having your shit.”
“Lily!” Nobody was supposed to know for sure about his shits. “Actually I tried, but I lost my nerve. Come on, read it with me. No interrupting.”
When I woke up the next day, feeling very seedy indeed, I found 1) a strange girl in my bed (fully dressed, including gumboots), 2) Violet, under an old curtain and a tattoo-bespattered skinhead on the sitting-room floor, and, most derangingly, 3) a fucking duck doing laps in the bathtub. Yes, well, an average kind ofevening. But what stayed with me was the business with Michael Underwood.
We—
“The duck,” said Lily (he could feel her breath on his neck). “That must have been
very
bad. Ooh. See? He’s making progress.”
Keith stared out into the yellow glitter. Adriano had worked his way up the sunbed, and now sat face to face with the supine Scheherazade; he was leaning forward and his right hand rested on the far side of her waist.
“He’s torturing her,” said Keith. “Look at her face.”
And it was true, he thought. Scheherazade had the expression of a woman cajoled on to the stage by a professional magician or hypnotist or knife-thrower. Amused, embarrassed, deeply unconvinced, and about to be sawn in half. Lily said,
“I see a smile. Look. He’s almost resting his chin on her tits.”
“Wait till they stand up at the same time. That’ll put things in perspective. Now shsh. You’re interrupting.”
“Adriano—what happened to his neck?”
We met after work, and Michael was unusually quiet—all loath and diffident. I had to sneak up on the subject. A couple of drinks later he said—Christ—he said he’d never been set upon so wildly and so insensately (this was the word he used) in all his life. And he reminded me, again with some diffidence, that during his art-school years he was known as Dockyard Doreen. And consider this. Michael isn’t pretty . So, my dear Little Keith, please, your thoughts.
“Insensate?”
“Senseless. Without sense. Or sensibility. Without feeling.” And he thought: Impy! He thought of the Violet boyfriend called
Impy
. “Maybe I’ll talk to Whittaker …”
“What happened to Adriano’s thigh?”
You do see the weirdness of it, don’t you? When I felt Michael’s moustache on my lips, all I had to say was no thanks. Imagine if he’d kept on coming all the way there. So, Keith, please, your thoughts.
PS. A jiffy bag came for you from the Lit Supp. I’ll get the office to smother it in stamps and send it on.PPS. It looks as though Kenrik will be going camping with Rita. Their destination is Sardinia, and I suppose it’s conceivable that they’ll get as far as Montale. I gave him the number. Is it really a castle? Kenrik insists that he and Rita are just good friends and he intends to keep it that way. I dutifully—but I think pointlessly—repeated your words of advice. I said, “Whatever you do, don’t fuck the Dog.”
“Why shouldn’t he?” said Lily. “If he wants to. I’m not sure I understand.”
“No one understands. Not really. But everyone knows that you mustn’t.”
“Ah, but Rita’ll be having a say in that, won’t she. And she acts like a boy. She’s
bound
to try her luck. Kenrik’s heaven—he’s a dream. He’s like the young Nureyev. Mmm … What’s this thing from the
Lit Supp?”
“When you left me, Lily, I—”
“I didn’t leave you. It was mutual.”
“When you left me, Lily, I began to think about my future.” And he wrote to the
Lit Supp
, asking for a book to review on trial. He wanted to become a literary critic. And a poet (but that was a secret). He knew he could never become a novelist. To become a novelist, you had to be the silent presence at the gathering,
the one on whom nothing is lost
. And he was not that kind of observer, not that kind of I. He couldn’t read a situation; he was always misconstruing it. “Scheherazade!” he called out. “A parcel sent here from England! How long?”
“It varies!” she
“Lily!” Nobody was supposed to know for sure about his shits. “Actually I tried, but I lost my nerve. Come on, read it with me. No interrupting.”
When I woke up the next day, feeling very seedy indeed, I found 1) a strange girl in my bed (fully dressed, including gumboots), 2) Violet, under an old curtain and a tattoo-bespattered skinhead on the sitting-room floor, and, most derangingly, 3) a fucking duck doing laps in the bathtub. Yes, well, an average kind ofevening. But what stayed with me was the business with Michael Underwood.
We—
“The duck,” said Lily (he could feel her breath on his neck). “That must have been
very
bad. Ooh. See? He’s making progress.”
Keith stared out into the yellow glitter. Adriano had worked his way up the sunbed, and now sat face to face with the supine Scheherazade; he was leaning forward and his right hand rested on the far side of her waist.
“He’s torturing her,” said Keith. “Look at her face.”
And it was true, he thought. Scheherazade had the expression of a woman cajoled on to the stage by a professional magician or hypnotist or knife-thrower. Amused, embarrassed, deeply unconvinced, and about to be sawn in half. Lily said,
“I see a smile. Look. He’s almost resting his chin on her tits.”
“Wait till they stand up at the same time. That’ll put things in perspective. Now shsh. You’re interrupting.”
“Adriano—what happened to his neck?”
We met after work, and Michael was unusually quiet—all loath and diffident. I had to sneak up on the subject. A couple of drinks later he said—Christ—he said he’d never been set upon so wildly and so insensately (this was the word he used) in all his life. And he reminded me, again with some diffidence, that during his art-school years he was known as Dockyard Doreen. And consider this. Michael isn’t pretty . So, my dear Little Keith, please, your thoughts.
“Insensate?”
“Senseless. Without sense. Or sensibility. Without feeling.” And he thought: Impy! He thought of the Violet boyfriend called
Impy
. “Maybe I’ll talk to Whittaker …”
“What happened to Adriano’s thigh?”
You do see the weirdness of it, don’t you? When I felt Michael’s moustache on my lips, all I had to say was no thanks. Imagine if he’d kept on coming all the way there. So, Keith, please, your thoughts.
PS. A jiffy bag came for you from the Lit Supp. I’ll get the office to smother it in stamps and send it on.PPS. It looks as though Kenrik will be going camping with Rita. Their destination is Sardinia, and I suppose it’s conceivable that they’ll get as far as Montale. I gave him the number. Is it really a castle? Kenrik insists that he and Rita are just good friends and he intends to keep it that way. I dutifully—but I think pointlessly—repeated your words of advice. I said, “Whatever you do, don’t fuck the Dog.”
“Why shouldn’t he?” said Lily. “If he wants to. I’m not sure I understand.”
“No one understands. Not really. But everyone knows that you mustn’t.”
“Ah, but Rita’ll be having a say in that, won’t she. And she acts like a boy. She’s
bound
to try her luck. Kenrik’s heaven—he’s a dream. He’s like the young Nureyev. Mmm … What’s this thing from the
Lit Supp?”
“When you left me, Lily, I—”
“I didn’t leave you. It was mutual.”
“When you left me, Lily, I began to think about my future.” And he wrote to the
Lit Supp
, asking for a book to review on trial. He wanted to become a literary critic. And a poet (but that was a secret). He knew he could never become a novelist. To become a novelist, you had to be the silent presence at the gathering,
the one on whom nothing is lost
. And he was not that kind of observer, not that kind of I. He couldn’t read a situation; he was always misconstruing it. “Scheherazade!” he called out. “A parcel sent here from England! How long?”
“It varies!” she
Similar Books
