playing Fantasiestücke! Wonderful!’ He started on ‘ In der Nacht ’ without even turning to the page. ‘You know this one’s about the romance of Hero and Leander?’ He looked at me and smiled.
I can’t even remember what I said next; I just recall staring at him, trying to make him merge, visually, into my apartment, make his presence seem natural. Here was he, the great Noël Mewton-Wood, askingmy opinions on music, toying with me, noodling at the piano that I had sat at, dreaming of him, for almost six years. I wasn’t sure whether what I felt was more euphoria or acute discomfort, that he had unwittingly stumbled into my lair where all my secrets lay.
My room, such an obliging accessory to my fantasies, now looked so dreary and grey. I had become accustomed to letting my days slip by like a lustreless backdrop upon which I could erect my brilliant imaginings. Now that my dream-world had invaded my reality so scandalously—marched straight in and sat down at my piano in front of me—I was at a loss as to how I might wed the two. It struck me that perhaps I had conjured this all. But then he was so much bolder, more generous and attentive than my imagined Noël, whom I knew so intimately; I was quite disturbed by how differently he behaved. All that childish behaviour (jumping about pulling faces and cracking lewd jokes), I really had no idea how to respond at all.
I didn’t have to worry for long, though; I didn’t have to do a thing. I took the whistling kettle off the burner, and as I turned to face the room Noël bounced up from the piano and landed before me, so close that I had to step back against the cupboards. His right hand slipped quietly around my waist (I didn’t notice until he pressed me against it), and with his left hand he took the kettle from me and lowered it onto the bench without a glance. Then, for the first time since the end of the performance, our conversation stopped and we stood facing each other in a terrifying silence.He pulled me in close with those Herculean hands—I thought he might squeeze the breath out of me. My body froze up, but that didn’t bother him at all; he pressed his lips down hard on mine. I remember that moment so clearly it might have happened just now—a thousand tiny strings within me were suddenly snipped, and I all but collapsed into his arms.
I hadn’t even opened my eyes. I just lay there with the duvet wrapped around me, listening to the patter of the rain, water trickling from the guttering and running down the pipes, the swish of the cars as they sailed through the puddles on the street.
He had left several hours earlier, well before it was even light, and although I now lay smiling in anticipation of our next meeting (I’d been barely conscious when he carefully untangled my arms from his body then whispered that he’d ring), I was glad to wake up and have my place to myself. If he had stayed, the morning might have been awkward—even a little sour, dare I say—in comparison to the night before.
I opened my eyes and looked around the room, marvelling at its stillness, at the dull, grey walls that had witnessed such a night. I felt as if I were in a concert hall after a symphony had been performed and the orchestra and crowd had all departed—captivated by the silence, chasing the sound of the strings, the horns, the flutes.
My eyes were drawn immediately to the teapot and cups on the table, his on the side nearest the windowwith its handle towards the sink. Because that’s where he’d stood drinking his cup of tea when he slipped out of bed in the middle of the night and started reciting a poem by Cavafy, performing it over and over. Although the room was near freezing, he stood there wearing only his boxers, with bare feet and no shirt (I couldn’t take my eyes off his taut ivory-white chest). But as I was gazing up at him I realised he was standing right in front of the window, for all the world to see! The blind was all the way
I can’t even remember what I said next; I just recall staring at him, trying to make him merge, visually, into my apartment, make his presence seem natural. Here was he, the great Noël Mewton-Wood, askingmy opinions on music, toying with me, noodling at the piano that I had sat at, dreaming of him, for almost six years. I wasn’t sure whether what I felt was more euphoria or acute discomfort, that he had unwittingly stumbled into my lair where all my secrets lay.
My room, such an obliging accessory to my fantasies, now looked so dreary and grey. I had become accustomed to letting my days slip by like a lustreless backdrop upon which I could erect my brilliant imaginings. Now that my dream-world had invaded my reality so scandalously—marched straight in and sat down at my piano in front of me—I was at a loss as to how I might wed the two. It struck me that perhaps I had conjured this all. But then he was so much bolder, more generous and attentive than my imagined Noël, whom I knew so intimately; I was quite disturbed by how differently he behaved. All that childish behaviour (jumping about pulling faces and cracking lewd jokes), I really had no idea how to respond at all.
I didn’t have to worry for long, though; I didn’t have to do a thing. I took the whistling kettle off the burner, and as I turned to face the room Noël bounced up from the piano and landed before me, so close that I had to step back against the cupboards. His right hand slipped quietly around my waist (I didn’t notice until he pressed me against it), and with his left hand he took the kettle from me and lowered it onto the bench without a glance. Then, for the first time since the end of the performance, our conversation stopped and we stood facing each other in a terrifying silence.He pulled me in close with those Herculean hands—I thought he might squeeze the breath out of me. My body froze up, but that didn’t bother him at all; he pressed his lips down hard on mine. I remember that moment so clearly it might have happened just now—a thousand tiny strings within me were suddenly snipped, and I all but collapsed into his arms.
I hadn’t even opened my eyes. I just lay there with the duvet wrapped around me, listening to the patter of the rain, water trickling from the guttering and running down the pipes, the swish of the cars as they sailed through the puddles on the street.
He had left several hours earlier, well before it was even light, and although I now lay smiling in anticipation of our next meeting (I’d been barely conscious when he carefully untangled my arms from his body then whispered that he’d ring), I was glad to wake up and have my place to myself. If he had stayed, the morning might have been awkward—even a little sour, dare I say—in comparison to the night before.
I opened my eyes and looked around the room, marvelling at its stillness, at the dull, grey walls that had witnessed such a night. I felt as if I were in a concert hall after a symphony had been performed and the orchestra and crowd had all departed—captivated by the silence, chasing the sound of the strings, the horns, the flutes.
My eyes were drawn immediately to the teapot and cups on the table, his on the side nearest the windowwith its handle towards the sink. Because that’s where he’d stood drinking his cup of tea when he slipped out of bed in the middle of the night and started reciting a poem by Cavafy, performing it over and over. Although the room was near freezing, he stood there wearing only his boxers, with bare feet and no shirt (I couldn’t take my eyes off his taut ivory-white chest). But as I was gazing up at him I realised he was standing right in front of the window, for all the world to see! The blind was all the way
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