by Paul Bailey
His unspoken wish to be alone was soon granted. He was to be examined later in the day – Dr Pereira hadn’t revealed exactly when – and must stay calm and hopeful. He wasn’t quite sure why he had to do so, but calmness and hopefulness seemed a better proposition than anxiety.
— What’s looming, Jack? he enquired of the ship-boy.
Jack cleared his perpetually young throat, as if to suggest that words of either warning or comfort were presently beyond his powers.
Harry Chapman, you really are mad, he thought to himself, and then Jack, high up on his mast, responded:
— Be of good cheer, Captain. The shore’s in sight.
What could the boy, the skinny urchin, mean?
And the image of skinniness, of being pigeon-chested, of having a body already weakened by a near-fatal illness in infancy, came to the seventy-year-old Harry Chapman, lying powerless in his hospital bed. He was twelve again, and attempting to learn to swim, and horribly conscious of his meagre physique. His instructor, Mr Sampson, pushed him into the pool at the deep end and dared him not to drown by using his arms and legs as Nature dictated. Nature took a few frightening minutes to dictate to Harry his best means of survival, but survive he did, finding himself at last in the shallow end, where he stood up, gasping and gasping for breath.
The baths had been built in the declining years of the nineteenth century, and were designed in the Gothic mode. He looked down at the tiled floor of the pool and saw that, in his fear, he had yellowed the water. Then, climbing the four or five steps that led to safety, he had to cover his eyes to protect them from the glare of the fierce sunlight reflected in the high window. On that May afternoon in 1949, he might have been in a cathedral instead of the public baths with a swimming pool that reeked of chlorine. Temporarily blinded by sun and glass, he turned and was blinded a second time by a sight that would never leave him. He was dazzled, nothing less than dazzled, by a blond youth standing nonchalantly, hand on hip, in the doorway of a cubicle. The eighteen-year-old, who was soon to leave the school and join the army, was called David Cooke. The vision of David Cooke, in his blue trunks, excited and depressed the silent worshipper who was Harry Chapman. David’s teeth were wonderfully even and white, like a film star’s, and that in itself was a miracle in England in the 1940s, when dentistry was a practice that terrified rich and poor alike. His perfectly shaped body was bronzed, whereas Harry’s was ghostly pale. Almost two decades later, in the Accademia in Florence, Harry Chapman, now the author of a successful, prize-winning novel, stood before the David of Michelangelo and thought of the David brought into radiant being by Mr and Mrs Cooke in a smart London suburb in 1931. Had he retained, at thirty-eight, his glowing youthfulness? Or had military service, marriage and fatherhood aged him? Was he indistinguishable these days from the other middle-class men setting off each morning to earn steady wages in order to support their wives and children? Was his body still in proportion, or did he have a well-fed Englishman’s pot belly?
— You were just as lovely once, he told the real David while seeming to address Michelangelo’s eternal, uncircumcised second King of the Hebrews.
Unanswerable questions then; unanswerable questions now. What was certain in 1949, and as certain in 1968, was that David Cooke, a king of sorts to be regarded with awe and admiration, was not available, either as friend or lover, to the Harry Chapmans who considered themselves blessed if His Majesty honoured them with a smile or a nod acknowledging their inadequate existence. The ridiculous truth was that Harry’s reverence for David Cooke and his kind never progressed to lust or desire – and the lasting evidence of that truth was demonstrated on a university campus in a desolate part of America when Harry Chapman was approached by a freshman named Duane, of pure Nordic stock, whose gift for English did not begin to equal his lauded talent for basketball. Duane was not the brightest of Dr Chapman’s students, but he seemed amiably gauche and caused no problems in class. His grades were low, as were those of his fellow jocks, whose interests didn’t extend beyond sport, girls, TV and beer.
The preoccupied Dr Chapman was walking slowly back to his apartment on a muggy April evening – summer had followed winter, not spring, as it sometimes did in the north-west – when a car drew up alongside him, and a voice said:
— Hi, Dr Chapman. Can I drop you off some place?
— Oh, hello, Duane. That’s very kind of you.
So Duane – at the wheel of his dad’s vast Chevrolet – drove his teacher to the neat apartment he shared with a woman of Italian origin who was visiting relatives in Boston.
— Would you like to come in? I’m going to cook pasta, and you’re welcome to join me.
Duane accepted the invitation unhesitatingly.
— You’ll have to be patient while I prepare my special bolognese sauce.
— Sounds good.
Harry Chapman offered Duane a glass of Chianti, but the youth said he’d be happier with a Michelob, if Dr Chapman had one. Yes, Dr Chapman could oblige, and brought out a can from the refrigerator.
Duane settled himself in the dining area.
— Cheers, Dr C. You English guys say ‘Cheers’, yeah?
— That’s right. Cheers, Duane.
— You’re a great guy, you know that?
— I don’t know that, but thank you for the compliment.
Harry Chapman, to his considerable amazement, was pleased to have Duane’s company. They wouldn’t be discussing Shakespeare or Melville or Dickens, or any literature at all, and that didn’t bother him in the least. He listened contentedly as Duane informed him that some were born to be sportsmen and others, no disrespecting Dr Chapman, were better in the brain department.
— And I belong in the brain department. Is that correct, Duane?
— You sure do.
— I’ve been there too long, Duane. The brain department, that is.
— Well, that’s how the cookie crumbles, wouldn’t you say?
— I would. Definitely. I would.
They sat down to eat tagliatelle alla bolognese and a crisp green salad.
— This looks so good, Dr Chapman.
— Call me Harry, Duane. Just for tonight.
— If that’s OK, Dr Chapman.
— Of course it is.
Harry Chapman felt no desire for the beautiful specimen sitting opposite him, whose resemblance to the David Cooke of thirty years past became more pronounced with each sip of wine. Duane explained the rules of basketball to him, passing on the information as though to a child, and Harry revelled in the young man’s earnestness. Duane consumed four cans of beer during dinner, and another two as they sat in front of the television watching the national and local news bulletins. Harry opened a second bottle, and Duane winked at him roguishly as he pulled out the cork and sniffed it.
— My folks were sure sore at that last grade you gave me, Harry.
— It was a C plus, wasn’t it?
— Minus, Harry.
— If you work a bit harder this semester and take care over your spelling and grammar, then things are bound to improve, he heard himself lying.
— Easier said than done.
— Do it for your parents, Duane.
— Where’s the bathroom, Harry?
— Second door on the left.
Duane was a proud pisser, to judge by the noise he made. Harry went into the kitchen area and began to put the plates, the knives and forks, the dessert and salad bowls into the dishwasher. He rinsed each object under the tap first, as was his pernickety custom. When he had finished, he returned to the sitting room. The television was still on, but there was no sign of his guest.
— Duane?
The bathroom door was open; his bedroom door closed.
— Duane? Are you in there?
— Uh-huh.
— Are you all right?
— Hunky-dory. Come and see.
What he saw ought to have made him delirious, for Duane was spread out on his bed – naked, except for a pa
ir of blue shorts carefully lowered to reveal brownish pubic hair and a would-be enticing fraction of his penis. His tanned body was truly a marvel of symmetry, worthy to be sculpted by Michelangelo or Donatello. Dr Chapman stared at the grinning Duane with obvious approval.
— You like what you see, Harry?
— Yes, David.
— Who the fuck’s David? It’s Duane.
— I’m sorry, Duane. You remind me of someone I knew long ago.
Duane sat up and slipped out of his shorts. Harry Chapman ought to have been ecstatic, overcome with lust, but he couldn’t be, he simply couldn’t be.
— Have you had enough to eat, Harry?
— Yes.
— The answer’s no. You fags – no disrespect – are always hungry.
He ate what Duane plunged into his mouth, and oh, it was an interminable, uncomfortable meal. He feared for his new fillings. The boisterous Duane let out cries of ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah’ and ‘Oh God’ and ‘This is great head’ and Harry, aware that the prey he was feeding on was in the early stages of drunkenness, knew that the inevitable explosion would happen later rather than sooner. He munched and munched and licked and licked and prayed for Duane to emit the yelp of pleasure that usually accompanied the moment of bliss, and then he was swallowing Duane’s seed – biblically speaking – and almost choked but coughed and spluttered instead.
After a silence, Duane said quietly:
— You just had what hundreds of chicks would die for.
— Thank you, Duane.
But no expression of gratitude came from the baseball titan, who dressed quickly.
— That deserves a higher grade, wouldn’t you say, Harry?
Harry, unable to answer in the affirmative, nodded.
— Think about it.
He thought about it for most of the night, accounting himself a colossal fool. He should have told Duane he wasn’t remotely attracted to him, except in a purely aesthetic sense. Aesthetic? It was unlikely that Duane was acquainted with the term. He cursed his idiocy, but wisdom after the event was no consolation.
— That was disgusting, Harry Chapman – what little I could make of it, which wasn’t very much, I thank my lucky stars. To think a son of mine could stoop to such things beggars belief. You need to wash your filthy mind out with soap and water.
— Oh, I’ve done worse things, Mother.
— Are you awake, Harry?
— Nancy?
— The same. You’ll be having your endoscopy at three thirty. Mr Russell will be in charge. He’s an expert.
— What time is it?
— Just after two.
— Will this expert discover what’s wrong with me?
— Yes. Yes, Harry, he will. I’m confident.
That’s what he wanted to hear from his soft-spoken Virgil.
— If you’re confident, Nancy Driver, I am.
— Well said, Harry.
His mother, so incurious about the important concerns in her Harry’s life while she was living, invited him now to tell her of those worse things he had done.
— Go on, Harry. Shock me.
— You’re dead.
— So what? I’m still shockable.
He begged her not to stray out of character, but even as he did so he recalled with what disdainful pleasure she consumed the contents of the Sunday newspaper referred to by his father as either The Barmaids’ Bible or The Whores’ Gazette. She would click her tongue to indicate disapproval, and mouth the word ‘disgusting’ as she went on reading. The news item that shocked her most involved a Chinese hypnotist employed in a bacon factory who used his ‘diabolical skills’ the better to seduce the female slicer operators under his command. He would send the unwary girls into a deep sleep and then take ‘evil liberties’ in his private office. Alice Chapman said she was appalled by his cunning, and cut out the lengthy report of his antics to show to her friends over tea and walnut cake.
— You can’t trust a Chink, she declared as a matter of undeniable fact.
— Why is that, Mother?
— It’s the eyes.
— What about them?
— They look sideways, not straight ahead.
— Sideways or not, he managed to hypnotise six women.
— He wouldn’t have put a spell on me, however hard he tried. I’d have sent him packing the moment he cast his slitty eyes on me. Which is what those women should have done.
— Yes, Mother.
— The silly cows.
In March 1950, David Cooke was somewhere else – in Korea, perhaps – serving his country. There was no one left in the school who could be deemed an Adonis or a Greek athlete. On a blustery day that March, Harry Chapman and ten other thirteen-year-olds ran a mile race, which necessitated circling the school playground eight times. He finished a creditable fourth, and loved long-distance running thereafter. The afternoon ended with the sweaty contestants taking a shower, amid accusations of ‘Jew boys’. Harry Chapman, who had been circumcised on the very day of his birth for entirely medical reasons, was only a pretend Jew, but Leo Duggan was genuinely and unashamedly Jewish.
Their mockers each had a ‘Coliseum curtain’ (as Christopher insisted on labelling the foreskin) which had to be pulled back to reveal what Harry and Leo kept on permanent display. They were different, and it showed.
— Harry’s no Yid, but Leo Duggan is, said Ralph Edmunds, who had established himself already as an intimidating bully.
Leo made no response, continuing to lather himself with the coarse soap that was considered good for the complexion.
— It’s not just his prick, it’s his conk as well. It’s like a bleeding hook. You could open a tin with it.
Harry Chapman wanted to speak up for the still-silent Leo, to defend him from the taunts of Ralph Edmunds and his gang, but the words of rebuke stayed in his head. The hirsute Ralph looked older than his years, and Harry, watching him assert his brutish authority, experienced a sensation that shocked and frightened the platonic worshipper of David Cooke. His blood raced, his heart quickened, and he recognised what he had only read about or seen in films at the Super Palace. He imagined his whole miserable body – not just his face, which he could sense was blushing – turning red with lust. This was shocking enough, but it was the ache of hunger, an ache deep in the pit of his stomach, that terrified him. It was a new kind of pain to him, and he suspected that it might be the prelude to a new kind of pleasure, too.
— Why are you shaking, Harry? Do I scare you, skinny boy?
— No, Ralph.
— Liar. I scare you. Yes, I do.
He moved close to Harry Chapman, the swot of the class, and took the wet, shaking, lust-inflamed creature into his own wet, hairy arms. He gave the boy from the brain department a bear hug, and Ralph’s eight cronies laughed and whooped their approval. Harry struggled to be free, while hoping that the clutch would contain him always. He was damned now, he thought; he was among the lost.
— Let me go.
— Let you go, Harry?
— You’re hurting me.
— That’s my way.
And then Harry Chapman was cast aside, discarded, and left to wonder why it was that Ralph Edmunds had squeezed him so tightly. His tormentor was smiling, showing teeth slightly stained with nicotine, and Harry, the weakling, reached for a towel to cover himself. His pretend-Jew’s manhood had stiffened, much to Ralph’s amusement.
— Mine’s twice the size and it’s soft.
— So that’s what you did at school when you should have been educating yourself, said the voice that only Harry Chapman’s death could silence. You filthy little sod.
He was wretched on the evening of the day of the race and for several months afterwards. He knew little of sexual matters, and that little told him his desire for the school’s principal bully was unnatural and perverted. He should be chasing girls – as Ralph was, and as Leo and Bobby and all the other boys of his acquaintance were. He would wake in the middle of t
he night and think of being squeezed to happy breathlessness in the shower and then he had to ease his longing with his increasingly skilled right hand. The moment of blissful ejaculation achieved, there followed self-contempt and its accompaniment shame. He crawled out of bed once and went down on his knees and prayed to the God of Milton and George Herbert and John Donne to purify his soul, to erase the flesh of Ralph Edmunds from his thoughts, and to ensure that he would grow into a man who loved women.
For his was a literary God, the loving – if absent – father of Christ rather than the vengeful tyrant of the Old Testament. He was the kindly spirit encountered in Sunday services at the church in which William Blake married his illiterate young bride. Harry Chapman came out of St Mary’s early one summer afternoon and lingered in the churchyard. Some of the blackened graves dated back two centuries, and he had to look hard to decipher the names of the persons buried beneath. ‘Sacred to the memory of –’ was a familiar refrain, but the memorialists were gone too. Thinking of this harvesting of humanity, of the good and the bad and the moderately sinful rotting together, of the invisible worms feasting, he felt a chill creep over him despite the noontide heat. Was there nothing else to expect but lasting nothingness? It would become the primary question of his life and he first asked it of himself in June 1950 and was asking it again now as he opened his eyes in the hospital ward.
— We’re taking you for your endoscopy, Harry.
And now he was returned to the dull surroundings he had known for – how long was it? – two or three or, perhaps, more days. An eternity ago, he had heard the expert, Mr Russell, a stocky figure with cropped blond hair like some German general, inform his assistants that Mr Chapman needed to be anaesthetised. The patient was old and would probably resist having the instrument forced down his throat. He had to be treated gently.
That much Harry Chapman remembered, before succumbing to sleep.
— Harry? Can you hear me?
— Is that you, Dad?
— As sure as God made little apples.
— Your voice is very faint.
— I was never a loudmouth. Was I?
— No.
