by Colin Wilson
Are you sure he dreamed it before it happened? I mean, is there any proof of that? Did he try to contact the police or anything?
Not as far as I know. What could he have done? Clapham Common’s pretty enormous—and there are thousands of men called Thomas in London.
Who told you all this? Oliver himself?
No. Father Carruthers.
Nunne divided the last of the champagne between their glasses. He said:
Now, how about fruit? Would you like a peach? Or some ice-cream?
Neither, thanks. That was delicious.
You haven’t finished your whisky.
I haven’t started it!
Nunne glanced at the clock.
Half-past ten. It’s still a little early for the Balalaika. We shouldn’t get there till about half-past eleven. Would you mind if I make a few phone calls now?
Certainly. Am I in the way?
No. I’ll use the bedroom extension. Look, help yourself to more whisky if you need it. I shan’t be long. . . .
He disappeared into the bedroom. Sorme yawned and stretched. He was already feeling a little drunk. He waited until he heard the phone bell tinkle as Nunne lifted it from its rest, then poured most of his whisky back into the decanter. He had been waiting ever since Nunne poured it for an opportunity. He sat down again, holding the glass, which now contained only a quarter of an inch of spirit. Feeling curiously dreamy, almost bodiless, he started to look through the Nijinsky manuscript.
. . . . .
He opened his eyes when the car crossed the Edgware Road, then closed them. Nunne said:
You remember Socrates in the Symposium? When all the practised drinkers were under the table, he stayed awake, discoursing on tragedy. Nietzsche loathed him, yet there was something of the superman in him. Are you asleep?
No.
Don’t fall asleep. We’ve arrived.
Nunne had become livelier over the past hour. In spite of his resolve not to drink, Sorme had accepted another whisky, and had listened while Nunne talked of his father and became steadily drunker. The effects of his crowded day were beginning to make themselves felt. The night air helped to revive him.
The car turned off into a narrow street, and halted between the gates of a factory and a row of dingy houses. Sorme reached for the door-handle. Nunne said:
Hold on. I’m going to back on to that waste ground.
Fragments of broken glass reflected the reversing light. The car bumped on to the pavement. From behind the wall came slow coughs of a shunted train; red coals reflected on the smoke. Sorme slammed the door, and staggered. Nunne gripped his elbow:
Steady, child! Avanti!
He raised his cane to shoulder level, pointing.
How far is it?
A ten-minute walk. It’ll waken you up. C’mon, boy.
Sorme said, grinning:
You make me sound like an Alsatian dog.
Unintentional. Have you ever been to a brothel before?
Is that what this place is?
More or less. Don’t worry. They’re quite civilised.
Is that a man over there?
It would seem so.
The man lay across the pavement, his head in the gutter. He lay quite still. When they crossed the road towards him, he stirred.
Nunne said: Are you all right?
He prodded the buttocks with his cane. The man said thickly:
Amori. Goawayfergrizake.
It’s after closing time, you know. Time you went home.
The man raised himself to his knees, and crawled across the pavement. He sat down heavily, banging his head against the wall. He said:
Amori. Goway. Sleep.
By all means, Nunne said.
He stepped over the outstretched legs. He said:
Virgil guides Dante into the second circle. Dove il sol tace. Where the sun keeps its trap shut.
Sorme said grinning:
Not Virgil. Mephistopheles.
What charming ideas you do have! I’d like to wear red tights.
The man behind the door asked: Members?
I am, Nunne said.
Got your card?
Nonsense, Sam. You know me.
Sorry. No admission after midnight without a card.
I never had a card.
Nunne leaned forward, and whispered something in the man’s ear. The man’s eyes dropped to the wallet, which Nunne tapped with the head of his cane. He glanced at Sorme.
Is he all right?
Of course. As sober as I am.
Ten bob each. Member and guest. Sign the book for ’im.
The stairs were narrow. Sorme was reminded of innumerable coffee-bars in Soho and Chelsea. The notice on the door said: The Balalaika Club. Members Only. There was a drawing of a banjo underneath.
Sorme’s first impression was of a large room crowded with men and women. The lights were shaded with pink paper. On a raised platform a quartet of negroes began to play their instruments; the music was jerky, low-pitched, unsoothing to the nerves. A tall man in a dinner jacket hurried to meet them. He said:
Good evening, Mr. Nunne. And how are you?
Fine, thank you, Mitzi. Lot in tonight.
Ah, yes. We’ve been very busy. This is your table, sir.
He led them across the dance floor to a table in the corner. Nunne pulled the table back for Sorme, saying:
You go inside, Gerard.
The man asked: What can I order you to drink?
More champagne, I think. Don’t you, Gerard?
Sorme said: Anything for me. He would have preferred soda-water, but did not like to ask.
Champagne, please, Mitzi.
While Nunne ordered, Sorme had a chance to look around. He could see nothing unusual in the appearance of the room, or in the people who danced. No one seemed to be drunk. A few feet away from him a man dressed in evening clothes was kissing a girl, pressing her head back against the wall. One of his hands, partly concealed by the long tablecloth, lay on her thigh. She broke away from him, saying in a deep masculine voice:
Lay off, will yer?
Sorme looked away quickly. He found Nunne’s eyes regarding him with amusement.
How do you like it, Gerard?
I haven’t had much chance yet.
Listen, Gerard, why don’t we get away? Right out of England? To some other country.
You suggested that the other night.
Did I? And what did you say?
I can’t remember. But it’s impracticable.
Why?
For several reasons. To begin with, I haven’t any money.
I know that! I didn’t expect you to pay!
That’s even more impracticable!
Why?
Oh . . . I couldn’t take your money. Secondly, I don’t want to waste time gallivanting round the world. I’d rather stay in London and work.
You could work on board ship. There’d be plenty of time. We could go to India. . . .
It was South America the other day!
No, India. Let’s make it India. You know, Gerard, I’d like to go into a Buddhist monastery for a while. . . . You could work there!
I’d rather be in London.
But why? You admitted to me the other day that you’re bored here.
I was. That’s quite true.
Aren’t you still?
Well, that’s the odd thing, you see, Austin. Ever since I met you I’ve been feeling better. . . . I’ve been getting a sort of sense of purpose.
But you’ll be bored again if I go to India!
You don’t understand.
Well, explain to me. . . .
Sorme made an effort to push back his drunkenness. His thoughts were clear, but he anticipated the effort that would be involved in speaking them without slurring most of the words.
You see, it’s like this, Austin. Before I met you, I used to feel . . . no that’s not what I mean. What I mean is . . . I used to feel purposeless. See? I used to live from day t
o day. . . . Why? Because I was alive, and it’s easier to live than do anything else, once you’re alive. It wasn’t always like that. But you know, when I was at work I used to think that the one thing I wanted was to be free. Free to work and do as I like. Sometimes, in the evenings, I’d read a book, or listen to a symphony concert, and when it was time to go to bed I’d feel so excited and . . . well, so certain of what I wanted to do with my life, that I couldn’t sleep, I just couldn’t sleep. Well, I thought that if I didn’t have to work all day, I could really do everything I’d ever wanted to. You see? I could read those books and listen to those symphonies at ten in the morning, and be happy and excited before midday, and then write like a madman for the rest of the day, while the inspiration lasted. That’s what I thought I’d do. . . .
But it wasn’t like that, was it?
No, it wasn’t. I’ve told you what it was like. I got to the stage of living like an animal—just eating and sleeping, and feeling a contempt for myself cover me like soot. I knew that if I’d got enough money I’d spend all my days buying books and gramophone records—or probably, like you, going to hear Sartre lecture in Paris, hear Callas sing in Milan.
Touché, dear boy, Austin murmured.
Well . . . enough of that. I think I’d just forgotten to live. I let myself slip into a state of sloppiness and boredom, that’s all. And since I’ve met you I’ve begun to recover the old sense of purpose. Oh, it’s not anything very clear. It’s just a sense of excitement, like being on the point of discovering something. But it’s genuine all right. And you started it, but it’s nothing to do with you personally.
Oh, I see. . . .
Don’t take that personally. I’d be very sorry if you went away. . . .
Nunne said gloomily:
Be careful. One of these days, you might be glad to run away from those glimpses of purpose.
Why?
Nunne seemed suddenly sober. He stared at the table-cloth. He said:
It depends what you pay for them. . . . Is anything the matter? You look rather pale.
I’m feeling a little sick. It’s this heat, I think.
Can I get you anything? Try an angostura. I always have one when I feel sick.
No, thanks. I think I might go outside. . . .
There’s a door next to the lavatory. It will take you into a back-yard. Have a sit down out there.
Sorme said: Thanks.
The dancing stopped, and he stood up, hoping to get an unobstructed passage to the door. Unfortunately, the music started again immediately. Nunne said:
Listen, Gerard. If you feel sick, go up the fire-escape, and into the second door on the left. You’ll find a bathroom.
Thanks, Austin.
He pushed his way to the door, feeling the sweat standing out on his face. The night air was cold. He felt better in the yard. It was as if something flat and alive, something with legs, turned itself slowly in the pit of his stomach.
The yard seemed completely black when he came out. He found the fire-escape, and sat down on the bottom step. As he sat there, he heard a movement in the far corner of the yard, and whispering. He felt too sick to worry, leaning his cheek against the cold iron of the rail.
On the other side of the wall a train whistled and released steam, startling him. Drops of water fell on his face. The sky was clear, full of stars. On the other side of the door the music sounded exhausted and inconsequent.
Someone crossed the yard towards him. A man’s voice said:
Listen, would you mind going away?
A face was thrust close to him; the breath smelt of tobacco and garlic. It was too much for him. He jumped to his feet and turned his back away from the man as the first heave came. He was sick, his head pressed against the wall, tasting simultaneously champagne, whisky and asparagus. He felt a kind of incredulity, wondering how he could ever have swallowed these things, things that now seemed wholly revolting, that he could not imagine himself at any time finding pleasant. The stupidity of drinking champagne when he had no desire to drink also overwhelmed him. He heard the man recross the yard, and say:
Oh, Christ, he’s sick. Let’s get out.
Footsteps crossed the yard. Another male voice said:
Let’s go somewhere else.
They went through the door. He felt a smouldering loathing of them for being there at all, and a deep relief when they were gone. He lurched across to the fire-escape and sat down again, glad of the cold that now came through his clothing. His stomach still twitched as he tried to forget it. He spat, and wiped the sweat off his face with his hands. He knew it was coming again, and wished it would all come at once and get it over with, and realised the extent to which his stomach rebelled at the quantity of alcohol. When it came to a head, he stood up and leaned over the rail, the heat rising in waves from his stomach like fever. He stood there for several minutes, coughing and trying to make it subside, thinking: Never again, never again, feeling the tears cold on his eyelashes. Finally, he sat down again. The sweat chilled on his neck and belly. He heard someone outside in the passage-way, and was afraid they were coming into the yard. No one came, but the thought worried him. He stood up, trying to remember the instructions Austin had given him to find the bathroom. The door at the top of the first flight of stairs was locked. He climbed slowly up the next flight, stopping once to stare out over the railway siding that was now visible. The door stood open; he went through into a lighted passage-way. The door of the bathroom stood open. He switched on the light, and locked himself in. He crossed to the lavatory and sat on the pan, leaning his back against the pipe. He felt like sitting there for the rest of the night. The heat was still rising from his body. The room smelt of primroses, and he disliked this. The twitching of his stomach made his breathing convulsive. He sat there for about a quarter of an hour, with no desire to move, staring at the threefold greaseline in the cracked enamel surface of the bath. Then it came again, and he knelt on the floor, vomiting into the lavatory, now bringing up nothing but small quantities of a bitter liquid, which he spat against the pattern of blue flowers that decorated the inside of the pan. He thought: Christ what have I done to my stomach, that it does this to me? His knees began to hurt, and he pulled over a bathmat covered with rubber nipples, and slid it under his shins. When the sickness subsided he pulled the chain and stretched out on the floor, resting his head on the mat. Someone tried the bathroom door, then went away. He lay still for another ten minutes, and came close to falling into a doze.
Nunne’s voice called: Gerard, are you in there?
Yes.
Are you all right?
No. He grinned to himself.
May I come in?
He pulled himself slowly to his feet, wishing Nunne would go away, and unlocked the door. Nunne came in.
Are you all right?
Sorme said thickly:
I have been sick three times. I suspect I am going to be sick three times more.
He sat on the edge of the bath.
Would you like me to drive you home?
I just want to stay here—that’s all. For a while.
Poor Gerard! I’m terribly sorry. You do look ill.
Sorme thought with fury: Bloody stupid comment. He said:
Just let me alone for a while, please.
All right. Look, I’ve got an idea. I’ll be back soon. Lock the door again.
Sorme leaned forward and locked the door behind him. He sat down on the floor, and buried his face in his hands. He noticed that his hands were dirty, probably with dust from the fire-escape, and realised that he must have transferred a great deal of it to his face. He felt no desire to stand up and find out by inspecting his face in a mirror. The room was cold, and a draught came from under the door. He was glad of it. He was afraid he was going to be sick again; his stomach lurched threateningly when he thought inadvertently of food.
Nunne called:
It’s me. May I come in?
He opened the door again, getting a glimp
se, as he did so, of his face in the shaving mirror. He looked like a coal-miner. The tears had cut paths through the dirt.
Listen, Gerard, I’ve fixed up so that you can sleep here. They’ve got an empty room. Do you feel like coming up now?
I’d better wash my face.
Don’t worry. There’ll be a wash-basin in your room. Come on.
Sorme followed him up a flight of stairs. He said:
You shouldn’t have bothered. I’ll be all right in half an hour. I could go home.
No need. It’s all fixed.
Nunne turned round, and added in a lower voice:
I’m staying too, anyway.
Sorme did not answer. He was thinking: Nowhere near me, I hope. As if Nunne guessed his thought, he added:
I’ll be in the room below you. So knock the floor if you want anything.
Sorme felt suddenly ashamed for the dislike he was beginning to feel. He said: Thanks.
It was better in the dark. After half an hour the sickness subsided, and left him feeling completely rested. It was a curious silence, compounded of exhaustion and strength. He was glad to lie there in the big double bed, hearing faintly shreds of music, tinny and far off. There was a window in the roof above his head, although no starlight penetrated the dusty glass. In spite of the tiredness, the sense of interior power that had been with him all day was still there. There was also a sense of unconnectedness, as if nothing that had ever happened to him had really happened. He thought vaguely: Good title for a book: things do not happen. He felt that even the prospect of his own death would leave him unmoved, certain that nothing final and irrevocable could happen. When he thought of Austin he felt pity, thinking: too involved. He will never be free. He doesn’t realise that things don’t happen, that nobody is really himself, that man is God in a box.
The bedclothes were thin and light, but he was not cold. He slept for a little, but woke again, feeling that it was somehow a pity to sleep and waste the feeling of certainty. A few seconds later he slept again anyway, and dreamed of Nunne: Nunne was standing on the rooftop of a house in Berkeley Square, and shrieking like Petrouchka at the night sky. He woke abruptly, deeply aware of Nunne, feeling his presence in the room. There was no one. Nunne had stood there, his arms flailing, shouting something at the sky; below, the crowds watched his protesting silhouette; many shouted, urging him to jump. But Nunne would not jump; Sorme was certain of it, and the certainty made him glad. In the empty house below, he hurried up uncarpeted stairs, hoping to reach the roof before it happened, feeling a happy excitement, certain now that there would be a light of prophecy over London, from Islington to Marylebone, from Primrose Hill to St. John’s Wood, and hanging like a red sun over Kensington Gardens. Nunne wouldn’t jump. He would stand there, Austin, Vaslav, Petrouchka, above the rooftops. But he was not in an empty house. He was in a brothel, lying in an attic room. And Austin was there.
