Sex & Genius

by Conrad Williams

  Hilldyard came to the table with non-aplomb. Whatever airs he had nurtured for the evening, he was now preoccupied by Frances. He sat down heavily, a template frown on his face.

  Michael placed Adela opposite Hilldyard and put himself firmly in Frances's sights. The social combination was too intractable to fuss over. Everyone held their menus, as if in defence, and before long Hilldyard was peeking at Adela over his. He seemed to realise she was a personage, someone whose appearance suggested mastery in other worlds. He glanced at her, took careful note of her face and cleavage. Her bosom intrigued him. He gave it a good look before switching back to his menu, forefinger sliding like a cursor down the lines of antipasti.

  Adela remained mild and still, as if co-operating with the process of assessment. Whilst Hilldyard was adjusting she could be scenery, known by her looks alone. She had the poise not to rush in. The group did not need animation forced on it. She had done her duty with Frances and it was now time to be demure and composed and let Hilldyard get used to the presence of a professional actress. In an awkward situation time was on her side. She was tactful and well-spoken and not unconfident in her evening dress.

  Michael did his best to project the elation of someone relishing the evening air and the dramatic position of the restaurant. Before long he was talking to Frances about Rome, the places she had been: Trastevere, Campo di Fiori, the restored Sistine Chapel. She and a friend called Melissa had done the nightclub circuit: Danielli's, Captain Jack's, Bop Opera.

  'What's a grand tour without a grand pick-up?' Her eyes glittered.

  'Any luck?' he asked irresponsibly.

  'One waiter got very lucky.'

  Hilldyard groaned.

  'James, you always said a love affair was the best way to learn a foreign language.'

  'Is there a language you haven't learned?'

  'Swahili,' she guffawed.

  Michael smiled politely.

  'What happened to Melissa?' asked Adela.

  'She's staying at the Ambassador's, poor lamb.'

  'Poor lamb?'

  'Our man in Rome is boring.'

  Further questions revealed that she lived in a mews flat in Marylebone and had dreadful money problems. She proclaimed she was unemployable and unmarriageable. The future was a blank page to her and she was quite sure that before long she would commit suicide in the messiest way possible. Having settled that she was out to enjoy herself, determined never to suffer the agonies that led to her overdose earlier that year. 'There's no point in suffering before you kill yourself. That's a waste. No. If I ever do away with myself, it'll be because nothing new can happen and I'm bored.'

  Michael listened carefully. Frances's eyes were full of high-strung mirth. She knew how to seize hilarity, how to discharge her little gay mad moments. He carried on asking questions but was conscious of Adela by his side. He could sense her attitude of quiet respect, as if Hilldyard's prerogative were to talk and hers were to listen. The author's bearing had softened, too. He remained keen to embody in this first contact with an actress the probity of a literary novelist, but was clearly fascinated by Adela's glamorous comportment. His senses were encountering the very pulchritude he had sought for Michael: the attentive eyes and fine lips; the sympathetic gaze of a good listener.

  'We're taking stock, I suppose.' He cleared his throat, looked around lightly. 'It's a good place to sit and think. One's history dribbles back, you know.'

  She nodded fractionally, a lift of the chin.

  'I find it killingly beautiful, of course.'

  'Oh yes.' Her eyes widened.

  He took her in directly, noting her sincerity. 'Landscape does me in. I've often wondered why. Probably I'm over-sensitive.' He frowned. 'My emotions get raided by the details, the symphonic simultaneity of the colours. Like a wine that brings out feelings. D'you know what I mean? And that's very important because then I can reach into things.' He seemed absorbed, ruminant. 'Beauty is a starting point for me, and here we have it all about, and actually, to tell you the truth, it makes me feel odd. I must say, it's quite uncomfortable being unlocked. At my age. I find myself thinking about everything, and not everything is easy to think about.' There was a pause. 'Michael's been marvellous.'

  'What d'you think about?' she asked.

  He stared at her. 'The war.'

  Michael listened.

  'Did you fight?'

  'Round the corner. 1944.'

  There was silence. Michael had not known this.

  'It was interesting to see what they'd done to the most civilised place in the world. And what we did to get them out. It made me determined to hold on to the past. To keep life civilised you have to hold on to the forms, keep on retrieving every granule of civilisation to remind us what we are. The war cut across our lives, cut across the century and infected me with a passion for what is best in man. I mean, I've never written directly about it, and I don't talk about it, but the pity of it is always there and is a goad to one's best efforts.' He cleared his throat. 'I turn that over, and of course I think about the terrifying possibility that all this feeling won't find a form.' He looked at her from under his eyebrows. He was laying it on rather thickly. His sincerity came across like that.

  She nodded.

  'One has to get that piece of saved existence on to the bookshelf. Turn the miasma into sentences, paragraphs, a novel, an entity that seems so obvious to the reader and is so utterly mysterious to the writer. To answer your question another way, I come to Positano to ponder what on earth a novel is, what it might be. I've read and reread novels to discover what they are, because their form tells me how to construe reality, and if you're an author, how to live your life.' He raised his eyebrows. 'You see, I believe in the novel quite religiously. It has occupied my whole life.'

  Her lips were parted, her forefinger set on the stem of the glass. She was held by his candour.

  He continued, aware of his audience, which now included Michael and Frances, and in doing so allowed Michael to realise that this monologue was an appeal to Adela's understanding of him as a man subject to the most precious, the most absolute imperatives. He was treating her as an equal, as someone in whom he could confide. It was his way of explaining his stance on the option, by going to the heart of things, declaring his commitment to the art of the novel, and implying that such commitment was opposed to adaptation, not as a matter of prejudice, but as an article of faith, against which there would be no argument.

  Michael was pleased. Hilldyard was being kind to Adela. And he was speaking up for literature.

  'D'you like James's writing?' said Frances.

  Adela was thrown by the directness of the question. She glanced at Hilldyard, who looked down at his place-mat.

  'Oh, very much,' she said.

  'What've you read?'

  Michael listened expressionlessly.

  'Oh . . . Well, Italian Murder I've read three times. And Arcadian Dreamers. And . . . um . . .'

  Hilldyard nodded and frowned, as if Adela were being put through an unnecessary test.

  'It's a great privilege to meet you.'

  'Thank you.'

  She smiled. 'I think your books are marvellous, actually, but it sounds so glib just saying that.'

  'It sounds very pleasant.'

  'James never listens to praise,' said Frances. 'He's too much of a perfectionist to bear it. If a book's good enough for us, it can't be worthy of him.'

  'I love praise, Frances. Of course it's usually too little too late.'

  'I praised your last book, and you wouldn't even publish it.'

  Michael was not sure where to rest his eyes.

  'Which one was that?' asked Adela.

  'I'm starving,' said the author. 'Can we get a waiter?'

  Michael turned strenuously, raised his hand.

  'The one he dedicated to me, of course.'

  'I'll dedicate the next one to you.'

  'Thanks a bunch. Just stick my name on anything.'

  Michael had now
here to look but at Frances. He was surprised to hear she had read the book, was its dedicatee.

  The waiter arrived, his smile widening at the sight of Adela.

  'James, see what Michael says. Let him read it, please.'

  Hilldyard flinched. 'Come on, order.'

  'You'd love it, Michael.' Frances was perfectly sincere. She seemed unaware of the delicacy of the subject.

  Michael caught the look in Hilldyard's eye. He wanted nothing said.

  The waiter raised his pen.

  'We've both read the novel,' said Adela.

  Michael glanced at her sharply.

  'Really!'

  'Yes. Really.'

  Frances lit up. 'What did you think?'

  'It doesn't matter,' said Hilldyard.

  'What!'

  'I don't want to talk about work. I want to enjoy my dinner.'

  Michael could tell from Adela's bearing that she would not be warded off. She tossed her head, took a glass thoughtfully and then addressed herself directly to Hilldyard. 'If you really like praise you won't mind me saying I thought it was superb.'

  Hilldyard rewarded her declaration with silence.

  Michael fluffed his napkin. He was helplessly embarrassed.

  'I told you so,' said Frances. 'What about you, Michael?'

  He could hardly lie. 'Oh . . . I thought it was good.'

  'Merely good!'

  He blushed. 'Very good.'

  'Then shouldn't it be published?'

  'That's for James to decide.'

  'Hang James! He's just an ego attached to a talent.'

  'My reason in coming here–' began Adela.

  'I know about that.' Hilldyard was quick. 'The less said the better.'

  It seemed too peremptory.

  'Oh, really, James!'

  'Let's order,' said Michael.

  They took note of the waiter, patiently waiting, and rechecked their menus. There was a moment of concentration.

  'If I'd known you were against any kind of publication or adaptation I would not have presumed. We only ever wanted to do something serious, really worthy of the book.'

  Hilldyard shook his head, as if nothing had been said.

  Adela was surprised by the non-reaction.

  'Was it going to be made into a film?' asked Frances.

  'No,' said Michael, foolishly.

  'Only with James's permission.'

  'Marvellous!' said Frances. 'Who'd play James?'

  Adela was forceful. 'We wanted to be absolutely faithful to the spirit of the book. This was never going to be an American film. The agent was completely out of line.'

  'It isn't me.' Hilldyard winced. 'Josh is Josh. An invented character.'

  'With an astonishing resemblance to James Hilldyard!'

  Michael's heart subsided.

  'Shane Hammond wants to play Josh,' said Adela.

  Frances's palm banged the table. Her eyes were iridescent with joy. 'Uncs. D'you know who Shane Hammond is?'

  'I'll have the calamari and then lasagne,' said the author, folding his menu shut and looking at the floor.

  'He's a mega star.'

  'Shall we order,' said Michael, who then ordered, and was followed by Frances and Adela. He caught the old man's eye, felt the pressure of Frances's tactlessness crossing the table like a line of incipient pain. Hilldyard's sensitivity showed in his bloodshot air of being annoyed and hounded at the same time. He was quite incapable of rehearsing the reasons he had given Michael; quite unable to change the subject, and was stewing in his powerlessness and embarrassment.

  'What's going to happen?' said Frances.

  There was cautious silence.

  'How long were you in Rome?' asked Michael. She had already told him.

  'They'd pay you a bomb.'

  'Three-quarters of a million,' said Adela.

  Michael nudged her with his leg.

  Frances was open-mouthed. She looked at James in astonishment. 'You turned down three-quarters of a million!'

  'I'd turn down more.'

  'You're not serious!'

  Michael saw Frances's shock, a look of incomprehension, almost of anger.

  'I'm always serious.'

  'You think that's wise?'

  'It's a matter of principle.'

  'What bloody principle?'

  Hilldyard frowned uncomfortably.

  Michael took the bottle. 'Wine, James?'

  The old man set his hand on the glass, seeking composure. 'Do we have to rehearse this in front of other people?'

  She scowled at the put-down but was instantly tart. 'I haven't a clue why anybody in your straits should turn down money.'

  Adela sat rigidly, alarmed at what she had set off.

  'If you don't want the cash you can bloody well give it to me.'

  'Oh, you know why.'

  'I know a lot of things.'

  'It's none of our business,' said Michael.

  'It's my business.' She was resilient. 'I'm his niece. Nieces have interests.'

  'Because of Joan,' he said quickly, almost into his sleeve.

  Frances raised her chin grandly. 'It's a bit late to be considerate of her feelings.'

  'It's never too late,' he said softly.

  'Shame you weren't then.'

  'Which is why I'm repentant now.'

  Frances stared over their heads at the night sky, as if divining her next rebuke. 'You always said she was dull.'

  Michael was staggered.

  'I never said that.'

  'Whether you said it or not we all thought so.'

  His voice was tight. 'You were a teenager.'

  'Ah, but you confided in me.'

  'I shouldn't have done.'

  'But you did.' There was a flint-like hardness in her eyes. 'I mean, if Joan was so bloody marvellous, why did you have an affair?'

  'It was wrong of me.'

  'But you enjoyed it.'

  Hilldyard shut his eyes.

  'I don't believe in your repentance,' said Frances.

  Michael's stomach tensed at the confrontation.

  'Just think what they'd do to it!' said Hilldyard suddenly, his eyes watery with indignation. 'They'd make it into a bite-sized lump of formula emotion. A Big Mac plop of Hollywood sentimentality. A piece of corny tripe like The Bridges of Madison County.'

  'Not at all!' said Adela, hands on the table's edge.

  'They'll turn Josh into a down-home guy you can identify with, make his wife a manipulative Dynasty hag, throttle the script with wishfulfilment and cliché and probably add on some rock soundtrack to pacify the eighteen-to-thirty audience of candy-floss-sucking morons.'

  'No, no, no.' Adela was vehement, both hands raised and fisted. 'How can you think we would do that?'

  Hilldyard looked at her sternly.

  'Excuse me,' she said, flattening her hands on the table and tossing her hair back. 'I'm not about to throw away my career fluttering eyelids in some corny American film. This is an art-house movie.'

  'An art-house movie!' He was contemptuous. 'What the blazes is that?'

  Frances watched with distempered interest.

  'We are your readers,' she pleaded. 'Shane Hammond is an RSC actor. A literate man. If someone like that has the impulse to make a film of the book it's honourable. Sincere. What more could you hope for from a reader! A genuine creative response.'

  Hilldyard gazed at her with dark assessment, needing a moment to absorb the challenge.

  Michael felt compressed, on the edge of peril. He had created this scene, and its energies were out of control.

  'Shane loves your writing,' Adela said desperately. 'He knows the book inside out. God, he's called me in the middle of the night to talk about it. This is not about money. It's about an actor's love for a fine novel and about wanting to realise a vision of it as a film. He would bring the best talents in the world to the project. He wants the most faithful adaptation.'

  'Then why in God's name has he asked you to play Anna?'

  'Are yo
u playing Anna?' Frances was delighted.

  'You're twenty years too young. What token of fidelity is that?'

  Michael buried his face in his palms.

  Adela took breath, was palely dignified, her seriousness fronting up to the challenge. She cast around, as though listening out for something, the recall of first impressions. 'Perhaps . . . maybe Anna's age is not all-important . . .'

  'Oh really! Tell that to the author!'

  'What about the reader?' she said. 'The book lives in the reader's imagination, too.'

  'That's where it should stay.'

  'You've created something that already exists for me. I mean, if I can feel that character, perhaps I can bring something. Maybe what you've written is an aspect of womanhood at any age.'

  Hilldyard was beleaguered. 'There isn't a line on your face! You've never had children!'

  'Neither have you. But you wrote this woman.'

  'I've observed such a person.'

  'And understood them by the same kind of artistic sympathy I employ as an actress. I have an imagination, too.'

  'Adela!' He was fatigued now, but he came at her once more, with grave perseverance. 'Tell me honestly. Have you ever really been in love?'

  She was startled, taken aback; her eyes flashed.

  'D'you really know what love is?'

  She shook her head in contempt of the enquiry.

  Michael looked at her sideways. Frances hovered in fascination.

  The question had impaled her dignity, and she came back tonelessly at first. 'I beg your pardon!'

  Hilldyard held her gaze.

  She stared back at him with inflamed beauty, scorning his challenge, demanding respect.