The Twilight Hour by Elizabeth Wilson Page B

the incredible idea that the highest form of painting is a huge canvas showing burly factory workers or alternatively what are actually the conquered inhabitants of Uzbekistan rejoicing in their slavery, in the most disgustingly sentimental Victorian style you can imagine. Now for a humble Surrealist, such as myself, that’s just a little hard to take.’
    â€˜Look, hang on –’ began Hugh, and Colin had gone very red, but now the three men at the next table began to get involved. Two were dishevelled arty types, in the usual corduroy and dusty hair, cut long to touch the collar; the third, who looked younger than his companions, at the same time dressed older, in an uncared-for suit with a waistcoat, a conventional shirt and tie. He was going bald, wore glasses and had buck teeth that seemed too large for his pale, round, schoolboy’s face. He leaned forward, holding a card towards Mavor.
    â€˜Remember – we met the other evening – I’ve opened a gallery–’
    â€˜He thinks the moment has come for a great revival of Surrealism,’ said one of his companions, rather jeeringly. ‘He’s after those Dalí paintings you’re always banging on about, Mavor.’
    Mavor took the proffered card, and leered craftily at his fellow painter: ‘Who says I own any Dalís?’
    The man laughed. ‘Well you, mostly, old boy.’
    Colin couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘Revive Surrealism? People want something uplifting, not that sick Freudian fantasy stuff. It’s degenerate, utterly degenerate.’
    Weirdly, he was beginning to sound like my father.
    â€˜So my work’s degenerate, is it? Salvador Dalí’s degenerate, Max Ernst, André Breton. It’s degenerate to paint the unconscious, to unleash the imagination, to explore the erotic. That’s degenerate. But it’s not degenerate to sell your soul to the Party, to lap up their propaganda, for all we know you were one of their double agents, one of their spies. What exactly were you up to in the Balkans, Harris? Doing the Russians’ dirty work for them?’
    There was a horrified silence. He’d gone too far. I looked round the table, seeing them for a split second frozen, as if caught in a flashbulb photograph: faces distorted with anger, or apprehension; only the onlookers, Radu and Stanley, detached and even amused, while Gwen’s face was a blank white disc, expressionless as ever as she gazed at Mavor.
    Colin leaned forward, his face even bonier in rage. ‘You are degenerate, you absurd, drunken aesthete, with your effete, ephemeral paintings and your … look at you, if you weren’t so drunk I’d knock you down, I’d kick you all the way to–’
    â€˜Colin! Shut up !’ Alan laid a hand on his friend’s arm. Titus was smiling and smiling. He was enjoying himself. Colin had responded exactly as he’d hoped.
    â€˜Oh dear, I must have touched a raw nerve there, hit a chord. We have a spy in our midst. Spying was heroic, of course, during the war. We should be grateful to you, Colin, just as we should be grateful to the glorious Soviet Union.’
    Seeing the look on Colin’s face, the girlfriend was agitated now. ‘ Titus ,’ she whined.
    â€˜Shut up, Fiona.’
    Colin stood up, lurching slightly. Perhaps he was a bit drunk too. ‘Shall I tell you something – I hate people like you. You’re the scum of the earth and after the revolution, there won’t be a place for people like you.’
    â€˜I’ll be liquidated, I suppose.’
    â€˜That would be a very good idea.’ Colin stepped dramatically backwards and his chair fell over. He left it where it was and strode out of the Café. The two artists at the next table clapped. Not the little bald man – he seemed appalled.
    Titus stared stupidly, his mouth open. Then he started to laugh and splutter. I felt a pinpoint of spittle