by Colin Wilson
Nunne hunched his shoulders, tensing his arms, then stretched them and yawned.
I’m really very grateful to you, Gerard.
He sagged in the chair suddenly, as if he had been coshed from behind; his eyes continued to stare at Sorme levelly, speculatively. He said:
I suppose you’re rather curious about all the mystery?
Sorme shrugged.
Not particularly.
He had a strange sensation, as if he and Nunne were both caught in some slowing-down of time, as if they could sit and stare at one another for hours, days, with no sense of urgency. It was not entirely the drink. Nunne said quietly:
You’re a very generous person, Gerard.
Not at all.
Do you mean to say that you’re not curious about my flat? And about the phone calls?
Sorme thought for a moment. He said:
No. I don’t say that. I’m curious to know you better.
Nunne smiled at him. It made him aware that Nunne was tired and depressed; there was exhaustion behind the eyes; they refused to participate in the smile.
Why are you curious about me?
Sorme took another sip of the brandy. He said carefully:
I . . . I like being alive. It sounds obvious, but it’s true. I never stop wondering why I’m alive and worrying in case it’s all a mistake . . . but for what it is, I love it. But the trouble is, I get tired. I think about it too much. And sometimes, if I’m lucky, some things give me back a sense of being glad I’m alive. A Mozart symphony, a hot frankfurter sausage in a cob, the smell of acetone. They revive my curiosity about living. They give me a new grip on being alive. Or sometimes a book does it. Almost never a person. I sometimes think people are the most uninteresting things in the whole universe. They only reflect the defeat I always carry around with me. Well . . . you’re one of the few people I’ve ever met who arouses all the interest in me. I sense a lot of things about you that worry me a little—the crank, the fanatic, the pervert.
He noticed the slight start of surprise at his use of ‘pervert’, but it didn’t worry him. He was certain of what he meant. But Nunne’s exhaustion worried him; he was aware of it all the time. While he had been speaking, Nunne had uncapped the bottle, and carefully divided the remaining brandy between their two glasses. His eyes were dull as he pushed the glass towards Sorme. He said:
You called me a fanatic and a pervert. . . . Do you know exactly the nature of my perversion?
Sorme’s heart began to beat fast; he stared steadily at Nunne, hoping to conceal it. He felt his cheeks and neck growing warm.
No. But I can guess.
You don’t have to guess. I’ll tell you. I’m a sadist.
Sorme’s heart was thumping so hard that he was afraid it was showing through his pullover. Controlling his voice, he said:
In what way?
Nunne emptied his glass, and stared at him.
You know what a sadist is?
Yes.
Nunne smiled.
I wonder if you do? What do you think it is?
Someone . . . who enjoys pain.
He knew his voice would shake if he tried a longer sentence. His ears were on fire.
Yes, Gerard . . . that is what a sadist is. But that’s nothing. That’s only the dictionary definition. It doesn’t take account of a lot of things. Like the tension before, and the fear afterwards.
Sorme made no effort to control the excitement that almost suffocated him. He relaxed in the chair, and tried to imagine that Nunne’s voice was a gramophone record. The voice said:
The fear never stops. You feel like a carpet when a lighted coal’s fallen on it—just a hole where the heart should be, with burn round the edges. Sex is supposed to be a normal desire of the body. But what about when it’s an accumulation of tensions you can’t define? While you feel it, you can’t define it. And when it’s over, you feel empty, and still you can’t define it.
Sorme began to feel better. He said:
Excuse my ignorance . . . but what’s to stop you satisfying your needs? There must be people who . . . well, do it professionally.
You don’t understand, Gerard. There are, that’s true. But . . . I can’t explain. You see, if you feel sexual desire you can be pretty sure you’ll find a woman who wants to take what you have to give. But the whole point of sadism . . . is that it wants to take what someone doesn’t want to give. If they want to give it, it’s not the same.
But I do understand, Sorme contradicted him. I feel the same frequently. Nothing shatters me more than a woman who wants to be made love to. Even if I’d been sex-starved for six months, I’d be nauseated if I got into the same bed as a nymphomaniac. And if I’d spent six months trying to seduce a girl, and thirty seconds before I was ready to take her she suddenly moaned: Take me, for God’s sake, I’d lose my desire immediately. I’d be incapable of making love to her. Isn’t that the same kind of thing?
Not quite. You merely want a completely passive partner. There are probably millions of girls who want to be completely passive.
Sorme said, grinning:
I wish I could find them.
He thought, as he said it, of Miss Quincey and Caroline, and felt a pang of pleasure at the memory of his evening.
Nunne did not smile. He said patiently:
Nevertheless, they exist.
Sorme interrupted him:
Look here, Austin, aren’t you making too much of this? Anybody can learn to live with his . . . needs . . . well, without tormenting himself. I’ve known homosexuals who made a tragedy out of it and spent all their time talking about persecution and frustration. And I’ve known homosexuals who make a perfectly good job of it, and quite enjoy being queer. Isn’t it the same for you? Isn’t it just a matter of taking your peculiarities for granted?
That is not the question. The question is to make society take them for granted.
Nunne reached for the brandy bottle, then saw it was empty. His hand dropped, as if exhausted. He said, with apparent irrelevance:
Have you ever read de Sade, Gerard?
No. Only some expurgated bits, anyway.
De Sade was right about the sadist. The true sadist could only find full self-expression as an oriental despot. You see? There’s no give and take. Just take.
Pretty bad for the character, I should think.
Ah yes. One would have to be quite callous about it. . . .
And you’re not?
Not normally.
Sorme said, smiling:
Then use the frustration to create. That’s the classical remedy.
Nunne straightened up in the chair, saying abruptly:
Look, let’s go and find some more drink.
Do you really want more?
Nunne said in a flat voice:
I shan’t sleep tonight unless I’m drunk. And I want to talk to you.
All right. Where do you want to go?
We could go to my flat . . . or to a club I know.
Sorme shrugged, standing up. He no longer felt sleepy.
All right. Whichever you prefer.
Nunne’s hand rested on his shoulder as they crossed to the door. He said:
You put up with me very well, Gerard.
Not at all.
The wind was cool around his face in the open-topped Jaguar. The streets were quiet; in the whole length of Albany Street they saw no one. Sorme looked at Nunne’s profile as he drove, and tried to connect it with the idea of cruelty. It was difficult. In the light of streetlamps, he appeared tired and pale, not particularly sensual.
They encountered no one in the hallway of the block of flats; the room labelled ‘Porter’ was empty. Sorme looked across at the chair where he had sat earlier in the day; it was difficult to realise that it had been less than fifteen hours ago. Days seemed to have elapsed since he had watched the white-moustached old man and the girl in furs step out of the lift.
Tired, Gerard?
He realised that he had yawned.<
br />
No. Not at all.
The lift stopped at the third floor. The white, marble-like stone of the floor and walls gave the corridor the appearance of a hospital. Nunne led the way, fumbling with a bunch of keys. He stopped opposite a dark, panelled door, and inserted the key. Sorme found himself thinking that he preferred the basement flat in Canning Place; the atmosphere was less chilly.
After you, Gerard.
Daylight lamps came on, illuminating a large, comfortably furnished room that dispelled the feeling of gloom. It was furnished completely with a contrast of light wood and a sky blue. The carpet and ceiling were of the same shade of blue; two of the walls were pale amber; the other two were covered with bookshelves of the same colour. The furniture was mostly of blue leather. Above the fireplace, the wall was covered with an immense reproduction of Michelangelo’s God Creating Adam. Sorme said:
My god, what a superb place! You are lucky.
It doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my mother. But she never uses it. Do sit down.
Nunne crossed immediately to the liquor cabinet, and pulled it open. He said:
What will you have? The same again? Or some wine?
While he spoke, he poured more brandy into a glass, and took a large gulp. Sorme said:
I’d prefer wine, if you’ve got it.
He was looking in the bookcase near the door. It seemed to contain nothing but volumes on philosophy. There was an edition of Schlegel in ten volumes, and volumes of Kant, Fichte and Schelling in German. The shelf above these contained a row of bound volumes labelled uniformly: Crelle. He took down the first volume; it seemed to be a work on mathematics. Nunne came from the kitchen, carrying a tall bottle of Rhine wine.
Afraid this isn’t cold. The fridge is off.
Are all these books yours?
Yes. Left me by an uncle. Fascinating things.
He handed Sorme a large wine-glass filled with the straw-coloured wine. He placed the bottle on a table beside the settee, saying:
Help yourself.
He poured more brandy into his own glass, and collapsed into an armchair. He looked like a sawdust-filled doll, inert.
Sit down, Gerard. I’ll show you round my books next time you come.
Sorme sat on the settee and sipped the wine. To avoid the necessity of starting a conversation, he took another drink from the glass. Nunne said:
Gerard. If I went off to South America or somewhere, would you come with me?
Sorme looked at him; he said cautiously:
Are you serious?
Very. I’d like to go to another country—somewhere I could start again.
Why?
Because . . . I get tired.
You shouldn’t rush around so much. Why don’t you try renting a room in the East End—Whitechapel, say—and not telling anybody where you are?
Something in Nunne’s smile produced a tension in him. Nunne said:
Whitechapel?
Oh. Perhaps not. I’d forgotten these murders.
Nunne stared at him for a space of thirty seconds, as if trying to remind him of some question. He said finally:
Quite.
Sorme began to wonder how much more brandy Nunne could drink and still remain articulate. So far, Nunne showed no sign of becoming drunk, but his movements and speech were growing heavier, duller, as if an immense weariness was overpowering him. Sorme himself felt only slightly drunk. He had no desire to drink the wine in his glass; it tasted like lemon juice and water to his palate. Nunne said:
I want to get right away. Away from cities. I get sick. . . .
Sorme said nothing. He could think of nothing that would not be cancelled out and invalidated by the facts. He thought: It’s his problem.
Tell me, Gerard, have you ever felt really unintended? As if you can’t choose any course of action because you’re no more than flotsam?
Yes. Never for very long, though.
I do, Nunne said, as if he hadn’t heard. You know, when I was at Oxford I used to know a chap called Nigel Barker. Terrific bloke. Most talented man I ever knew. Splendid cricketer, classical scholar, mathematician. Best all-round sportsman in Balliol, but not one of these brainless sportsmen. Got some prize or other for Greek verse. I’d have sworn he’d have a charmed life—really cut out to do something big. Well, he went and broke his silly neck falling off a horse. Didn’t kill him, but he’s half-paralysed. Funny. Makes you feel everything’s all wrong somehow.
Sorme said:
You know your trouble, Austin. You’ve got an over-developed sense of your own worthlessness.
Nunne halted the brandy glass before he drank, and stared at Sorme over the top of it, with surprise.
You’ve got something there. Sense of my own worthlessness. That’s it. You know, we had a chaplain at Balliol who used to give me talks about that. . . . About how the men who don’t serve God never get on in the world.
He emptied the glass, and seemed to lose himself in speculation. He said finally:
You’re right about the worthlessness. I was always a worthless bastard if ever there was one. Neurotic little bugger all the way through my childhood, in trouble all through my teens. Always smashing up the car or driving it through somebody’s back garden. You’d think if there was any justice in the world I’d break my stupid neck, wouldn’t you? Not somebody like Nigel.
Sorme found Nunne’s self-accusations embarrassing. He was in no position to contradict them. He said uncertainly:
You’re creative, anyway. You write books.
Books, Nunne said sneeringly. By any standard of good writing my books are worthless, and I know it. So do you.
What if they were? I’m not saying they were—but what would it matter even if they were? You’re still free. You can write books that aren’t worthless.
Could I?
Why not? A lot of writers have started from a sense of worthlessness . . . Baudelaire, Dostoevsky . . .
Nunne said softly:
Baudelaire. Everything in the world exudes crime. . . .
When Sorme stared at him, puzzled, he said abruptly:
Don’t mind me. I’m just a little drunk and tired.
His eyes, resting on Sorme, confirmed what he said; they looked blank and lifeless. He seemed to make an effort of will, and something like amusement came into them.
But you’re o.k., aren’t you, Gerard? You’re balanced and sane and level-headed?
Sorme suspected that Nunne had some secret joke. He said cautiously:
No, I’m not balanced. I’m just stagnant.
Oh, come! Let’s not have any of that!
Sorme said, grinning:
Stagnant, sullen and sex-starved.
Well, you shouldn’t be sex-starved, anyway. I’m sure Caroline would oblige. Or that beefy girl who let me in.
Sorme smiled at the tartness in his voice.
No doubt. But I probably wouldn’t enjoy it. You know, we had a phrase for it in the RAF. We called it ‘having your oats’. That really catches its meaning—the straightforward physical act—having a nibble, a screw, dipping your wick. But that’s not sex. Sex is the opposite of all that. It’s the opposite of this feeling of being worthless, unintended. It’s an overwhelming sense of power and security. It’s the complete disappearance of the feeling of being mediocre. It’s a strange conviction that nothing matters, that everything’s good.
Nunne said with interest:
Does it really mean all that to you?
Sometimes.
Then you’re lucky.
Maybe. Maybe I’m not particularly lucky. Everybody’s lucky, if only they knew it.
Even sadists and hopeless neurotics?
Everybody. You know, you say you often feel worthless. So do I, sometimes. But, fundamentally, I know I’m not. When I was a kid, my parents used to say I was born lucky. And the funny thing was, I always felt lucky, fundamentally. . . .
Then you were lucky, Gerard. I wasn’t. I had a loathsome childhood. M
y father bullied me, and my mother sat on me like a hen hatching eggs. She practically suffocated me. My main feelings in my childhood were shame and furtiveness. That’s what my childhood was like. What do you say to that?
I understand it. I used to feel the same pretty often. Anybody does when they’re children. Unless you spend most of your time day-dreaming. It’s just the feeling of total lack of purpose in a child. You don’t start to possess your own soul till you become an adolescent. And that sense of purpose, being your own master, is the greatest thing that can happen to you.
Nunne said:
Provided you’re not up to your neck in a treacly mess of emotions.
Throw them off. Strangle them. I did. Anyway, you get moments of insight into yourself that make up for everything.
You do, perhaps.
Yes, I do. You know the Egyptians all believed they were descended from the gods? That’s the feeling. For the Egyptians, man was a sort of god, a god in exile. For the Christian Church, he was an immortal soul, poised between heaven and hell. Today he’s just a member of society with a duty to everybody else. It’s the steady devaluation of human beings. But that’s our job, Austin, yours and mine. We’re the writers and poets. We can fight the inflation. Our job is to increase the dignity of human beings, try to push it back towards the Egyptian estimate.
He began to feel excited and happy as he talked, and grateful to Nunne for releasing this sense of certainty. Nunne was listening with an expression of interest, but there was no response in his face. Looking at him, Sorme remembered his image, being burnt out inside, like a hole in a carpet. That was it. Something had short-circuited Nunne inside. His capacity to respond had been burnt out by guilt and fatigue. Nothing Sorme could say would strike any response; there was nothing to respond. Sorme stopped and stared at him, feeling the futility of saying more. He said finally:
You know, Austin, I wish you could tell me what’s worrying you so much.
Why, nothing. Nothing you don’t know about.
I don’t understand. What’s the use of being conscience-stricken? If you’ve done something bad, why waste time regretting it? If you can’t stand by your action, then forget it. Dismiss it. Start again.
Nunne sat up in the chair. Sorme was aware of the effort it cost him. He smiled tiredly at Sorme.
