The collected stories

by Paul Theroux

  I told her that Ronald had moved out. It was the first she had heard of it and I could tell that she was really down. Ronald had not been in touch with her about her newest chapter.

  'Look, Tanya,' I said - it was the first time I had used her Christian name. 'Why don't you come round tonight? I'm having a few friends over for dinner.'

  She hesitated. I knew what she was thinking - I couldn't blame her.

  'Sir Charles Moonman,' I said. 'And Virginia Byward.'

  'Gosh, Michael, really?'

  'And Mister Momma from upstairs.'

  'I've met him,' she said. 'I don't know whether I have anything to wear.'

  'Strictly informal. If I know Sir Charles he'll be wearing an old cardigan, and Virginia will be in a rather shapeless tunic.'

  She said she would be there. At seven, Mr Momma appeared in a bulging blue jumpsuit, carrying plastic bags of lettuce and onions and some tubs of dressing. He said, 'How do you know I like parties?' and pulled one bulge out of his pocket - an avocado. His teeth were big, one was cracked, he wore a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck, and he smelled of sweat and soap. He sniffed. 'Cooking food!' He swung his bags onto the table. 'Salad,' he said. 'I make fresh. Like my madder.'

  I had never seen Mr Momma happier. He shooed me out of the kitchen and then busied himself chopping and grating, and whistling through the crack in his tooth.

  ALGEBRA

  Tanya arrived on the dot of eight with a bottle of Hungarian Riesling. 'I'm so excited,' she said, and I realized just how calm I was. The bell rang again.

  'Oh, my God,' cried Mr Momma.

  Tanya went to the kitchen door and smiled.

  'Like my madder,' Mr Momma said.

  Sir Charles was breathless when I met him on the landing.

  'I should have warned you about those stairs,' I said.

  But his breathlessness helped. He was panting, as if he had been cornered after a long chase and he could do nothing but smile and gasp his thanks as he was introduced to Tanya. He found a chair and propelled himself backward into it and sighed.

  'Wine?' I said.

  'That would be lovely.'

  I poured him a glass of Montrachet, gave him its pedigree (but omitted the fact that I had got it at a staff discount from Arcade Off-License) and left him to Tanya.

  '- it's not generally known, but there were a fantastic number,' Tanya was saying, and she was off: women pirates. Sir Charles was captivated.

  'Do you know,' said Virginia Byward when she arrived, glancing around the flat and relaxing at the sight of two copies of her books, 'this is only the second time in my life I've been to Clapham? I'd rather not talk about the first time. I came a cropper that night!' She spoke to Sir Charles: 'It was during the war.'

  'Something for your biographer,' said Sir Charles.

  We all laughed at this. But I thought then, and I continued to think throughout the evening, that I was now a part of their lives and that the time they were spending with me mattered. Each great writer seems to me to contain a posthumous book, the necessary and certain biography. Writers carry this assurance of posterity around with them. This was a page of that book.

  This: my chaise, on which Miss Byward was sitting; my brass Benares ashtray with a smoldering thimble shape of Sir Charles's pipe tobacco in it; my tumbling tradescancia; my gate-legged dining table on which one of Ronald's dents was still visible; my footstool with its brocade cushion; my crystal sugar bowl; the wine glass Miss Byward was holding; the pillow Tanya was hugging; my basketwork fruit holder; me.

  I excused myself and went into the kitchen. Mr Momma was

  WORLD S END

  putting the finishing touches to his salad. He had made a little hill of chopped lettuce leaves and sprinkled it with olives and pimentoes and drips of dressing.

  'You love it?'

  I said it was perfect.

  'It is a woman's tee-tee,' he said, and made a knob-turning gesture with his hand.

  In the parlor, my other guests were engrossed in conversation. I thought they were talking about an author they all respected; a name seemed to repeat {Murray? Gilbert Murray?). I pretended to straighten the leg of the table so I could get the drift of their conversation, but I quickly grasped that they were talking about money. (And I heard myself saying on a future occasion, / thought they were talking about an author they all respected . . . )

  'I don't know how some people manage,' said Sir Charles. 'I really don't. By the way, Michael, this wine is superb. You didn't tell me you had a cellar.'

  'I have an attic too,' I said.

  'Isn't he a poppet!' said Virginia.

  Mr Momma brought out his salad.

  'Bravo,' said Virginia, and hearing Mr Momma's accent, she asked him where he was from. His mention of Cyprus had Virginia asking him which particular village was his and brought a long very practiced-sounding story from Sir Charles about a hotel in Limassol. Throughout the meal we talked intimately about Lawrence Durrell and I even found myself chipping in every now and then. I could see that it was considered quite a coup to have Mr Momma on hand.

  'And what is our friend from Cyprus doing in London?' asked Virginia.

  'I am a painter.'

  Mr Momma did not have the English to amplify this. He was quickly taken to be a tormented artist in exile rather than the hard-working house painter he was. We talked about the Mediterranean sense of color, and afterward Mr Momma ran upstairs for his Cypriot records. He played them, he danced with Virginia, and he told her he loved her. Then he sat down and sobbed into his handkerchief.

  'I've been admiring this wine glass,' said Virginia over Mr Momma's muted hoots. 'Is it part of a set?'

  ALGEBRA

  I said, 'Just the one,' and filled it with the claret I had brought out for the shepherd's pie.

  I was relieved when Sir Charles said he had to go, because that was my signal to open the Krug, which went down a treat. Then Sir Charles and Virginia shared a taxi back to Hampstead and Tanya (making a crack about Ronald) said she had never enjoyed herself more. Hearing what Tanya had said, Mr Momma put his arm around me. He smelled strenuously of his dancing.

  'No,' I said, and led him to the door. 'Let's not spoil it.'

  I slept alone, but I was not alone. The evening had been a great success. Both Sir Charles and Virginia sent me notes, thanking me for having them. They were brief notes, but I replied saying that the pleasure had been all mine.

  Afterward, I wondered why they had agreed to come. I decided that their very position had something to do with it. They were so grand that most people thought that they must be very busy, so no one dared to invite them. And people believed that they were beyond praise. But my flattery, my offer of a meal, my discount wines had done the trick.

  I had worked hard to make the evening festive, and Mr Momma had been an unexpected success. And what had I asked of them? Nothing - nothing but for them to be there.

  I had told them I was a writer. Because I had said this no one talked about it: I was one of them. Anyway, a good host is preoccupied with managing his party. His graciousness is silence when it is not encouragement. He isn't supposed to say much, only to keep the dishes coming and the glasses filled. So, in the end, they did not know much about me. They talked to each other.

  The proof that Miss Byward meant what she said about enjoying herself was her invitation to me several weeks later for drinks at her very tiny flat in Hampstead. It was not until I saw her flat that I fully understood how she could have seen something to admire in mine. She was clearly an untidy person, but I was grateful when she introduced me as 'Michael Insole, the writer.' There were six others there, all writers whose names I instantly recognized, but because of the seating arrangements, I had no choice but to talk to Wibbert the poet. He told me a very entertaining story about giving a poetry reading in Birmingham, and he finished by saying, 'The pay's appalling. They always apologize when they hand it over.'

  WORLD S END

  Henry Wibbert was
a tall balding youth with the trace of a regional accent, and bitten fingernails, something I had always hated until I met him. His socks had slipped into his shoes and I could see his white ankles. His poet's love of failure was written all over him, and when I told him I did not write poetry he seemed to take this as a criticism - as if I were acting superior - and I wanted to tell him that, in fact, I had never written anything at all.

  'I do the odd spot of reviewing,' he said, somewhat defensively. And then, 'I can always go back to teaching yobboes if I find myself really hard up.' He twisted his finger into his mouth and chewed. Tm sure your earnings have you in the supertax bracket.'

  Tar from it,' I said. 'I find it very hard to manage.'

  At once, he was friendlier. We had found common ground as struggling writers.

  'It's hand to mouth with me,' he said.

  I said, 'I was having this very conversation with Sir Charles Moonman just the other night.'

  'He hasn't got my worries,' said Wibbert, though when I had said Sir Charles's name Wibbert looked closely at me, the way a person peers from a high window to an interesting spectacle below.

  'You'd be surprised.'

  'If it was a struggle for that pompous overpraised old bastard?' he said. 'Yes, I'd be very surprised.'

  'Have you ever met him?'

  Wibbert shook his head.

  'Why don't you come over some evening? You might change your mind.'

  Wibbert said, 'He'd probably hate me.'

  'Absolutely not,' I said.

  'How can you be so sure?'

  'Because I'm sure he's read your poetry, and if he has how could he fail to be an admirer of yours?'

  This did the trick. Wibbert wrote his telephone number on the back of my hand in ballpoint, and as he had to hold my hand in his in order to do this it was noticed by the others at Miss Byward's as a rather eloquent gesture.

  'You're not leaving,' said Miss Byward, when I asked for my cape.

  so

  ALGEBRA

  'A dinner engagement. Unfortunately. I would so much rather stay here and chat. It's been lovely.'

  She released me and afterward I wondered whether she had not said those very words to me. On the bus home I thought how much more satisfying it was to be a host than a guest.

  I went home and after four tries typed a letter to Sir Charles, which I copied out in longhand - I liked the look of spontaneous intimacy in a handwritten letter. I was sure he would appreciate it. I told him about Wibbert and said that Wibbert was dead keen to meet him, if we could fix a day.

  The reply from Sir Charles came in the form of an invitation from the Royal Society of Literature in which I was named as his guest at a lecture by Cyril Crowder on 'Our Debt to Hugh Walpole.' Although a reply was not requested I dashed off a note to the Society's secretary and said I'd be delighted to attend. And another to Sir Charles. On the day, I was so impatient I arrived early and chatted to the only person I could find, a little old lady fussing at a table. I had very nearly invited her to meet Sir Charles when she revealed herself as one of the tea ladies and said, 'I should have a cream bun now if I was you. They're always the first to go.'

  Just before the lecture the room filled with people, Sir Charles among them. I blushed when a man, on being introduced to me by Sir Charles, said yes, indeed, he knew my work well. Sir Charles was pleased, and so was I, but I quickly took myself to a corner of the room. Here, a group of people were talking to a man who was obviously the center of attention. I made a beeline for this man, but instead of speaking, simply listened to what the others were saying. The man smiled at me a number of times.

  'His friendship with James amounted to influence,' someone said. 'I believe it was very great.'

  'Deep,' said the man, and smiled at me.

  I swallowed my fear and said, 'Profound.'

  'That's it,' said the man and thanked me with his eyes.

  'They're calling you, Cyril,' said a woman. 'You're on.'

  This was Cyril Crowder! But he took his time. He said, 'You'll have to excuse me. I must do my stuff. Perhaps I'll see you afterward. There are drinks downstairs in the Lodge.'

  Cyprus sherry, Hungarian Bull's Blood that was red ink, a semi-sweet Spanish white, and a mongrel Corsican rose.

  WORLD S END

  The dinner I gave for Cyril Crowder, Sir Charles and Lady Barbara, Virginia Byward, and Wibbert was one of my most memorable. It was further enhanced by the appearance after dinner (I had only six chairs) of Tanya and Mr Momma - and Mr Momma brought his records. Naturally I left them to themselves, kept their glasses filled with some vintage Muscadet (1971), and let them become quite tipsy. Very late in the evening, Cyril took me aside. I told him again how much I had enjoyed his lecture, but he interrupted, saying, 'Have you ever thought of addressing the Society?'

  'I wouldn't dare.'

  'Oh, do.'

  'I'm not even a member,' I said.

  'We can put that right,' he said, and he hollered across the room, 'Charles - how about making Michael a Fellow at the next committee meeting? All in favor say, "Aye!"'

  'Aye!' came the shout from the sofa.

  And Mr Momma said, 'High!'

  'Motion carried,' said Cyril. 'Now what will you speak on?'

  'First things first,' I said, and uncorked a bottle of port (1972), decanted it through my hanky, and poured three inches into a schooner.

  'That wine's a gentleman,' said Cyril.

  'So you can understand why I was so keen to lay it down.'

  After Sir Charles and Lady Barbara left, Mr Momma put his records on the gramophone and did his drunken Cypriot shuffle. Wibbert waltzed with Tanya. I was tapped on the shoulder. Cyril had taken off his spectacles. He said, 'May I have the pleasure?' and slipped his arm around my waist.

  Friendship is algebra, but there are operations most people are too impatient or selfish to perform. Any number is possible! There is a cynical side to this. Ronald used to say that you can sleep with anyone you like - you only have to ask. That is almost entirely selfish. But one can be unselfish, even in sleeping around - in giving everything and expecting nothing but agreeable company. 'Giving everything,' I say; but so little is actually required - a good-natured remark, a little flattery, a drink.

  But I have been bold. Not long after my election to the Royal Society I saw a production of Streetcar Named Desire, with Annette Frame playing Blanche Dubois. I wrote her a fan letter. She replied.

  ALGEBRA

  I replied. We exchanged letters on a weekly basis - mine were letters, hers postcards. Then I popped the question. Would she join me for a drink? We agreed on a date and though she was leery at first she stayed until the wee hours. Now I count her as one of my dearest friends. Algebra.

  I sometimes think that in my modest way I have discovered something that no one else knows. When Virginia Byward got her OBE it was I who helped her choose her dress and I who drove her to the Palace. A year before I would not have believed it to be possible, and yet as we rounded Hyde Park Corner I realized we were hurrying to meet the Queen. 'Alice,' Virginia calls me when she is a little tipsy and tearful. But the life I have is the life I have always wanted. I am surprised that no one has realized how simple it is.

  Once, I thought that in agreeing to attend my parties these people were doing me an enormous favor, taking time off from busy schedules to flatter my vanity. Later I saw how empty their lives were. Td have lunch with anyone remotely human,' Wibbert once said. It was the saddest thing I had ever heard. Now it is clear that if it were not for me they would drearily write their books and live drearily alone and be too proud and unimaginative to invite each other round.

  They take me as I am. I pose no threat; but more, I believe I have brought some joy into their lives - as much into Mr Momma's as Sir Charles's. It is only awkward when, very late in the evening, their gratitude gets the better of them and they insist on hearing something about my latest book. I say it's dreadful, everything's up the wall, I haven't written a w
ord for ages. And they accept this. They even seem a bit relieved when I change the subject and uncork another bottle.

  The English Adventure

  'You have read already The Times?

  'I just did so.'

  Tor my lateness I am deeply sorry, but there was the parking. So much of traffic in this town now. I think it is the Germans and their campings. It is fantastic'

  'I hate the campings. And the Germans are a shame. You see? There are some at that table. Listen to them. Such a language.'

  'I much prefer the English.'

  'Indeed. Quite so.'

  'Why are you drinking genever at this hour?'

  'For The Times. I had the tea and finished it. But there was still more of The Times. I could not have more tea, so I took some genever. And so I finished The Times, but I still have the genever.''

  'Henriet! You will be drunk for Janwillem!'

  'It is easier to speak English if one is drunk, and tonight is Janwillem's church.'

  'A lousy night for Janwillem.'

  'He likes the church, Marianne. Last week he has missed the church and he has been so ashamed.'

  'I mean that. Happy as a louse on a dirty head. We say "a lousy time" for a happy time.'

  'We say a jolly time.'

  'A jolly time, thank you. Did you learn this in The Times?

  'I learned this in England.'

  'Have you had a jolly time in England?'

  'A lousy time.'

  'Henriet! You are drunk already. So I will have the tea. Last week, I had the tea, but no English. I said to the boy, "One pot of tea and two cakes, if you please." But he did not reply in English. It was so insulting to me. I think he did it to be wicked. When he brought the tea I said, "Please," but he only smiled at me. I was so deeply sorry you were not here. You would have said more.'

  'The young boy?'

  THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

  The old boy.'