Surviving

by Allan Massie

  They were sitting now in the Galleria, drinking coffee or, in Gary’s case, another glass of milk. It was Sunday and still early, so the Galleria was less busy than it would be on weekdays or at noon. He remembered it as a place where talk soared to the vaulted ceiling like the chatter of jackdaws in a chimney.

  “One of the two good American novels of the Second War came out of here,” he said to Erik. “Does that interest you?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s called simply The Gallery and it’s by a sad writer called John Horne Burns. It might be your sort of thing. He was queer and an alcoholic.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Erik said. “Why not if it’s that good?”

  “He wasn’t a stayer,” Tom said. “Unless you’re very lucky you have to be a stayer to be remembered. And even stayers mostly get run down. Besides he preferred the poor Neapolitans to the American dream. A degenerate, you see.”

  Erik looked round the Galleria which Tom could have told him Burns had described entering as being like walking into a city within a city, and it seemed to him very splendid.

  “It’s a great place,” he said, “I can see that.”

  “It’s called the Galleria Umberto because it’s in its way an expression of confidence in the United Italy, the new kingdom, which actually the Neopolitans detested till they learned to milk it.”

  They were talking for talking’s sake, to make Gary’s silence less oppressive. But they were both conscious of it. Erik wondered what Tom planned to do with him. There wasn’t much you could do with him, he supposed. Then Tom said he must go telephone Kate as he had promised. Mike might be awake now and it was important to know if he remembered anything.

  “Not that it can make much difference. Except that if he knows we were there last night, we must have left Rome later than we would like to say we did. If you see what I mean.” Tom was away a long time. The shadows shifted in the Galleria. Two boys passed walking so close together that their hips brushed. The curly-headed one in the pale rippling pink shirt looked long, searchingly, at Erik and Gary, then hooked his arm in his friend’s, said something, and both laughed. Erik watched them as they continued their stroll round the galleria and out at its far end. They would walk through the place several times a day. He knew that.

  Erik said, “I’m just going to the tabacchi over there.”

  He bought a packet of Marlboro, two postcards, a stamp for the USA and one for the internal post.

  When he returned to the table, Gary got up. Without looking at Erik or saying anything – and indeed he had not directed a single remark exclusively to him since they met – he walked away, out of the Galleria and into the sunlight of the city.

  Erik stuck the stamp for the USA on a postcard of the Bay of Naples and wrote his mother’s address in California.

  He smoked a cigarette. “Naples is cool,” he wrote. “I’m OK, hope you are. Be good. Love E.” Then he added below a line of kisses, “Hope you’re missing me a lot.”

  The other postcard was for Belinda, and for a little he didn’t know what he could say that he wanted to say. He still hadn’t written anything when Tom returned.

  XXXVI

  Kate moved heavily across the room to answer the telephone. It’s just lack of sleep, Belinda thought, I must look a bag myself. But it was more than that, and worse. In the reluctance of the stocky body, she saw something broken in Kate. We’ve acted as if we were free, and our freedom is a prison. There are moments from which there is no turning back; what’s done cannot be undone. I wonder if Erik is thinking of me.

  “That was Tom. They’ve got rid of it, they’re in Naples.”

  “So?”

  “They stopped in a village and Gary went to Mass. Do you find that extraordinary?”

  “Do you?”

  “I can’t decide. I wish Mike would wake up. I told Tom there was nothing we could fix till we know if Mike remembers anything. Do you think he will?”

  Belinda looked away, across the courtyard, to where a woman was watering the geraniums in a window-box.

  “I’ve no idea. How could I have?”

  “Of course I’m worried about Gary, I feel responsible. He has a grudge against the world. Why shouldn’t he have? But I thought I could lift it.”

  “Did you really think that?”

  “Did I? I don’t know. That was my intention anyway. I’m sorry for him now we’ve made it worse. I began in a spirit of scientific detachment, or so I thought. It makes me ashamed.”

  Belinda found nothing to say to that.

  “How did Tom seem?”

  “Cheerful. At ease. As if action was its own reward. Perhaps it is.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “No, we wouldn’t know.”

  “And Erik? Did he say anything about Erik, how he’s handling it?”

  “He said, soft boy but behaving well.”

  “That’s patronising.”

  “Yes, it’s patronising. I don’t know that I really like your Mr Durward.”

  “He’s not my Mr Durward. But where would we be now without him? You’ve got to admit that.”

  Sounds of movement came from the next room. The door opened. Mike stood there, smiling.

  “Ah,” he said, “so this is where I am. Mike, I said to myself, where have you landed this time? On my feet I see. With my two favourite women, who can understand the importance of a drunkard’s life.”

  He sat at the table, raised the half-bottle which he had found by his head when he woke, and drained it, shuddered and said,

  “In nomine patris, filii, spiritus sancti. So what is the entertainment for the day?”

  Belinda sighed. She experienced boredom, irritation. It was wrong of course, or, if it wasn’t, she should give the irritation words, for Mike’s good and hers. Don’t bottle things up: admirable, futile advice. Bottling things up was her nature, and also what she’d been reared to do. A question of manners. Giving vent to your feelings was common. But now, one alky to another, she should do what was necessary for Mike. That would benefit her too: reinforcement. But she was short of sleep and the look of self-satisfaction which drunks wear even in moments of inner misery, provoked by their certainty that their feelings are all that matter … no, she had had enough of it.

  Kate said, “You should call Meg.”

  “Call Meg? I think not. Meg’s the last person I want to speak to. You should know that. She always is. You wouldn’t have a beer handy?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Sad,” Mike said, “sad, very. Means I must leave you, sally forth. The human frame cries out for beer.”

  “Call Meg first.”

  “Call Meg never.”

  He rose, paused, looked round the kitchen, then stared at Kate, his expression that of a puzzled child.

  “Aren’t you going to try to talk me out of it?”

  “What’s the use?”

  “Then I’m lost, really and truly lost.”

  “Oh bugger off, Mike. Stop your play-acting. Bugger off and drown yourself in beer.” Kate followed him out of the apartment, watched the lift descend.

  “I played that wrong, didn’t I,” she said to Belinda.

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “He’s going to wonder why I didn’t try to stop him. I am his bloody sponsor after all.”

  “We’re not saints. He’ll just think you’re fed up with him. He must be used to that by now. What matters is that he clearly doesn’t remember anything about last night, not even that he came hunting for Reynard. It couldn’t be better, given how bad it might have been.”

  “Damn Reynard,” Kate said. “He really was asking for it, you know.”

  “Oh quite. I’m sure he was. Rather a pity Gary was here to answer his call, that’s all.”

  “Would you rather he had succeeded in raping me?” Kate said.

  “No of course I wouldn’t have wanted that.”

  “Well, then … I owe Gary something now.�
��

  “Yes, I suppose you do.”

  XXXVII

  “So we go south,” Tom said.

  It was late afternoon. Tom had spoken twice to Kate. Nothing was happening in Rome. Mike remembered nothing. There was no report of the body being found.

  “Bit early for that, even if it has been,” Tom said.

  They were back in the Galleria. It was cool there and at this hour noisy as a flock of starlings.

  “So we go south,” Tom repeated.

  Erik watched the boys he had remarked earlier as, again, they circled – cruised? yes, certainly – the Galleria. The one in the pink shirt caught his eye and smiled. Erik looked away.

  “But you ought to call Belinda,” Tom said.

  “I suppose I should.”

  “You know you should.”

  Tom reached for his stick and limped off in the direction of the newspaper kiosk. Erik lit a cigarette. His hand was shaking.

  “You OK,” he said to Gary, not looking at him.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  The boy in the pink shirt was now leaning against the marble wall across the Galleria. His right leg was drawn up behind him, the foot resting on the wall. He kept his eyes on Erik. “Yes, I really should call Belinda.”

  “You and her,” Gary said. His tone was colourless but Erik read disgust in it.

  “Don’t see why you’re here,” Gary said. Then, “He was asking for it, you know that, he was asking for it, the stupid fucker.”

  “Sure,” Erik said, looking at the boy in the pink shirt smiling at him.

  “Sure,” he said, “he was asking for it, that’s why we’re here.”

  They left Naples before dark, drove for three hours on the autostrada, then turned off into the hills and came to a small town. Erik didn’t catch its name on the signpost. They found a hotel. There were two rooms available.

  “Spin a coin to see who shares, if you like,” Tom said.

  “No need,” Erik said, “Gary and me’ll share, it looks more natural. OK, Gary?”

  Over the spaghetti, Tom said, “I first came south almost forty years ago, my first time in Italy. It was on account of a book about Calabria. You won’t have heard of the author but he still had a reputation then, in some circles. Can’t read him now, but then I thought it was wonderful. Calabria was very poor then, very beautiful but very poor and very hard. I spent two months down here, walking mostly. Maybe it’s a mistake to return. But maybe not. At my age revisiting places you were happy in is one of the remaining pleasures, even if it turns out to be a mistake. Better to make mistakes than to sit doing nothing, feeling sorry for yourself. What do you think? Where’ve you been happiest? Erik? Gary?”

  To Erik’s surprise Gary answered. “My mum used to take me to Brighton. For the day like. That was all right. You weren’t bothered by nobody at Brighton. We used to go to the races or the beach and then on to the pier. For ice cream. I was just a kid then.”

  “Used to like Brighton myself,” Tom said, “one of the better places in the sad islands”. He pushed his plate aside, fetched a half-toscano from his breast-pocket.

  “Norman Douglas, who wrote that book about Calabria, used to say, his philosophy of life, ‘Do what you like and take the consequences.’ What do you think of that, Gary?” Gary touched his cheek with long fingers; to stop a nerve twitching?

  “You’re not getting at me,” he said. “We wouldn’t be here if you were getting at me. Yeah, you take the consequences, but if you’re smart, you dodge ’em. That’s what we’re doing now, intit?”

  “I guess it is,” Tom said, and pulled hard on his cigar. “But then the consequences can’t always be identified. There’s more than one sort of consequence. What you do may change you. That’s a consequence which isn’t always immediately recognised.”

  “Don’t know about that,” Gary said.

  Erik said, “I never called Belinda. I’ll do it now.”

  Outside in the little piazza, deserted in the darkness that was broken only by two dull yellow street lights, he dialled her number on his mobile.

  “Are you all right?” she said. “I’ve been worried. I shouldn’t have let you go with them. I don’t know why I did. I can’t see that it was necessary. But at the time …”

  “It’s OK,” he said, “it’s really OK, it’s even cool.”

  “I don’t know about that. Still … be careful. Come back soon.”

  “How about you?”

  “Oh me …”

  “And nothing’s happening, that’s what Tom says Kate says.”

  “Not yet, but it can’t go on, nothing happening I mean.”

  “It’s just that it feels distant, like it never happened. That’s crazy sure, but it’s how I feel. We’re in this cool little town where it seems like there’s nothing.”

  “Be careful,” she said again. “Miss you.”

  Did he hesitate?

  “Miss you too,” he said.

  In their room which was dimly lit by a low-wattage bulb hanging without a shade from the centre of the ceiling, a room with awkward pieces of heavy dark-stained furniture, a basin but no shower, Gary leaned with his elbows on the windowsill, looking out, in a silence broken only by the barking of distant dogs, while Erik stripped to his Calvin Klein briefs, brushed his teeth, flapped cold water on his face and neck, and got into the big bed and over to the wall side. When there had been talk of sharing, nobody had said there was only one bed in the room.

  For a long time Gary did not move, and Erik lay very still wishing he had a book. But even if he had one he knew he wouldn’t be reading but only pretending to. Then he closed his eyes as if by doing so he could persuade Gary to forget he was there. It was cool, this, as he’d said to Belinda, like being in a movie, and he’d make use of it when he resumed his acting career whenever that was, soon maybe.

  Gary turned from the window and took off his jacket and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. He switched off the light, sat on the only chair in the room and kicked off his shoes and leaned forward to remove his socks. He positioned himself so that his back was to Erik and took off his trousers, and as he hung them over his jacket on the hook, the moonlight played on his pale legs. Then he crawled into bed. He lay well apart from Erik, on his back.

  “I know you’re not asleep,” he said. “Don’t touch me, just don’t fucking touch me.”

  He turned over so that his face was pressed into the pillow, which they had to share, it being a bolster.

  XXXVIII

  Belinda had woken tired. She took her tea on to the terrace and watched the swifts hurling themselves across the sky. The telephone rang. Meg.

  “Stephen’s intending to go home. Do you think that’s all right? So soon? Should I let him?”

  “He’s a grown man.”

  “Is he? Are they, any of them? Grown-up, men I mean.”

  “Perhaps not. Tell him to call me. Say I’ll go round this afternoon. All right?”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  “Any word of Mike?”

  “No. And that suits me fine.”

  Stephen, Belinda thought, take him to the meeting tonight, good for both of them. Telephone still in hand, she dialled Bridget’s number, then Sol’s, spoke to both briefly, reassurances exchanged. Neither had heard from Mike. Ought to call Kate next, didn’t. Ashamed of that, nevertheless it was Erik’s mobile she dialled, and held her breath till he answered, then found her voice strained. They said nothing that mattered, but speaking was good. When would he be back? She couldn’t bring herself to ask that.

  She showered, spent time on her face, dressed, and left the apartment to walk, slowly, to Campo de’ Fiori, to the bar where the young girl who knew her and admired her served tables in the morning. They exchanged the small coin of the day. She drank her espresso and mineral water. It was still morning-cool. The smell of cut melons came to her from the stall across the way. Two Germans consulted a map and their guidebook at the next table. An old man shuffl
ed past with a Siamese cat on a lead. The buzz and clamour of the market were restful. She lit a cigarette. The Germans argued about whether one day would suffice for the Vatican.

  Sol came by, carrying a string-bag with fruit and vegetables in it. He took the other chair and ordered a caffè doppio con acqua calda. He had lived in Rome ten or twelve years, but didn’t have more Italian than he needed for cafés, restaurants and the market.

  “Amelia’s working this morning,” he said. “So I’m on the shopping rota. You are coming to the meeting tonight?”

  “I think so.”

  “Only think?”

  “No, I’m sure.”

  “We need them, you know. No matter how secure, how well things are going.”

  He began stuffing his pipe. When he had got it lit, he said, “Just think, we might not be sitting here at our ease. We might be planning the next drink. We’re fortunate not to be.”

  Belinda knew that when Sol spoke like this he was worried about something. She waited. The sun was climbing. She took a floppy cotton hat from her basket.

  “I called Kate,” he said. “Have you spoken to her today? She sounded a tad agitated.”

  “No. I tried to call her,” she lied, behind her dark glasses, “but it was engaged.”

  “She takes too much on herself,” Sol said. “Bridget was telling me about this young man, her latest project. It had me worried, Bridget too, which was why she spoke of it. We’re damaged, vulnerable people. Kate sometimes forgets that. I hope she hasn’t overestimated her strength. It’s easy to do that. I’ve got a lot of time for Kate. So has Bridget. Well, you know that.”

  He drank his coffee, message delivered.

  “Is Tom Durward still in town? I was interested to meet him. Time was I used to hear a lot about him. That was when I was on the New Yorker.”

  He smiled. He was a long way down from the New Yorker now, made his living or part of it by novelising movies or ghosting the autobiographies of second-grade stars. He wasn’t ashamed of this. High literary aspirations, he’d been known to say, had come close to killing him. One reason we drink is our inability to accept ourselves as we are, at our true worth.