‘About any fucking thing,’ Freddie Sempill was saying. He knew he looked ill. He’d been through so many scares now, and he was gaunt and yellow and frail. There was, too, the small matter of the sarcomas all over his neck and hands. You got to recognize the Aids-visitor gaze: the way that their eyes would lock onto yours and not wander to the neck, to the hands; the way that their smile would stick and not falter, the way they would hold your hand for an extra second on parting. He was visited, at his weak times, by men called Buddies. They were OK. But the whole world looked at him like men thinking of volunteering as a Buddy.
Rupert looked at him and started to speak. At first it was difficult for Freddie Sempill to understand all of the words. Then he wondered whether his brain had switched off for a moment and come back again in five minutes. How old was he? He could not think for a moment, then he remembered the year he was born, and the year they were in, which was nineteen eighty-six – or -seven. Or -eight.
‘What year is this?’ he said to Rupert.
But it came out wrong, and perhaps it was only inside his head. He took a big gulp of what was in the glass in his hand, which was white wine, and then everything that Rupert had been saying came to him out of sequence, all at once.
And Rupert had had a wife and three children, well, he still had three children but the wife was detached. ‘I had an important relationship with a guy at university, I was at Christ Church, this was back in the sixties, nearly twenty years ago, and then after university …’ and then it was gone again. Freddie Sempill concentrated and then the man, whose name was Rupert, was telling not just him but a small and very tidy Indian gentleman, looking up and nodding, about the civilized way that his marriage had come to an end. ‘I used to own a suitcase shop opposite,’ Rupert said, with an Indian accent, but surely he was a publisher’s rep. Freddie Sempill looked firmly from one to another and realized it was the Indian gentleman who was talking and explaining that he had come in from Tooting with his wife’s best wishes, and that he – no, the other one, the English one – had married a woman after Oxford hoping for the best, and it had been for ten years or even twelve, but one of the things was meeting Duncan and coming to this bookshop. The two of them looked at Freddie Sempill, and he realized, swaying backwards and forwards, that it was him who had said ‘Washing the car – it’s just so …’ He had no idea what he was about to add to that. They were waiting for him to say something. The boy Rupert, the man, the father rather, he had said everything about his life. Freddie Sempill understood he was talking again, and in embarrassment raised his half-empty glass to his mouth. But it was fully empty. He tipped it up against his mouth; his head leant backwards; a force seemed to be pulling at him. He felt almost a little dizzy as his gaze left the party and swept up towards the summer night sky, which was blue and then black and then starry and then black.
‘Someone’s fallen over outside,’ Tony said to Arthur, carrying two glasses. Arthur was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, doing an impersonation of Duncan losing his temper with an inept shoplifter. He was doing it for the benefit of Dommie, who had seen it before. ‘Have you seen Tim? He said he was going upstairs.’
‘I don’t know,’ Arthur said. ‘Aren’t you hot in all that?’
‘It’s like a little black dress, girlfriend,’ Tony said, gesturing downwards at his leather jacket, his leather trousers and – some acceptance of the heat – a white vest. Dommie looked at him narrowly, inspecting the humour of queens rather than their lamentable wardrobes. ‘It’s fabulous, it’s classic, it’s understated. Some queen’s keeled over outside with the heat.’
‘Who is it?’ Arthur said. ‘Dommie, did you see?’
‘No, I didn’t, honey,’ Dommie said. ‘Here’s Francis King. Who’s fainted, Mr King?’
‘Hm?’ the distinguished novelist said, giving Dommie the once-over in her little black dress – really a purple cocktail dress, which might have been from Antony Price. He went onwards without explaining further.
‘I’m taking this up to Tim,’ Tony said. ‘He’ll be ever so pleased I found it.’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ Arthur said.
‘That doesn’t leave much, girlfriend,’ Tony said. ‘See you later.’
‘Who was that?’ Dommie said, and Arthur explained about his housemates.
Gervase was here, and he knew Stephen; they were discussing the case. Just by them, on the counter, a man in his underpants had his arm round a double-bass player, swaying dangerously to and fro. The man in his underpants was singing very raucously, to what Stephen recognized as the march in the Tchaikovsky Pathétique symphony.
‘“Why should we go to Pariiiis/When I’d much rather stay at home!”’
‘Who’s that man in the dress?’ Gervase said.
‘No idea,’ Stephen said. ‘He hasn’t made much effort, has he? But the case.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought there was any question about it,’ Gervase said. ‘It’s a perfectly absurd case for them to bring. There’s no question of any of the books they seized being thought obscene. It’ll be thrown out before we’re halfway through.’
‘Astonishing,’ Stephen said. ‘What were the police thinking of?’
‘Well, it’s not my business,’ Gervase said, ‘but the assistant – Arthur, he’s called – said that a policeman came in a week before the raid and asked for five thousand pounds to leave them alone. Unfortunately …’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Stephen said. ‘It always happens, I believe. The upright young man told him to bugger off.’
‘Either that or they bribe them, then think twice later. I know. Maddening. What one would give for just one gentleman in the porn trade who said, Yes, of course, Officer, come back tomorrow, and then had fixed up the joint with tape recorders.’
‘Oh, they’re wise to that one. You’d quickly find your place of meeting being changed at short notice, for some very good reason. Ow!’
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ Nat said, bending down and giving Stephen a kiss on the top of his head, then, as he turned his face upwards, a big smacker on the lips. ‘I always do that,’ Nat explained, straightening up and turning to the double-bass player. ‘I’m forever kicking people in the face by accident when I’ve had a dry sherry or two.’
‘Oh, he’ll be fine,’ Arthur said outside. They had propped Freddie Sempill up against the shop window and given him a glass of water.
‘He doesn’t look fine,’ the man said. ‘He really doesn’t look fine, Arthur.’
Arthur hadn’t recognized him. It was Rupert, the publisher’s rep. ‘He’s fine,’ Arthur said. ‘Well, he’s no worse than usual tonight. Just let him sit here.’
The party outside had gathered, gazed, concentrated, and was now dispersing, back to their drinks. At first, five years ago, there had been a natural habit of looking away from anyone who looked as Freddie Sempill looked. Probably that habit was still common in the rest of the world who, if they were forced to turn to a Freddie Sempill, would be apt to say to him stuff like ‘But do you know who you caught it from?’ and ‘How long do the doctors think you have?’ and other sensitive things. In this crowd, you rationally did not look away. You looked at the person as if he were a person, which of course he was. But then you looked away again in a relaxed and ordinary way. The temptation was to turn away and then turn back, one second later, for another appalled look at whatever it had been. But this crowd had had plenty of practice, and they looked away in a sociable, incurious, generally friendly way that had no specifics in it. Then the community spirit was spoilt by Simon, Christopher’s boyfriend, coming up and laying a hand on his elbow and saying, with something very like enjoyment, ‘Is that Freddie Sempill? I haven’t seen him in three years. Is that really him? Jesus Christ.’
‘Look,’ Nat said, still standing on the shop counter, ‘here’s Duncan.’
Duncan had been coming through the party for ten minutes now, accepting congratulations and good wishes, and pushing through t
he crowd where he could. He didn’t believe that it could grow any larger now, and the party had been going for an hour. He believed that, from this point, it could only grow argumentative, tearful, bad-tempered. They had been quite enjoying the crush. Soon there would be a shortage of drink, and people would start complaining about it. This was the point, or possibly a little after that point, of maximum goodwill towards the bookshop, and he ought to make his speech and conduct the auction now.
‘Help me up,’ Duncan said to Nat. He found himself poised between his old friend Nat, standing in his underpants, and rather a plump double-bass player. How did he know he was a double-bass player? Ah, that would be because the man was standing with a double bass on the counter. ‘Is he going to get down?’ Duncan said. ‘I don’t know that there’s room up here for all four of us.’
Nat burst out laughing. ‘Oh, that’s good. Her name’s Susan, he says – that thing he’s holding. I don’t know why she’s come, though.’
‘She’s come because she used to bring – she used to bring – the teas – she used to bring—’ Duncan started. It was all terribly funny; the best joke he would ever invent or make. But he was choking with laughter, and he was swaying backwards and forwards in quite an alarming way, up there on the shop counter. There was a great gust of Wooooo beneath him, and he saw the faces turning upwards in comedy or alarm. Oh, he would be fine. He just needed to get his balance.
‘I was going to ask my friend here to get down so there’d be room on the counter for you, and then I was going to get down after,’ Nat said. ‘But thinking about it, I think we’re both going to stay up here, if that’s all right. I don’t know where he’d put his giant instrument, anyway.’
Duncan was overcome for a moment with love for Nat. He was the nicest person he knew. How long had he known him? He had no idea. Nat with his nice blond curly hair and his way of saying ‘Honestly’ and the way he had of never reading a book and never saying anything about his job, but always wanting to listen to gossip and always saying funny things like, I don’t know where he’s going to put his instrument. He was so nice. The nicest, nicest person he knew.
‘Nat,’ Duncan said, his hand on Nat’s shoulder to balance. ‘How long is it we’ve known each other?’
‘We were at school together, you silly cow,’ Nat said. ‘I taught you how to smoke – behind the bicycle sheds. Honestly.’
‘I don’t remember the bicycle sheds,’ Duncan said.
‘It’s a figure of speech,’ Nat said. ‘I think it was actually on the bus home, on the upper deck, among other places.’
‘I’ve known this one for ever,’ Duncan said, turning to the double-bass player, still slapping away joyously. Sweat was gleaming on his face with the effort, and his head jerking up and down as if his neck had no bones left in it. ‘He wasn’t at school with us, too?’ he said, turning back.
‘I’ve only just met him this evening,’ Nat said. ‘I don’t know who he is. I thought you were going to make a speech.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Duncan said. He really started to feel rather drunk.
14.
‘Ladies and – ladies and – ladies and gentlemen,’ Duncan began. ‘They can’t hear me, Nat. How do I get them to shut up and listen?’
‘Quiet, please,’ Nat said. ‘Quiet, please. No, it doesn’t seem to work.’ He raised his hands to his face like a megaphone, and bellowed. Duncan had a bright idea; he took the keys from his pocket, and dropping them into his empty glass, started jangling them. The ringing noise was quite successful; at any rate, people in the front half of the shop quietened down, though not so much on the pavement or at the back.
‘Hello, everybody,’ Duncan said.
‘He’s going to make a speech,’ Nat said. ‘I’m not.’
There was a great gale of laughter, as at anything not actually tragic spoken at a fundraising audience.
‘No,’ Duncan said. ‘He’s not. Now. Where was it? I know it was here somewhere.’
‘Find your speech before you ask for quiet,’ a cross dyke in tweeds called. ‘That would be a good thing.’
‘Why?’ Duncan said. ‘Are you in a hurry or something?’ The dyke started to make some principled objection – she got as far as saying ‘Secondly’ before those around her told her to pipe down. ‘Now. I don’t know what I was going to say but I can say it anyway, I believe. It was seven years ago I opened this bookshop and it was with the benefit of some money I came into. No one had ever opened a bookshop for gay people. There are bookshops for socialists and bookshops for French people and bookshops for women—’
‘Yeah!’ the dykes at the other end of the room shouted.
‘Yes, hurrah to that,’ Duncan said. ‘We’re not a bookshop just for women, but hurrah to that, anyway. And bookshops for music and bookshops for art and bookshops for soldiers and – and – and—’
‘Is there much more of this?’ Arthur called out.
‘You listen patiently,’ Duncan said, ‘or you’ll be on the dole in the morning. So there were lots of bookshops for all sorts of people but not a bookshop for gay people. And the one thing we all know gay people really want to do is …’ He made a big upward gesture with his arms, and everyone near him shouted, ‘READ!’
Apart from Nat, who said, ‘Screw,’ apparently sincerely intended, since he covered his face with his hands, and Andrew, who was standing underneath, might have called out, ‘Ferment the working-class revolution,’ or possibly ‘foment’, and obviously didn’t get that it was meant as a joke. Andrew had come wearing a dress and lipstick, but not having shaved his beard off. Now he was very drunk, like everyone, but drunk in a dress with his lipstick smeared. Duncan averted his eyes as from a road accident, as the rest of the party had been doing.
‘Yes, well,’ Duncan said. ‘So it’s thanks to Dommie, my sister, and Arthur, who turned up on the first day or maybe even a little bit before that and demanded a job. It’s been fantastic. There are other people I want to thank too, but let me just say this once. Let me just say this. I want to thank you all by name but it would take too long. So let me just say this once.’
‘Just say it once,’ a wit called out.
‘Let me just say this once,’ Duncan said.
‘Oh, get on with it,’ Dommie called, not bad-humouredly.
‘Those people I want to thank – you know who you are. And then there are lots of people who aren’t with us any more. I wish they could have been here today. I really wish that. But we’re not here to celebrate the bookshop. We’re here because nearly a year ago some policemen came in and started inspecting our stock. And then they came back, wearing gloves in case our stock might infect them or something, and they took a lot of it away. And now we’re being prosecuted for selling porn, which it isn’t, but never mind that. They just want to wear us down and get through what little money we’ve got, and then we’ll close down and that’ll be that. It’s because we didn’t – Arthur didn’t, thank you, Arthur – Arthur didn’t hand over five thousand pounds as a bribe to the first policemen, the ones who came in without gloves and pretended to be customers.
‘I hope they didn’t get Aids, anyway.’
‘I hope they did,’ Sir Angus said, in his famous tones, from the bottom of the staircase. Quite a lot of people had thought of saying it, but only Sir Angus, perhaps, could.
‘Yes, well,’ Duncan went on. ‘The thing is, about those books, the ones they took away. Loads of people have come and bought books from here in the last seven years, and all of them, they’ve spread through the world, they’ve gone out like little candles. Sometimes someone on their own has read the book they bought, and thought, I’ll lend that to my friend John. Or sometimes they’ve thought I’ve got to stop being so alone, I’ll go out and I’ll try to meet people like me. I’ll stop being so ashamed. And sometimes they’ve just loved a novel and handed it to their mum or their best friend, and said, You’ll love this, and the mum or the best friend, they have, and they’ve lent it on rather than give i
t back.
‘Books are like that. They go into the world. They’re like us. We’ve got to go into the world. We’ve got to go even though there aren’t many of us and even though most of the world hates us and would put us in gaol and wants us to die of this disease. A book can go out into the world. It’s like a ten-pound note, it’s like a virus, it’s like an idea, it’s like a brilliant joke, it’s like a tune, it goes from one person to another. It never stops. It goes out into the world and and it changes things a little bit even if people hate it, they don’t want it, they want to go and read something better or they start thinking that it’s all wrong, I’m not going to agree with any of that, and they talk to someone about what they think, and that other person listens. Do you see what I’m saying?’
He was losing his audience, he could see: they were turning to each other and speaking with low amusement. Nat and the man playing the double bass had their hands on his arms, and were holding him upright. It was so hot in here. He had forgotten how he got onto this part of his speech, and then suddenly remembered that in his jacket pocket he had the speech he had written, short and witty and full of good points. He had a feeling that he had covered some of those points, but had brought other things into the discussion that he’d only just thought of. It was too late now, surely, to reach into his jacket pocket and get out the notes and start making his speech again. Gays would start shouting, ‘You’ve already done this bit.’ What was it he’d been talking about? But then, as if by a miracle, he remembered why he’d started talking about books changing the world, mind by shining mind, and he came back. Had it been a long silence?
‘The thing is, people,’ Duncan said, ‘the thing is that those books the policemen took away – they’re the only books ever that didn’t do anything, that just left here and fell to the ground. No one’s ever going to engage with those books. No one’s ever going to have their mind changed by those books, the physical books and what’s in them. They’re just Exhibit A, and that’s no way to treat my lovely books. So these people – they can’t be allowed to get away with it. They can’t. We’re a bit hard up, what with all the loss of stock and the lawyers’ fees, and we’re going to be more hard up if things don’t go our way, which they might not. So Arthur and I and Dommie too, my sister who’s been so great the last seven years, we thought we’d have an auction of wonderful donated lots from lots of wonderful people. Please give generously. Where’s that box? There’s two boxes, Arthur. Just the first one for the moment.’
The Emperor Waltz Page 46
