As well as the reviewing, I continued work on this novel. I rather wondered if I might improve the tone of it by bringing in some resemblances between Archie Langstreet and Oedipus. Oedipus kills his father and marries his mother unknowingly. It makes no difference that he does these things in ignorance. He must be punished for them. Langstreet is committing a serious crime with the best of intentions. Should I draw a parallel between the two men?
No, I thought. Too pretentious by half. Too forced. Was the mere idea a sign that I was running out of material?
As to that, while I was living my idle and useless life, great things were happening in Crete. Langstreet had removed Takis Constantinou from the scene and engaged a Japanese architect and a Taiwanese construction team to build what Kathi called, with some disdain, The Agia Anna Theme Park. Work had gone ahead at a steady pace.
The coach station outside Kyriotisa also boasted a helicopter pad; well-heeled pilgrims could fly in from Hania or even Piraeus, without having to endure the tiring coach trip over the mountains. In the station itself, a cafeteria and restaurant greeted them, with limited accommodation above (an on-site hotel was at the planning stage).
Best of all, however, was a large-scale replica of the chapel down the hill. This chapel, The Chapel of Agia Anna, was provided with a proper door through which one could enter without stooping. The interior was well lit. The walls were decorated with frescos in the Byzantine manner, chief among which was an imitation of Monaché Kostas’ fake ikon of the Suckling Event (as the guide book has it).
Assistants saw to it that there was a regular throughput in the chapel, their authority reinforced by a sign saying: NO PRAYING IN THIS CHAPEL. One left by a rear door equipped with turnstile. Conveniently placed outside were toilets and a bookshop, which sold postcards, videos, CDs, DVDs, guide books, and of course replicas of the Anna ikon and other sacred ikons. In one corner of the shop sat Monaché Kostas himself. There he sat, in new robes, painting, fulfilling the need for local colour. He had been lured from his gorge by a small monthly payment.
I had been reviewing a new illustrated edition of Trollope’s Autobiography. I was struck by the passage where Trollope says, ‘When I sit down to write a novel I do not at all know, and I do not very much care, how it is to end’. He contrasts this devil-may-care attitude with Wilkie Collins’ method of careful planning. I believe it was this remark of Trollope’s that drove him out of favour for many years. It caused him not to be regarded as a Serious Artist.
It was hard at that moment not to wish that my practice was less like Trollope’s in this respect: I was not sure what should come next. Like Trollope, I was making it up as I went along (this was the only resemblance between us, by the way). But serendipity came to my aid. Serendipity is always on a writer’s side. Serendipity is always on a writer’s side. (I repeat the remark in case it did not register the first time.)
I was enjoying a constitutional in Kensington, having taken a look at Kensington Gardens. A taxi drew up to the pavement in front of me. From it stepped an attractive lady, smartly dressed, with a floral hat such as ladies wear at weddings and, so I believe, Ascot. Accompanying her was an old man in a morning coat, clutching a grey topper. As she turned to give the old boy a hand, I recognised her. It was Kathi Langstreet.
She was surprised to see me – as well she might be, considering that we inhabited two different universes. As usual she was pleasant and polite with none of the frostiness the English mistake for politeness. Having paid off the taxi, she introduced the old man she was accompanying as her kind Uncle Antal. She introduced me by saying, ‘He’s writing about me.’ Uncle Antal tried to look gladdened by the news, gazing up at me with the eyes of a myopic mackerel. As he and I shook hands, Kathi invited me into their hotel.
They were staying in the Claireville Gardens Hotel, a comfortable establishment with a large lounge, in which settles invited one to take one’s ease. At one end was a generous bar, where some men were sitting on leather stools, talking and laughing. It was all pleasantly and unostentatiously English. A slender young woman was dancing naked to the sound of a grand piano, rattling bracelets on her pale arms.
A waiter appeared promptly, and Kathi ordered tea and sandwiches for the three of us.
She said that she and her uncle had been attending the marriage of Clifford, her stepson, to a lady called Vibe.
‘It was lovely,’ she said. ‘So much more fun than weddings used to be. Less formal, y’know? Three young men, friends of the bride, came forward as a trio, and sang a love song, ‘I’m Old-Fashioned’, which charmed everyone. It was all good and affectionate, wasn’t it, Uncle?’
But Uncle Antal had drifted off to sleep, his worn old head resting on a cushion.
‘He’s in a dream,’ she said, whirling a finger just above head level to indicate as much by signs. I saw that she was slightly tipsy.
‘I danced after the ceremony,’ she said. ‘I even did the Twist! At my age!’
‘Archie’s not with you?’ I ventured, after some polite exchanges had passed between us.
She made a moue of displeasure. ‘Oh, he considered he was duty-bound to go and sort out a problem with the new hotel in Kyriotisa… This hotel of his is entirely new, sited beside the church and churchyard.’
‘A second hotel?’
‘It’s part of a new scheme. The first hotel on the coach park is quite modest. There is considerable demand from tourists for a more luxurious hotel – five-star and all that – in the town. The foundations are already laid. Now a new problem has sprung up, a question of ownership of the actual land.’
‘For this reason he fails to attend his son’s wedding?’
She gazed down at her hands, without replying. When I repeated my question, she said, without looking up, ‘You can see he’s not here, can’t you?’
We drank tea in silence. I noticed an odd detail about this very English scene. On the walls were hung, not the sporting or hunting prints one might have expected – presumably all of those had been exported to ritzy American hotels – but framed reproductions of the flamboyant portraits of Tamara de Lempicka. I wondered if you would classify de Lempicka as post-art-deco, or perhaps she was the one and only female vorticist?
I asked Kathi, ‘Would you say that Tamara de Lempicka was the one and only female vorticist?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, hell,’ she said.
Perhaps feeling she had been too hard on her husband, she said, ‘Archie’s dedicated himself to the ambitious idea of restoring the fortunes of the area around Kyriotisa… He’s investing very heavily.’
‘Do you go to see how the work is progressing?’
Kathi cast a half-smile in my general direction. ‘I hear enough about it over the phone. There was a feature in the Daily Telegraph on Monday. In any case, I imagine the whole place is covered with flying dust…’
I chewed one of the pale little sandwiches while I thought about it. Then I said, between mouthfuls, ‘Kathi, forgive my saying so, but in my judgement your husband is making a monumental mistake. Isn’t self-aggrandisement really his motive, nothing more than that? Why should he care about this dump, Kyriotisa? Why should he waste his and your money on such an enterprise? Isn’t it just to make him feel like a big man in a small world?’
Her face, when she turned it to me, was luminous with anger.
She spoke calmly, in terms of contempt. ‘Who are you to criticise? Archie is at least trying to do good, from whatever motive. When did you ever try to do good, you and your lascivious little affairs? You’re all for yourself, aren’t you?’
‘It’s a jungle out there, Kathi. What do you expect?’
‘What do I expect?! Look, if you were a real writer, then you would write against the system. Isn’t that a writer’s first duty? Not just to make a piffling bit of money – to speak out and attempt to make the world a better place? At least Archie tries to do that!’
There was some truth in her words. I felt it bitterly. ‘Do you be
lieve the world can be improved?’ I asked, by way of defence. ‘I rather like the old dump as it is.’
‘You are so negative!’
It was my turn to make no response. I ate another delicate sandwich.
When she made a move to waken her uncle, declaring that she would take him up to his bed where he could sleep more comfortably, I put out a detaining hand, saying gently that the old man was perfectly happy, asleep where he was, and that I would like to take this opportunity to ask her more about herself, if she would permit it.
To which, with a shake of her head, she claimed she had already told me all about herself. I argued that she had told me about things which had happened to her, but nothing of her inner self.
‘My inner self? Suppose I don’t have an inner self? I could tell you I was born in December of such-and-such a year, but what would it mean? I am also millions of years old – or all the components of my body are – recycled through eons of space and time. Does that satisfy you? As for what you might call my inner processes, most of them have come down to me on a living stream, from generation to generation, merging, blending, struggling to make sense of contradictory inheritances… “Little enough” is what I could label me. And that is probably the least interesting part…’
‘Kathi, I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad!’
She spread her hands. ‘Forget it. It’s probably the champagne speaking. Anyhow, I don’t want your compassion.’
She roused her old uncle, who allowed himself, protesting feebly, to be led towards the elevators. As they went, Kathi said over her shoulder, ‘Finish the sandwiches. You look as if you’re down on your luck.’
There was something in what Kathi said. Although I must say in my own defence that being down on one’s luck is fairly normal for writers. That is, real writers who write only novels and short stories and do not appear on chat shows or TV quizzes, or generally hold forth as if they know it all. It isn’t everyone who can improve the world.
At the time I met Kathi, I was seeing not only my doctor but, even worse, my publisher. The doctor gave me some pills for my legs and a consoling word about my virility. To wit, ‘Don’t worry about it. Many men of your age can’t get it up any more.’
It was not a good time. One should be in high spirits when meeting one’s publisher. Kathi’s criticism of me had hurt. No matter what she thought of me, there was my writing to plead my case. I couldn’t help thinking of Samuel Johnson’s words to the Earl of Chesterfield: ‘No man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little’. Be it ever so little… Johnson must have had me in mind when holding forth.
Wilberforce Large’s offices were situated in an inconvenient part of London, on the third floor of a big thirties office block. There lived my editor, Sam Bell, in a small office with a formidable number of typescript bundles near at hand. I liked Sam. Sam had attended my old college in Oxford, although ten years after I had left under what my friends described as ‘a cloud’. Indeed, in happier days, I had often taken Sam for a drink, instead of sponging off him, the way authors usually do to their publishers.
I took the Northern Line tube to East Finchley, a long wearisome journey. I read The Victor Hugo Club on the way. And I wished I had had my hair cut, so as to look less run down. Once at East Finchley, I had to walk to Muswell Hill Broadway, since there seemed to be no buses running. Rain began to fall. A bit like King Lear, I had no coat or umbrella offering me protection.
As the rain came on determinedly, I thought perhaps I would afford a taxi; but the few taxis that passed were all taken. After all, what do you expect? I bought a tabloid newspaper at a newsagent to protect my head.
I was wet and miserable by the time I got to the Broadway.
A curious thing happened as I entered the rather dark lobby of the Wilberforce Large building, with its damp and muddy floor. There in one corner, by the lifts, was the very same naked dancer I had seen in the Claireville Gardens Hotel. Not a thing on, except for the bracelets which she still wore. She waggled her hips and shook the bracelets above her head in a most enticing way.
I had scarcely had the chance for a good look when the lift descended, some fool burst out with a parcel under his arm, and the girl was gone.
Mystified, I went up to see Sam, damp and downcast.
Of course I was aware that I had missed the date on which my contract said I should have completed and delivered the novel. But writers were always doing that. Publishers rarely noticed or cared; they always had too many books on hand, and were perhaps relieved if one or more dropped out. But as a punctilious writer of the old school, I always tried to be on time. To maintain Sam’s goodwill, I had got my agent to send him the first hundred pages of the novel, as a promise, a bonne bouche, a testament to my lasting ability to crop regularly.
Sam met me at the lift on the third floor and shook my hand.
‘You’re bit damp, old boy. No taxis?’
‘Sam, who was that naked girl dancing in your foyer?’ I asked. ‘She wasn’t a writer, was she?’ I thought some pop singer might have been selling Sam her confessions.
He regarded me blankly. ‘Are you joking? Come into my office, will you? Would you like a coffee?’
‘It wasn’t a ghost, was it?’
‘Of course not.’ I saw by the look on his face that he thought I had been drinking. The best idea seemed to be to drop the subject.
I settled in one of his very low modern chairs, to mop my neck with my handkerchief. I would solve the problem of getting out of it later. We chatted for a bit, mainly about Sometimes I Won, the memoirs of, and the repellent personality behind, a well-known politician. I had known this political person vaguely up at Oxford, and contributed an anecdote about how he had been smoking a ciggie – as we all did in those far off days – and had set light to his clothes in a drunken bout.
Sam took up a typescript I recognised as mine and wagged it at me. ‘You have here a very strong theme, about Langstreet and his endeavours to promote a religious cult in – where is it? Greece?’
‘Crete.’
‘Crete. Right. Obviously. But I’m bound to say… Well, you do rather pad out the story with your own adventures. Amatory adventures. It’s a bit boastful, I find, if not irrelevant. For instance, on page – ’
‘Hang on, how do you mean, boastful? I am quite frank about being a rather unsuccessful ladies’ man. I am in my seventies, you know, and often feel it. What do you expect?’
‘All these encounters with women. It’s obvious they are made up.’
‘Not at all. The world is full of mature women looking for a flutter.’
‘Mm. Foreign women, would you say?’
He was silent for a moment, listlessly turning over the pages. ‘I do slightly worry about the inconsistencies. At one point you say you are impotent. Yet you seem to manage well enough with – who is it? – yes, Ingrid, the Swedish bit.’
‘Someone else on the flutter.’ I wasn’t going to tell him what hell it was never knowing on which occasions you would be able or not to get an erection. Research had shown it worked a bit better with a new woman. And there was Viagra, the blessed new panacea for the old and randy. I had in fact talked over this painful matter with Ingrid; but I wasn’t going to go into the problem in depth with my editor. (Incidentally, I don’t think I met any woman who was put out by my condition; most of them had met limp male organs before, it turned out. My appearance forewarned them against disappointment; they could see I was pretty ancient. In any case, it’s always nice to be in bed with an amusing member of the opposite sex.)
‘She wasn’t Swedish. It was her husband who was Swedish. Sven.’
After a pause, he said, ‘Then there’s this other business.’
‘The teat?’
‘Not the teat. The cunnilingus. Some readers will be disgusted. You’re always going down on women.’
‘I’ve done some research into cunnilingus, Sam. In the British Library, I mean, as well as on the hoof.’ I tried
to explain how, when it came to soixante-neuf situations, by far the majority of instances in nineteenth and early twentieth-century porn were exclusively about fellatio. That was the case in both written and pictorial porn. Women had to do it to men but men rarely reciprocated. It was considered unclean.
‘It’s come into its own of recent decades,’ I said. ‘Enormous progress in standards of hygiene has been made, even in the years since the last world war. Personally, of course, but also in the laundering of clothes. An immense variety of cosmetics, perfumes and deodorants, have come on the market. All of which have made our intimate parts less welcome homes for bacterial hordes. It has become a pleasure – a connoisseur’s pleasure – to go down on a woman.
‘And of course there is the one undeniable human improvement made in the murky waters of the twentieth century. I mean, the improvement in the status of women. Women are seen at last as man’s equals, not his servants or inferiors. His equals in desire. Cunnilingus is to be celebrated. Lesbians will tell you. Its popularity is a mark of the better times in which we live.’
‘Foreign women, would you say?’
His question made me feel he was not attending.
‘I might also add that most women anywhere adore it. It’s pleasant for both parties – as an aperitif, if not as the main course.’
‘Why don’t you go and live on the Continent?’ Sam asked.
The question silenced me for a moment, much as a clout round the ear will silence an obstreperous child. Perhaps my enthusiasm had run away with me. I could not determine whether or not there was an unpleasant racist twist to Sam’s question.
‘Well, isn’t that another way in which life – at least in England – has improved?’ I said, trying to keep a whine from my voice. ‘We’re not as xenophobic as formerly, are we? Foreign is as foreign does. Perhaps we owe much of our loss of sexual inhibition to what you might call “foreigners”. As our eating habits have become more varied and exotic and enjoyable, so have our sexual habits.’
Cretan Teat Page 16
