The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

by Gerald Malcolm Durrell

  “Is everything all right?” he enquired, his large hazel eyes flashing round the table to make sure.

  “Delicious,” I said. “But that’s not what I called you for. You said you came from Sicily, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, from Sicily,” he nodded.

  “Well, can you just translate that for me?” I asked, pointing to the relevant passage.

  It had a curious and quite unprecedented effect on him. His eyes widened unbelievingly as he read. Then he glanced at me, walked away from the table a few steps in embarrassment, came back, read the passage again, looked at me, and retreated from the table as though I had suddenly grown another head.

  “What is that book?” he asked me.

  “ Havelock Ellis. The Psychology of Sex. ”

  “You read it now for one week,” he said accusingly, as though he’d caught me in some underhand dealing.

  “Well, there are nine volumes,” I protested.

  “Nine?” he exclaimed. “Nine ? All on sex?”

  “Yes. It’s a big subject. But what I’m interested in is whether this is true. Is this what you say about women in Sicily ?”

  “Me? No, no !” said Innocenzo, hurriedly, living up to his name. “Me, I never say that,”

  “Never?” I asked, disappointed,

  “Maybe sometimes my grandfather may have said it,” said Innocenzo, “but not now. Oh, no, no! Not now .” He gazed at the books fascinated. “You say this man write nine books?” he asked again. “All on the sex?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Every aspect of it.”

  “And this is what you are reading all this week?”

  “Yes.”

  “So now you are an expert,” he said, laughing embarrassedly.

  “No, he’s the expert. I’m just learning.”

  “Nine books,” he repeated wonderingly, and then dragged his mind back to his job. “You want some cheese, Mr Durrell?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “Just some more wine.”

  He brought a bottle, uncorked it, and poured out a drop for me to taste, his eyes fixed fascinatedly on the book. I approved the wine, and he poured it out.

  “Nine books,” he mused, carefully untwisting the cork from the corkscrew. “Nine books on sex. Mama Mia! ”

  “Yes,” I concluded. “ Havelock did the job properly.” Innocenzo left me, and I returned to Havelock, earnest and meticulous in his investigations among the hot-blooded Sicilians. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, my hot-blooded Sicilian had passed on to the waiters the news that Mr Durrell possessed nine volumes on sex, surely a record for any hotel guest. The news spread through the hotel like fire through summer gorse-land. When I returned from a shopping expedition that afternoon, two of the porters rushed to open the doors of the hotel for me, and behind the desk not one but four receptionists blinded me with their smiles, their faces as pretty as a flower-bed. I was somewhat startled by all this sudden enthusiasm, but, in my innocence, did not connect it with my owning Havelock Ellis. I went up to my room, ordered some tea, and lay on the bed reading. Presently, my tea was brought to me by the floor waiter, Gavin, a tall, slender boy with a delicate profile, a mop of blond hair like the unkempt mane of a Palomino, and large blue eyes.

  “Afternoon,” he said, his eyes fixed on my book.

  “Good afternoon, Gavin,” I said. “Just bung it on the table, will you?”

  He put the tea on the table and then stood looking at me.

  “Yes?” I asked. “Do you want something?”

  “Is that your dirty book, then?”

  “Dirty book!” I replied, indignantly. “This is Havelock Ellis; the definitive work on the psychology of sex. Dirty book, indeed!”

  “Well, that’s wot I mean,” said Gavin. “Sex.”

  “Sex — contrary to what the English think — is not dirty,” I pointed out, with some asperity.

  “Naw, well . . . you know . . . I know it’s not,” said Gavin. “But, well . . . Imeantersay . . . everyone else thinks so, don’t they?”

  “Fortunately, there is a small minority that holds other views,” I retorted. “You among them, I trust.”

  “Oh, yeah. Imeantersay, I’m all in favour of it, like. What I say is, let everyone do what they like, more or less,” said Gavin, adding, “providing it’s not somefing you’re not supposed to do . . . you know, like drugging girls and sending them off to Buenos Aires and places like that . . . that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, even in sex one should have fair play,” I agreed gravely.

  He twisted the napkin he carried in his hands and sighed gustily. It was obvious that he had a problem.

  “Wot’s it say, then?” he asked at last.

  “About what?”

  “About sex, of course.”

  “Which particular aspect?”

  “Wot you mean? Aspect?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Well, do you want to know about ordinary sex, or lesbianism, homosexuality, sadism, masochism, onanism?”

  “ ’Ere!” interrupted Gavin. “Does ’e write about all those? Honest?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s all sex in one shape or form.”

  “Gawd Almighty!” exclaimed Gavin, with feeling. “Yeah . . . well, I suppose you’re right. Live and let live is wot I say.”

  “Quite.”

  Gavin tied a knot in the napkin and beat it against the palm of his hand. It was obvious he was dying to ask something.

  “Have you a problem?” I asked.

  Gavin jumped.

  “Who me?” he cried, backing away towards the door. “No, no! I’ve got no problem. Not me. Not a problem,”

  “So, Dr Havelock Ellis can’t help you?” I enquired.

  “Oh, no,” said Gavin. “Imeantersay . . . I got no problems. Not like wot some people ’ave . . . I’ll be back for your tray presently. All right?”

  He made a hasty exit.

  By now, I judged, the whole hotel would be throbbing, as a jungle throbs with talking drums, with the news of Havelock Ellis. I sipped my tea and waited expectantly. Within the hour, Gavin was back.

  “Enjoy your tea?” he asked.

  He’d never asked this before.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, and waited.

  There was a pause while he juggled the tea tray dexterously on to one palm.

  “Read any more, then?” he asked at last.

  “A few pages.”

  He blew out his cheeks and sighed.

  “I suppose it’s a good book to read if you’ve got . . . well, problems?”

  “Very soothing,” I said. “He treats everything sensibly, and doesn’t give you a guilt complex.”

  “Yeah, well . . . that’s good. It’s bad to have a complex, isn’t it?”

  “Detrimental. Very detrimental.”

  Silence fell. He shifted the tray from his right hand to his left.

  “Yeaa . . .” he said, thoughtfully. “I got a friend wot’s got a complex.”

  “Really? What sort of complex?”

  “Well, it’s sort of difficult to explain, like; he’s quite a good-looking fella, like . . . Well, Imeantersay, ’e’s not bad-looking, ya know. I mean, all the girls like ’im. In fact, to tell ya the truth, there’s, er, two of ’em wot’s come ta blows over ’im,” he said, with modest satisfaction. “Two of them Portuguese chambermaids . . . Yea, didn’t arf hurt each other. Pulled each other’s hair and punching each other. ’Ot tempered, these foreigners are, don’t ya think?”

  “Very,” I said. “Is that your friend’s problem? Too many hot-blooded Portuguese girls to take to bed?”

  “No, no! No . . . no . . . it’s not that. ’E don’t like ’em, see.”

  “You mean, he’s got a girl-friend already?”

  “No, no! Wot I’m saying . . . ’e don’t like girls, see?” he blurted out, desperately. “I mean ta say, ’e doesn’t like . . . well, you know . . . muckin’ about with ’em.”

  “You mean he likes boys?” I asked.

  He reddene
d.

  “Well, no . . . I mean . . . well, ’e says ’e’s . . . you know, mucked about with a few boys and . . . well, ’e says . . .”

  His voice trailed away uncertainly.

  “He says he prefers them to girls?” I enquired.

  “Well . . . yeah . . . sort of. That’s wot ’e says .”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. Does It worry him?”

  “You mean, it’s all right being . . . sorta queer, like?” he asked.

  “If you’re born like that, it’s no sin. You can’t help it, any more than you can help the colour of your eyes.”

  “Oh,” he said, struck by this thought. “No . . . I suppose ya can’t really.”

  “Would your friend like to borrow Havelock Ellis and see what he says about homosexuality?”

  “I expect he would,” said Gavin, but slightly defensively. “I should think he probably would. I’ll . . . um, ask ’im, like, and let you know.”

  “You wouldn’t like to take it now, just in case?”

  “Well,” he said, his eyes fastened on the book I held out. “Well, I might just take it an’. . . if ’e doesn’t want to read it . . . well, I’ll . . . I’ll just bring it back. All right?”

  “All right,” I said. “Tell him not to spill beer all over it.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, as he made for the door with the book under his arm. “I won’t do that.”

  The door closed behind my first patient.

  On the fifth morning, Gavin brought my breakfast up to me. He entered the room jauntily.

  “Well?” I asked. “Did your friend derive any comfort from the book?”

  “My friend?” asked Gavin, blankly, “Yes. Your friend with the complex.”

  “Oh, ’im . . . Yes, well . . . ’e said it was very interesting. I took a glance at it meself. Very interesting. Imeantersay, ’e writes about it . . . well, sensible. I mean, ’e doesn’t sorta say your a bloody poof, or anything.”

  “As it should be,” I agreed, sipping my tea.

  “Yeah,” said Gavin. “I’ll tell you wot, though — all of them receptionists aren’t arf worked up about that bit wot ’e says in there abaht lesbians.”

  “You lent it to them?” I asked. “You realize that if the manager catches you, I shall be thrown out and you’ll lose your job for peddling pornographic literature.”

  “Naw, ’e won’t catch me,” said Gavin, with fine scorn.

  “Well, what did the receptionists say?” I enquired, wondering if it would ever be safe for me to venture downstairs again.

  “Ya know Sandra? The blonde one? The one wot’s quite good looking? Well, she shares a flat with Mary . . . Mary, the one wot’s rather fat, with glasses. Well, after reading wot ’e says in that book, Sandra says she’s goin’ to get ’er own flat. She says she wondered why Mary always wanted to scrub ’er back in the bath, and now she knows, and she’s not ’aving none of that. Mary’s ever so cut up about it . . . crying all over the place and saying she’s not a lesbian. She says it’s very difficult for people to keep their own backs clean, and she’s only trying to be ’elpful; but Sandra says she’s got enough trouble with ’er boy-friends without ’aving Mary in the bath with ’er.”

  “She’s got a point there,” I said, judiciously. “And what about the other two?”

  “Aw, well, ol’ Miss ’Emps, she says she’d share a flat with Mary, cos she liked having ’er back scrubbed and didn’t see any ’arm in it. And Sandra said Miss ’Emps was tryin’ to seduce Mary, and so Miss ’Emps got ever so angry an’ said she’d rather have ’er back scrubbed by a girl than ’er front scrubbed by a man, which is wot Sandra seemed to like. So Sandra got livid and said she was just as much a virgin as Miss ’Emps, but she stayed that way ’cos she wanted to, while Miss ’Emps was virgin ’cos she ’ad to be. So none of ’em is speaking to each other now.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I observed. “Don’t you think you ought to take them the volume on pure motherhood?”

  “Naw, they’ll be all right,” said Gavin. “Does ’em good, a bit of a row; clears the air.”

  “But it also deprives Mary of her one pleasurable activity,” I pointed out.

  “She’ll be all right,” said Gavin. “They’re all going to a party tonight, so that’ll be OK for ’em.”

  “Are you going to this party?” I asked, hoping for a firsthand report.

  “Naw,” said Gavin, looking me in the eye with a certain pugnacity. “I’m goin’ out with me friend, Rupert.”

  “Well, have a good time.”

  “You bet I will,” said Gavin, as he swaggered from the room. Later that day, when I went to cash a cheque at the reception desk, they were all red-eyed and tight-lipped. I was treated with a frigid courtesy that would have intimidated a polar bear. However, Havelock had not yet completed the full cycle of havoc. Soon I had a steady flow of patients. There was the young porter, Dennis, a nice but regrettably unattractive Scots lad, made more so by two physical defects. He had a speech impediment and a fine and fiery relief-map of acne across his face, from which his round brown eyes peered shyly. He brought me a telegram and then stood fidgeting in the doorway.

  “N-n-n-no reply, sir?” he asked.

  “No thank you, Dennis.”

  “Is there anything else I c-c-can g-g-get you, sir?”

  “Not at the moment. Not unless you have an exceptionally pretty sister of loose morals.”

  “N-n-n-no, sir. My sister’s m-m-married, sir.”

  “Good for her,” I said, heartily. “It’s nice to know that the old institution’s still surviving. It’s as heart-warming as finding a dinosaur.”

  “That b-b-b-book you lent Gavin, sir . . . Does it say much about m-m-marriage, sir?”

  “ Havelock says a lot about marriage,” I said. “What had you in mind?”

  “Does he say anything about p-p-p-prop-p-posing, sir?”

  “Proposing maniage? Well, I’m not sure. I don’t think he gives any definite instructions. It’s more a general account of how to behave after you’re married.”

  “But you h-h-have to p-p-p-propose first, sir,” he pointed out.

  “Of course. But that’s easy enough. Who do you have in mind to propose to?”

  “S-s-s-s-s-andra,” he said, and my heart sank. Sandra was the last girl for him, even if he looked a million dollars which, with his acne and his chin covered with yellow down like a newly-hatched pigeon, he certainly did not, Add to this his impediment, and his chances of winning Sandra’s hand were about equal to his chances of becoming Prime Minister.

  “Well, it’s simple enough,” I said heartily. “You take her out, give her a good time, and then, at the end of the evening, you pop the question. Simple. It’s after she says ‘yes’ that your difficulties begin.”

  “I’ve got s-s-s-spots,” said Dennis, dolefully.

  “Everyone’s got spots,” I replied. “I’m not going to disrobe for you, but I’ve got spots all over my whole back. It looks like an aerial photograph of the higher peaks of the Andes .”

  “That’s on your b-b-b-back,” pointed out Dennis. “M-m-mine are on my f-f-face.”

  “It’s scarcely noticeable,” I lied. “I wouldn’t have seen them if you hadn’t drawn my attention to them.”

  “I s-s-stammer,” he said. “How can you p-p-p-propose if you s-s-stammer?”

  “A slight impediment,” I reassured him firmly. “When you come to the great moment, you’ll be so excited you’ll forget to stammer.”

  “I b-b-blush, too,” went on Dennis, determined to lay out all his faults for my examination.

  “Everyone blushes,” I pointed out. “Even I blush, but you can’t see it because of my beard and moustache. It shows a nice, delicate nature. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Actually Havelock has a bit about blushing in volume eight.”

  “Does he s-s-say anything about s-s-s-stammering and s-s-spots?” asked Dennis, hopefully.

  “Not spots. That’s really not hi
s scene. Do you want to borrow this to read what he says?”

  “Yes, p-p-please,” said Dennis, eagerly.

  He seized volume eight and scuttled off with it. The whole interview had left me feeling as limp as a psychiatrist at the end of a heavy day. I hoped that Havelock would produce a panacea for Dennis, for he was a nice, earnest boy, but I doubted it; the dice were too heavily loaded against him.

  The next person to seek the advice of Havelock was Giovanni, one of the restaurant waiters, a tall, handsome, sleek, dark man, like a well-groomed antelope with melting eyes. He looked so supremely full of self-confidence that it was hard to believe he had any problems at all, let alone sexual ones. But he waited one lunch time until I had lingered rather long over my meal and was the last person in the restaurant, then took up a station within six feet of my table and stared fixedly at me until I stopped writing.

  “Yes?” I sighed. “What’s your problem, Giovanni?”

  “Well,” he said, coming forward eagerly. “I justa wanta aska you . . . thata book, er . . . she tells you about sadism?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Why? Do you feel an overwhelming urge to beat up Innocenzo?”

  “No, no! It’s notta me. It is-a my girl-friend.”

  “Oh,” I said cautiously. “What’s the problem?”

  He glanced around furtively to make sure we were alone.

  “She bitas,” he said, in a hushed whisper.

  “She bites?”

  “Yessa.”

  “She bites what?” I asked, slightly confused, as this was the last thing I had expected.

  “She bita me,” he explained.

  “Oh!” I felt somewhat at a loss, for even Havelock had not prepared me for a girl who bit large Italian waiters. “What does she bite you for?”

  “She say I tasta good,” he said, solemnly.

  “Well, isn’t that a good thing?”

  “No. Itta hurts,” he pointed out. “Soma-tima I’m afrald she bita veina, and I bleeds to death.”

  “Surely not. You couldn’t bleed to death from a few love-bites.”