Ritual in the Dark (23 page)

Sorme shrugged.

It’s not that. There’s something else. The independence. A sort of pure vitality.

I’m surprised you don’t prefer someone like D. H. Lawrence, who expresses it far more clearly.

No. I can’t stick Lawrence. He seems to me to stand for a diluted version of what Nijinsky stood for. He always gives me a feeling that people matter too much to him. They nag him, and he doesn’t like them much. Anyway, he was all wrong about sex.

I’m afraid I just can’t agree. I admire him very much.

All right. Let’s not argue about it. Tell me something. Why is Gertrude so fond of you?

I’m afraid I don’t know. I just don’t know. We’ve known one another so long. . .

He swallowed the last of the chicken leg, and placed the bone carefully on the side of his plate. He said, with apparent irrelevance:

I’m delighted you get on so well with her.

She’s sweet. But all this religious stuff worries me.

Don’t let it worry you. She likes you.

Do you think she’s ever had any experience with men?

Probably very little. Why? Do you find her attractive?

Sorme admitted: She’s the type that attracts me. Slim. Good figure.

Well, don’t, please don’t take her to bed. It wouldn’t be good for her.

Why?

Because she takes everything too seriously. If she wants a man at this late date, she ought to marry.

Sorme said gloomily:

I dare say you’re right.

He was sorry he had mentioned the subject; he was not sure yet whether he seriously wanted an affair with Gertrude Quincey, and to speak of it seemed premature. As if he guessed Sorme’s thought, Nunne said:

Don’t worry! I don’t really suspect your intentions towards Gertrude. Anyway, she’s a little old for you. And that’s not the real reason you like seeing her, is it?

Sorme looked at him with interest:

No, it’s not. What do you think my reason is?

Something to do with her beliefs. You can’t make out whether she’s dishonest.

That’s pretty good guessing! But it’s not just Gertrude. . . it’s me. I want to know where I differ from her. You know. . . I’d need to have a nervous breakdown, or be brainwashed or something, before I could swallow all that stuff about the Bible being the last word on everything. . . I just don’t understand it. I mean. . . was she brought up to believe it? Is that it? She seems quite intelligent in other ways. You know what I mean? If she put on a powdered wig and claimed to be Madame de Pompadour it’d puzzle me less. . . I could understand someone with an obsession having strange ideas. But she seems perfectly balanced. She’s not an Oliver Glasp. . .

Oliver? Do you know Oliver?

Sorme stopped, feeling, for a moment, that he had given something away: he recovered immediately, saying:

Yes. I went to call on him today.

Nunne was obviously astonished.

What on earth for?

What you told me of him made me curious to meet him. And I liked his canvases. Father Rakosi gave me his address.

Nunne regarded him with amusement:

You really are odd! Why didn’t you mention it to me?

I intended to. It wasn’t supposed to be a secret.

And what did you say to each other?

Not much. I thought he was going to be rude to begin with. He growled like a dog. . .

That sounds like Oliver!

Then we talked about. . . oh, religion, asceticism. And finally about murder. . .

That also sounds like Oliver!

Why? Is it one of his favourite subjects?

Oh yes. Quite his favourite.

Why, I wonder?

I don’t know. He has a thing about pain and suffering. He lets it drive him a little haywire occasionally. Broods on it too much. When I first knew him, he had some theory. . . let me think. . . oh yes. . . an idea that life is a preparation for eternal torment. He had it all worked out. The body acts as a sort of buffer against pain, but in spite of that we suffer all the time. And when we’re freed from the body, there’d be nothing to keep off the pain. . . just eternal pain. From which he deduced that everyone ought to make himself suffer all the time. . . as a sort of practice for eternity. I think he used to wear a shirt studded with tintacks.

Really? I never suspected that.

But he’s not entirely a crank, Oliver. I really believe he has a sort of second sight.

Are you serious?

Quite. His family are Irish, you know.

I thought he came from Yorkshire?

Lancashire. Liverpool Irish. I don’t think he’s ever been in Ireland. But someone once told me—Father Carruthers, I think—that Oliver’s grandmother was a famous witch-cum-holy woman in County Clare. . . mediumship, second sight, the lot. And Oliver shows signs of the same thing occasionally.

How?

Promise you won’t repeat this to him?

I promise.

Well, he hadn’t been sleeping properly—and had awful nightmares. One morning he told his landlady: A man called Thomas is going to be murdered on the Common tonight. She thought he was off his rocker. Well, that night, a man called Thomas was waylaid on the common—for his wallet—but they hit him too hard and killed him. Oliver had dreamed it exactly as it happened.

Sorme felt the hair prickling on his scalp. He said:

Christ!

And Oliver couldn’t sleep the next night either—he still had dreams. Luckily, his landlady sent him to see a doctor, who sent him to a psychiatrist. Father Carruthers found the money, and he went into a private mental home for a while. That cured him. But the fact remains, he dreamed of the murder before it happened.

Are you sure he dreamed it before it happened? I mean, is there any proof of that? Did he try to contact the police or anything?

Not as far as I know. What could he have done? Clapham Common’s pretty enormous—and there are thousands of men called Thomas in London.

Who told you all this? Oliver himself?

No. Father Carruthers.

Nunne divided the last of the champagne between their glasses. He said:

Now, how about fruit? Would you like a peach? Or some ice cream?

Neither, thanks. That was delicious.

You haven’t finished your whisky.

I haven’t started it!

Nunne glanced at the clock.

Half past ten. It’s still a little early for the Balalaika. We shouldn’t get there till about half past eleven. Would you mind if I make a few phone calls now?

Certainly. Am I in the way?

No. I’ll use the bedroom extension. Look, help yourself to more whisky if you need it. I shan’t be long. . .

He disappeared into the bedroom. Sorme yawned and stretched. He was already feeling a little drunk. He waited until he heard the phone bell tinkle as Nunne lifted it from its rest, then poured most of his whisky back into the decanter. He had been waiting ever since Nunne poured it for an opportunity. He sat down again, holding the glass, which now contained only a quarter of an inch of spirit. Feeling curiously dreamy, almost bodiless, he started to look through the Nijinsky manuscript.

*
  
*
  
*

He opened his eyes when the car crossed the Edgware Road, then closed them. Nunne said:

You remember Socrates in the Symposium? When all the practised drinkers were under the table, he stayed awake, discoursing on tragedy. Nietzsche loathed him, yet there was something of the superman in him. Are you asleep?

No.

Don’t fall asleep. We’ve arrived.

Nunne had become livelier over the past hour. In spite of his resolve not to drink, Sorme had accepted another whisky, and had listened while Nunne talked of his father and became steadily drunker. The effects of his crowded day were beginning to make themselves felt. The night air helped to revive him.

The car turned off into a narrow street, and halted between the gates of a factory and a row of dingy houses. Sorme reached for the door handle. Nunne said:

Hold on. I’m going to back on to that waste ground.

Fragments of broken glass reflected the reversing light. The car bumped on to the pavement. From behind the wall came slow coughs of a shunted train; red coals reflected on the smoke. Sorme slammed the door, and staggered. Nunne gripped his elbow:

Steady, child! Avanti!

He raised his cane to shoulder level, pointing.

How far is it?

A ten-minute walk. It’ll waken you up. C’mon, boy.

Sorme said, grinning:

You make me sound like an Alsatian dog.

Unintentional. Have you ever been to a brothel before?

Is that what this place is?

More or less. Don’t worry. They’re quite civilised.

Is that a man over there?

It would seem so.

The man lay across the pavement, his head in the gutter. He lay quite still. When they crossed the road towards him, he stirred.

Nunne said: Are you all right?

He prodded the buttocks with his cane. The man said thickly:

Amori. Goawayfergrizake.

It’s after closing time, you know. Time you went home.

The man raised himself to his knees, and crawled across the pavement. He sat down heavily, banging his head against the wall. He said:

Amori. Goway. Sleep.

By all means, Nunne said.

He stepped over the outstretched legs. He said:

Virgil guides Dante into the second circle. Dove il sol tace. Where the sun keeps its trap shut.

Sorme said grinning:

Not Virgil. Mephistopheles.

What charming ideas you do have! I’d like to wear red tights.

The man behind the door asked: Members?

I am, Nunne said.

Got your card?

Nonsense, Sam. You know me.

Sorry. No admission after midnight without a card.

I never had a card.

Nunne leaned forward, and whispered something in the man’s ear. The man’s eyes dropped to the wallet, which Nunne tapped with the head of his cane. He glanced at Sorme.

Is he all right?

Of course. As sober as I am.

Ten bob each. Member and guest. Sign the book for ‘im.

The stairs were narrow. Sorme was reminded of innumerable coffee bars in Soho and Chelsea. The notice on the door said: The Balalaika Club. Members Only. There was a drawing of a banjo underneath.

Sorme’s first impression was of a large room crowded with men and women. The lights were shaded with pink paper. On a raised platform a quartet of Negroes began to play their instruments; the music was jerky, low-pitched, unsoothing to the nerves. A tall man in a dinner jacket hurried to meet them. He said:

Good evening, Mr Nunne. And how are you?

Fine, thank you, Mitzi. Lot in tonight.

Ah, yes. We’ve been very busy. This is your table, sir.

He led them across the dance floor to a table in the corner. Nunne pulled the table back for Sorme, saying:

You go inside, Gerard.

The man asked: What can I order you to drink?

More champagne, I think. Don’t you, Gerard?

Sorme said: Anything for me. He would have preferred soda-water, but did not like to ask.

Champagne, please, Mitzi.

While Nunne ordered, Sorme had a chance to look around. He could see nothing unusual in the appearance of the room, or in the people who danced. No one seemed to be drunk. A few feet away from him a man dressed in evening clothes was kissing a girl, pressing her head back against the wall. One of his hands, partly concealed by the long tablecloth, lay on her thigh. She broke away from him, saying in a deep masculine voice:

Lay off, will yer?

Sorme looked away quickly. He found Nunne’s eyes regarding him with amusement.

How do you like it, Gerard?

I haven’t had much chance yet.

Listen, Gerard, why don’t we get away? Right out of England? To some other country.

You suggested that the other night.

Did I? And what did you say?

I can’t remember. But it’s impracticable.

Why?

For several reasons. To begin with, I haven’t any money.

I know that! I didn’t expect you to pay!

That’s even more impracticable!

Why?

Oh. . . I couldn’t take your money. Secondly, I don’t want to waste time gallivanting round the world. I’d rather stay in London and work.

You could work on board ship. There’d be plenty of time. We could go to India. . .

It was South America the other day!

No, India. Let’s make it India. You know, Gerard, I’d like to go into a Buddhist monastery for a while. . . You could work there!

I’d rather be in London.

But why? You admitted to me the other day that you’re bored here.

I was. That’s quite true.

Aren’t you still?

Well, that’s the odd thing, you see, Austin. Ever since I met you I’ve been feeling better. . . I’ve been getting a sort of sense of purpose.

But you’ll be bored again if I go to India!

You don’t understand.

Well, explain to me. . .

Sorme made an effort to push back his drunkenness. His thoughts were clear, but he anticipated the effort that would be involved in speaking them without slurring most of the words.

You see, it’s like this, Austin. Before I met you, I used to feel. . . no, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is. . . I used to feel purposeless. See? I used to live from day to day. . . Why? Because I was alive, and it’s easier to live than do anything else, once you’re alive. It wasn’t always like that. But you know, when I was at work I used to think that the one thing I wanted was to be free. Free to work and do as I like. Sometimes, in the evenings, I’d read a book, or listen to a symphony concert, and when it was time to go to bed I’d feel so excited and. . . well, so certain of what I wanted to do with my life, that I couldn’t sleep, I just couldn’t sleep. Well, I thought that if I didn’t have to work all day, I could really do everything I’d ever wanted to. You see? I could read those books and listen to those symphonies at ten in the morning, and be happy and excited before midday, and then write like a madman for the rest of the day, while the inspiration lasted. That’s what I thought I’d do. . .

But it wasn’t like that, was it?