by a man in a red uniform, who handed the coat and umbrella to the cloakroom attendant. The man nodded at Nunne as if he knew him well:

Evenin’, sir.

Evening, George.

There were only two other men in the bar. Nunne indicated a corner seat for Sorme; it was deep and comfortable.

What are you having?

Beer?

They don’t have draught. You can have a lager.

That’s fine, Sorme said uncomfortably. He was trying to remember how much money he had on him, and how long it had to last. He crossed his knees, and felt the trousers damp. He stared down at the frayed turnups, and at the leather strips sewn on to the cuffs of his jacket. The poverty of his appearance did not embarrass him, but he had never entirely lost a sense of its disadvantage. He thought: I wonder if they’d let me into this place on my own? and decided it was unlikely.

Nunne set the glass of lager in front of him. He seated himself opposite Sorme in a rush-backed lounge chair, and poured the entire contents of a bottle of ginger ale into a large whisky. He took a big gulp of it, then set it down, sighing:

Ah, it’ll be the death o’ me yit, jist like me poor feyther. Cigarette, Gerard?

No thanks, I don’t smoke.

You don’t mind me calling you Gerard?

Of course not.

Good. And I’m Austin.

Sorme tasted the beer. It was ice-cold.

Tell me, Gerard. If you’re not a student, what do you do?

Nothing much. I’m writing a book.

But how do you live? Journalism?

No, I’ve had a very small private income since I was twenty-one. . .

Which was. . . ?

Five years ago. I just about scrape along. So I’m really one of the idle rich. Except that I’m not rich.

Are you idle?

Pretty idle.

Like me, then. I thought I recognised a fellow spirit as soon as I saw you. What were you reading, by the way?

Sorme pulled the dog-eared paperback out of his pocket. He said laughing:

Sex for beginners. By Frank Harris.

My Life and Loves. I never read Harris, is it good?

It’s quite astonishing.

How? In what way?

I never cease to gasp with amazement at the way he leaps in and out of bed. I wonder whether such men really exist.

Why not?

I mean with such a promiscuous appetite. It astounds me. You remember that Nijinsky slept with his wife for several nights before he made love to her? That’s natural. That’s the way it should be.

You’re interested in Nijinsky?

Yes.

Why? You never saw him dance.

Sorme stared into his glass, trying to find the words that expressed it precisely. It was impossible; he didn’t know Nunne well enough. He said:

It’s difficult to explain. . .

Wait. Let’s get some more drinks first.

Not for me. I can’t drink any more beer.

Have a scotch, then.

All right, but let me. . .

No, no, no. You sit still.

He signalled to the waiter, calling: Two large scotches and two dries.

Go on, Gerard. About Nijinsky.

Sorme asked, laughing:

Why are you so anxious to make me talk? What do I know that might interest you?

A great many things, I should imagine. I already know some interesting things about you.

Such as?

That you’re twenty-six, have a small independent income, and don’t like work. That is interesting in itself. Too much leisure demoralises most people. You can see it in their faces. You, on the other hand, have an interesting face. It is not a self-indulgent face. Immediately, I wonder: What does he do with his leisure? You haven’t enough money to waste it flying aeroplanes, or gadding off to other countries, as I do. What do you do with your leisure?

Sorme said: Nothing much. I try to do nothing.

The waiter set the drinks down on the table. Nunne dropped a pound note on the tray.

Prosit, Nunne said, raising the glass.

Cheers, Sorme said.

The waiter handed Nunne his change and Nunne dropped a coin on to his tray. Sorme drank a large mouthful of the scotch. Tears came to his eyes. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously, then, noticing the colour of the handkerchief, pushed it hastily back into his pocket. Nunne looked up from the book on the table, and tossed it over to Sorme.

I can’t imagine that sort of thing appealing to you.

Sorme shrugged, and emptied the bottle of ginger ale into the scotch. It was a considerable improvement.

I read a lot.

Nunne smiled at the evasion. He sipped his drink thoughtfully, staring past Sorme’s head. He asked slowly:

What is this book you’re writing about?

I’ll give you one guess, Sorme said.

Nijinsky?

Right.

Really? Does it cover any of the same ground as my book?

Not really. This is a novel.

He drank down half of the scotch and dry ginger, and realised that he was feeling relaxed and contented. Now he was no longer worried about the nature of Nunne’s interest in him, he was beginning to like Nunne.

Tell me about your novel, Nunne said.

I can’t do that. It’s not really about Nijinsky. It’s about Nijinsky’s state of mind.

What do you know about that?

He believed in himself. Most people don’t.

Half a dozen more people had come into the bar, businessmen. A young man with a young woman in furs.

Sorme felt the talk rising in him, checked only by a desire not to bore Nunne. He leaned forward, saying:

When I think about Nijinsky, then I look at these people, I feel a sort of incredulousness. You know he says in the Diary, Life is difficult because no one knows the importance of it. I picture him walking round the streets at night like a high-pressure boiler, almost bursting. . .

He stopped; Nunne’s face was perfectly attentive, listening with a gravity that was flattering to him.

You see, I see it this way. Supposing that at the end of your life you had a vision of everything—everything in the universe, all at once. A sort of vision of God. It would justify everything. If you could have a vision like that it would make the world different. You’d live like a fiend, like a possessed man. Because you’d know it meant something, that it wasn’t meaningless. Look. None of these people live a whole life. They only live a few odd days at a time. It’s like never eating a full meal, but getting an occasional mouthful every few hours. Or like not hearing a symphony in one sitting, but hearing two or three notes at a time, spread over several months. That’s how they live. Well, some people don’t live like that.

Nunne interrupted smoothly: How are you so sure Nijinsky didn’t?

No, he didn’t, Sorme said.

Nunne offered him the open cigarette case; Sorme shook his head saying: Thanks, I don’t. Nunne lit a cigarette, looking at him over the lighter. He breathed out a mouthful of smoke, saying contentedly:

You really are a very odd person, Gerard.

Sorme finished the whisky, staring hard at Nunne. He signalled again to the waiter, and waved a hand at the two glasses. He said deliberately:

It’s not oddness. I am convinced that life can be lived at twenty times its present intensity. . . somehow. I spend all I my life looking for the way to it. I envy madmen. But somehow I never get closer to it myself. But I cling to symbols. Nijinsky is one of my symbols.

The waiter set down two more large whiskies. Sorme said:

I’ll get these.

No. No. Please.

As the waiter went away, Sorme asked: Why should you pay for my drinks?

Because my father’s disgustingly rich.

Oh.

You look shocked!

No. Tell me, what do you do with your time?

Ah, there you touch a delicate subject. I have developed fifty different ways of wasting it. I write books—not very good ones. I attend all the concerts and operas and ballets. I fly to Vienna and Milan and Berlin for concerts. If I was just a little more worthless I’d drink two bottles of pernod a day and kill myself in a year. As it is, I fly a plane and like fast cars.

Sorme said, disingenuously: You’re not married, of course?

No, I never met anyone I wanted to settle down with. For some reason, I prefer bitches. I don’t suppose you understand that?

No, I don’t really. I hate bitches—of any sex.

You obviously lack a masochistic leaning.

I hate pain of any sort—to myself or anyone else.

Ah, you talk like a moralist, Gerard. One shouldn’t be a moralist.

You don’t understand. It’s not a matter of morality. It’s what I said before—you have to work on the assumption that there could be a vision of the total meaning of life. And if that’s possible, everyone ought to live as if that was the aim.

Ah, you are a moralist, Gerard. You ought to meet my aunt. You’d like her.

Why?

She’s a moralist too. She disapproves of me. Jehovah’s Witness. Believes the Last Judgment’ll happen any day now. That’s what you want, isn’t it? People believing in the Last Judgment.

You’re damn right. It’s just what I want.

Shall I tell you what I want?

What?

Something to eat. Shall we go and have a meal?

Where?

Anywhere. Leoni’s or Victor’s or somewhere.

I have to go.

Oh no. It’s not the money that worries you, is it? I’ve got lots on me. Look.

Nunne produced his wallet and waved it vaguely under Sorme’s nose. Sorme caught a glimpse of a wad of notes. He realised that Nunne was becoming drunk: he also suspected that he was behaving as if he were more drunk than he actually was.

No, really. I’d rather not.

But you must. I don’t want you to go yet. You don’t want to go yet, do you?

No, but. . .

Well, we can’t drink any more on empty stomachs. I’m getting disgustingly drunk already. Had no lunch. So we’d better go and eat. C’mon, boy.

As the uniformed man helped Sorme into his raincoat, Nunne said:

Let me into a secret, Gerard. Why on earth do you carry a woman’s umbrella?

Sorme took the umbrella from the man, and handed him a shilling.