Ritual in the Dark

  He was standing by the window, staring out. In the faint dawnlight, the big naked body looked like a marble statue. The shoulders were broad; rounded muscle, a dancer’s shoulders.

  Sorme could not see his eyes. They would be stone eyes, not closed, immobile in the half light, nor like the eyes of the priest, grey in the ugly gargoyle’s face. When he closed his own eyes he saw the dancer, the big body, moving without effort through the air, slowly, unresisted, then coming to earth, as silent as a shadow. It was very clear. The face, slim and muscular, bending over him, a chaplet of rose leaves woven into the hair, a faun’s face, the brown animal eyes smiling at him, beyond good and evil.

  Cold the dawnlight on marble roofs, more real than the jazz. You’re gonna miss me, honey. Glass corridors leading nowhere.

  And then the leap, violent as the sun on ice, beyond the bed, floating without noise, on, through the open window.

  The excitement rose in him like a fire. The rose, bloodblack in the silver light, now reddening in the dawn that blows over Paddington’s roof-tops. Ending. A rose thrown from an open window, curving high over London’s waking roof-tops, then falling, its petals loosening, into the grey soiled waters of the Thames.

  He wanted to say it, with the full shock of amazement: So that’s who you are!

  Certain now, as never before, the identification complete.

  It was still there as he woke up, the joy and surprise of the discovery, fading as he looked around the lightening room. He said aloud: Vaslav.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ONE

  His room felt cold, and somehow unoccupied. He lit the gas under the kettle, and lay down on the bed, his eyes closed. It was a quarter-past seven; it had taken him just over an hour to walk from Paddington. He felt weak and tired, but curiously at peace. He wondered whether Nunne would find the note he had left on the pillow; he had seen no one as he left the house.

  In the room underneath a radio was playing. He heard a man’s voice call: What have you done with the plug off my electric razor? The sky outside the window was heavy with rain-clouds and dawn. It was the first time for many months that he had been awake so early, and the sensation brought a certain freshness with it, and the thought of charladies in the Mile End Road catching City buses and of men in overalls carrying lunch tins. The rain clouds hung low, like smoke.

  He made tea and sat on the bed to drink it, covering his knees with the eiderdown. The room was chilly, even with the gas-fire burning. He read till he heard the eight o’clock pips from the radio below.

  He met the German girl on his way back from the bathroom. She said:

  There’s a letter on the table for you.

  Oh, thanks.

  The neat handwriting on the envelope was strange to him, but he recognised the heading on the notepaper. The typed message read:

  There is something I would like to talk to you about. Could you ring me when you receive this, please? Gertrude Quincey.

  The first-floor tenant, carrying a briefcase, pushed past him, saying irritably: Excuse me. Sorme moved automatically, staring at the two lines of type, frowning with the effort to guess what Miss Quincey could want. He pulled a handful of change out of his pocket, and found four pennies. As the number began to ring, he experienced a sudden misgiving about the earliness of the hour.

  A woman’s voice said: Hello?

  Gertrude?

  Who is it?

  Gerard Sorme.

  Hello, Gerard! This is Caroline.

  Hello, sweet. What are you doing there?

  Having breakfast right at this moment.

  Where’s your aunt?

  In the garden. Hold on a moment and I’ll get her. . . .

  Wait. Don’t go yet. When am I going to see you?

  That’s up to you.

  Could you make it tomorrow night?

  I . . . Here comes Aunt Gertrude.

  He heard her say:

  It’s Gerard, Aunt.

  Miss Quincey’s voice said:

  Hello, Gerard.

  I’ve just got your letter.

  Yes. I’m glad you rang. When will you be free to come over? Her voice was as detached as a receptionist’s making an appointment.

  When you like . . . more or less.

  Could you come today for lunch?

  I expect so. Is it anything very important?

  I’ll explain when I see you.

  All right. See you then. By the way . . .

  Yes?

  Will there be anyone else there?

  No.

  Ah . . . well, see you later. Bye-bye.

  He hung up, feeling slightly foolish. He had half suspected it might be to meet some Jehovah’s Witness colleague.

  The girl came past him, carrying an armful of sheets. She said: You’re up early today.

  I’m reforming. The clean, healthy life.

  He locked the door of his room behind him, and lay on the bed. He felt suddenly very tired. The idea of lunch with Miss Quincey did not appeal to him, nor the thought that Oliver Glasp was coming for supper. He would have to buy food and wine, to go to the bank, to sweep and tidy his room.

  Still thinking about it, he fell asleep.

  When he woke up, it was half-past twelve. For a moment he could not think what time it was, or what he was doing there. His head was still thick with sleep. When he remembered the lunch appointment he felt no inclination to get up. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. The gas-fire still burned; the room was airless. Sitting there, he noticed something white sticking under the door. He crossed the room, walking heavily, like a drunken man, and picked it up. On the back of a torn Woodbine packet someone had written: Miss Denbigh phoned. She will come tomorrow evening.

  In the bathroom he plunged his face into a bowl of cold water, and blew vigorously, to clear his head. He stripped to the waist and washed, then changed his shirt and trousers and hurried out of the house. It was five minutes to one. He felt light-headed, as if he had just risen from a six weeks’ spell in a hospital bed. He resented the daylight and the noise of traffic. Something inside him wanted to shrink into a tight ball. At the bank he withdrew five pounds, but only after the cashier had pointed out that he had forgotten to sign the cheque.

  He rang her doorbell with a sharp jab of his thumb, feeling unreasonably irritated with her for laying claim to his time. As soon as he saw her the tension disappeared. She smiled happily at him:

  Hello, Gerard. I’ve just rung your lodgings to see if you’d forgotten to come.

  I’m awfully sorry. I fell asleep and didn’t wake up till half an hour ago.

  That’s all right. Take your coat off. Are you on your bicycle? Sit down. A glass of sherry?

  No, thanks. I think I’d better lay off it for today.

  Why?

  I feel fragile. I was up late last night.

  With Austin?

  Yes.

  He wondered about the meaning of the look she gave him. She said:

  Well, sit down, anyhow. I’ll bring you some soup in a moment.

  The radio was relaying a concert. He closed his eyes, listening to the Mozart concerto, and wished he was at home and in bed. He remembered Caroline, but the thought of having her in his room gave him no pleasure. It only brought the reflection that he would have to change the sheets on his bed, which would mean cycling to the laundry. His thoughts switched to Nunne, and his dream of the night before; it seemed meaningless. He felt irritated with them all, with Miss Quincey, Austin, Caroline, Glasp. He thought, with closed eyes: What have I to do with the bloody fools? The resentment brought a longing for solitude, and a vague wish for some intenser form of existence.

  Soup?

  Thanks. Aren’t you eating?

  In a moment. I’ve had my soup. Do you want a tray?

  No, thanks. I’ll go to the table.

  The first mouthful of tomato soup brought a keen pleasure that made him want to laugh. His stomach relaxed with gratitude, and
an inner peace passed over him like a wind, giving a sense of some secret glimpsed and recognised. Miss Quincey asked:

  Do you mind coming to eat in the kitchen? When you’ve finished your soup, of course.

  Thanks.

  The kitchen was warm; the windows were obscured by a mist of condensed steam. The concert was still audible through an extension loudspeaker above the table.

  I hope you like kidneys? It’s kidney pie.

  He swallowed the first mouthful, and found it good. He said:

  When are you going to tell me why you wanted me to come?

  Afterwards.

  He looked at her, hearing the hurried note of a repressed anxiety in her voice. He said:

  All right.

  She ate without raising her eyes. The brown woollen dress she was wearing moulded itself to her figure, and had the effect of making him aware that her face seemed older than her body. She looked up suddenly and caught him staring at her. She said critically:

  You don’t look at all well.

  I feel all right.

  It was true; there was only still the fatigue, a desire to close his eyes and retreat from the necessity of focusing his attention.

  Where were you last night?

  At some club. . . .

  What club?

  Just a night-club.

  You shouldn’t let Austin drag you to clubs.

  No.

  He suffers from a permanent state of boredom. You ought to know that.

  I expect you’re right.

  A voice from the loudspeaker announced that the last item on the programme would be the Prokofiev fifth symphony. Sorme said:

  Good. My favourite symphony. Will it go up louder?

  He wanted an excuse for finishing the meal without further talk. Miss Quincey obediently reached out and turned up the volume, then ate without speaking. He experienced a sudden flash of affection for her, looking at her averted face, feeling an intuition that she would be easy to hurt.

  When he finished eating, she asked: Fruit?

  No, thanks. I’m full. I enjoyed it.

  Good.

  He tried to frame some compliment about her cooking, but gave up the effort. Watching her fill the kettle, he reflected gloomily that her cooking had given her a right to lecture him. It would also be impossible, after such a meal, to refuse to attend at least one of her Bible classes. He had come to the conclusion that this was what she wanted to talk to him about.

  Would you like to listen to the music in the other room? I’ll bring in coffee in a moment.

  When she came in twenty minutes later he was asleep in front of the electric fire. On the radio someone was giving a talk on gardening. He woke up as she switched it off. The noise of rain on the windows became audible; the wind was blowing it in flurries. He said ruefully:

  I’m afraid I’m a rotten guest. I can hardly keep awake.

  He sugared the coffee from the bowl she held out.

  What happened last night?

  Oh, I drank too much . . . and got sick.

  Is that all?

  He glanced at her in surprise.

  Yes. What else did you think?

  I don’t know.

  He could not see her face clearly as she sat down; the half-light of the December afternoon filled the room with shadows. He watched her, waiting for her to speak, and finding it difficult to keep his eyelids from dropping. The silence lengthened. She asked finally:

  Do you mind if I ask some rather frank questions?

  No. Go ahead.

  He could feel rather than see her hesitation. A suspicion took shape, and sparked across his mind.

  How well do you know Austin?

  He said honestly: I don’t know. Why?

  She began to stir her coffee quickly and nervously, now staring into his face. He said:

  What is it you think I ought to know about Austin?

  When she spoke, her voice was slightly breathless. It made him feel as if she was looking down from a height that fright­ened her.

  Do you . . . know why Austin has never married?

  He sat up in the chair, the suspicion expanding into a startled incredulity. He answered quickly:

  I expect he doesn’t like girls.

  He watched her, now completely awake, sensing what was about to come, and feeling no desire to help her. He wanted to see how she would manage it. She asked, after a silence:

  Do you understand me?

  I’m not sure. What are you asking me?

  I . . . it’s very difficult for me. . . .

  Well, how about coming right out with it? Who’s been talking to you about Austin?

  You mustn’t mention this to him.

  No.

  Well . . . Brother Robbins.

  What on earth does he know?

  She seemed glad to be back on solid ground again.

  He has to do a lot of social work—door to door. And when he met Austin for the first time—two weeks ago—he thought he’d seen him somewhere. He didn’t tell me at the time, but he made enquiries. . . .

  Yes.

  . . . and found that Austin is quite well known in certain circles that are . . . known to the police.

  Criminals?

  Oh no!

  Irritated into impatience, Sorme said bluntly:

  You mean homosexuals?

  She said weakly:

  Yes.

  Your Brother Robbins sounds like a silly gossip, Sorme said curtly.

  Oh no. He thought I ought . . .

  Her voice tailed off; the effort to get it all out had made it tremble noticeably. She asked finally:

  It is true, then?

  Yes.

  And you’ve known all the time?

  Most of it. But what does it matter?

  She was looking at him steadily now, and he could sense the confusion of feelings that was trying to find expression. He said:

  Let me answer the question that’s in your mind. I’m not homosexual myself.

  She said, blushing:

  I knew that.

  Did you? How?

  I . . . you . . .

  It made him wonder suddenly if she had noticed his specula­tive looks at her figure. But she went on, with a kind of hopeless­ness in her voice:

  Perhaps I didn’t know. I just assumed.

  His hostility dissolved in the face of her bewilderment. He would have liked to put his arms around her. He said:

  Look here, there’s no sense in getting excited about it. I’ve known about it since I first met Austin, but it didn’t worry me. After all, it’s his own business. I like him because . . . well, we’re both writers, we’ve got a lot in common. And . . . he’s a nice person.

  But . . . don’t you think it matters?

  Do you mean, do I think it’s wicked? No, not especially. I’m glad I’m not homosexual myself, but after all it’s a matter of taste. I know that some people seem to be homosexual out of sheer worthlessness. But others seem to be born like it. . . .

  He was remembering, as he talked, the impatience that he’d felt last time he had been here, his irritation in the face of her self-assurance. Now the self-assurance had collapsed, and he felt no better about it. The reversal was too complete.

  Are people really born like it?

  Of course! Didn’t you know?

  No, I . . . I never met anyone like it before. Do you think Austin was always like that?

  I should think it likely. I don’t know him well enough. What sort of a child was he? Was he a mother’s pet?

  Oh yes, very much. But why?

  Oh, it could have something to do with it.

  He began to talk, as detachedly as possible, about statistics of homosexuality, factors of childhood influence, of sex hormones, trying to see her face in the half-light. She listened without interrupting. When he paused, waiting for her to speak, she asked abruptly:

  Could he be cured?

  I don’t know. It’s rather late. Probably he doesn’t want to be cured.
Besides, that’s not necessarily Austin’s real problem. He accepts it, yet something still worries him.

  What do you think?

  I don’t know. Many homosexuals lead quite ordinary lives. They sometimes settle down with a boy-friend, and live like any married couple.

  Don’t people notice?

  Sometimes. But there’s nothing very strange about two men sharing a flat.

  But you think Austin feels guilty about it?

  No. There’s just something about him that makes him nervous and restless. I don’t know what it is. Something torments him. Whatever it is, it drives him into this lone-wolf attitude. I don’t think he could ever live with anyone.

  She said with astonishment:

  I should hope not! What would his poor parents think?

  He said, smiling:

  That’s another question I can’t answer. I can only tell you what any doctor or psychiatrist would tell you—that it’s not necessarily a matter of moral turpitude.

  She said hesitantly:

  The Bible forbids it. . . .

  No doubt it does. The Bible forbids fornication and a lot of other things that go on all the time.

  That doesn’t make them right!

  No, you’re right; it doesn’t. But men and women can get married and legalise it. Homosexuals can’t. So what can be done?

  She sat, staring into the red bars of the fire. The only sound in the room was the drumming of rain. Sorme stared out into the garden; from where he was sitting he could see his bicycle, covered with the yellow cycling cape. Under the dead sky the lawn, sprinkled with rotting leaves, looked as forbidding as a no-man’s-land. The darkness and rain aroused in him a sensation of comfort. Looking at Miss Quincey, he considered the possi­bility of kissing her, just to see how she would react. She gave him the impression that she was confronting a problem that she was incapable of grasping, and that now nothing would surprise her. She asked: