up; the cord had long broken and I rarely bothered standing on a chair to pull the blind down—what did it matter if someone on the street saw me rinsing a cup or boiling a kettle? But what if someone were to look up and see a half-naked man drinking a cup of tea at three in the morning—a different man to the one they so often saw up there, opening a can of beans, all on his own? Even worse, what if they were to recognise, not just a half-naked stranger but a half-naked Noël Mewton-Wood? That would be the end of his career, I thought: he would be humiliated in court, splashed across the papers and sent off to Wormwood Scrubs. And all because he spent one night with me. He would forget about how sublime our time together had been, how I’d combed my fingers through his wavy hair and told him he’d made me the happiest man in the world—yes, I would just be the wretch who ruined his life.
He was standing there reciting Cavafy and I was about to call him over to the piano rather than make a scene, insist we play some Schubert, get him away fromthat window. But then he put down his cup—in the very position in which I now saw it—slipped on his shirt, and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. I was immediately up on a chair and pulling down the blind, and when he returned from the bathroom—again whistling Gibbon’s Fantasia , softly this time—I was standing at the piano, flicking through some scores, and he didn’t notice a thing.
I turned now to look at the pillow beside me, the empty space in the bed. I could smell him, feel his hands on my skin. I imagined where he might be at this moment—practising perhaps, or maybe discussing a programme with Sargent or Beecham—no doubt also thinking about our night.
Then I had an idea. I would go shopping. I had about five pounds in the tin under the sink, for food, books, music and outings, as well as some extra coupons I’d saved, but I wouldn’t need all of that now—I hadn’t spent a penny the previous night. Noël had provided the opera tickets, bought the champagne, offered me cigarettes. But it was clear I’d be needing some new clothes. I’d go to the street market at Petticoat Lane where I’d heard you could buy extra coupons. First I’d get myself a shirt, something smart but relaxed, like the ivory-coloured one he’d worn. And I’d need some cologne—I had no idea what type; I’d never worn cologne before, but I was sure the ladies at Boots would help me if I told them I wanted to ask out a girl in my office. And depending on how much money I had left, I’d buysomething for Noël; I’d go to Covent Garden and buy him a scarf, or a book—a book of poetry, that’s what I’d get him, I thought. I would go to that little bookshop on the corner and ask the bookseller if he had some poetry, not by Cavafy but by someone similar to Cavafy—something that an admirer of Cavafy was sure to like.
Part II
a prelude
Four hours until curtain-up.
I’ve just looked in the mirror. I haven’t shaved for two days. I look old. Well, not old, but beyond my twenty-six years (is it possible only nine years have passed since that night?). I dreamt last night that my hair had turned white, and I’ve just now noticed several grey hairs in front of my ears and a couple of white whiskers on my chin. My father went prematurely grey; I can’t even remember him with dark hair. Perhaps I’ll be grey by thirty too. I am looking more like him: my face is getting longer, thinner; my eyes more deep set, without that wide-eyed gaze.
I ought to have had a haircut for tonight’s concert, made the kind of effort I once might have made. One time I met up with Noël after a visit to the barber, my hair brilliantined into oily submission, and he told me I looked like Dirk Bogarde. Noël adored Dirk Bogarde.After he saw Hunted he didn’t stop talking about it for weeks.
Today, I dare say, I look more like Bela Lugosi after a night on the town. Yes, a vampire—how
He was standing there reciting Cavafy and I was about to call him over to the piano rather than make a scene, insist we play some Schubert, get him away fromthat window. But then he put down his cup—in the very position in which I now saw it—slipped on his shirt, and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. I was immediately up on a chair and pulling down the blind, and when he returned from the bathroom—again whistling Gibbon’s Fantasia , softly this time—I was standing at the piano, flicking through some scores, and he didn’t notice a thing.
I turned now to look at the pillow beside me, the empty space in the bed. I could smell him, feel his hands on my skin. I imagined where he might be at this moment—practising perhaps, or maybe discussing a programme with Sargent or Beecham—no doubt also thinking about our night.
Then I had an idea. I would go shopping. I had about five pounds in the tin under the sink, for food, books, music and outings, as well as some extra coupons I’d saved, but I wouldn’t need all of that now—I hadn’t spent a penny the previous night. Noël had provided the opera tickets, bought the champagne, offered me cigarettes. But it was clear I’d be needing some new clothes. I’d go to the street market at Petticoat Lane where I’d heard you could buy extra coupons. First I’d get myself a shirt, something smart but relaxed, like the ivory-coloured one he’d worn. And I’d need some cologne—I had no idea what type; I’d never worn cologne before, but I was sure the ladies at Boots would help me if I told them I wanted to ask out a girl in my office. And depending on how much money I had left, I’d buysomething for Noël; I’d go to Covent Garden and buy him a scarf, or a book—a book of poetry, that’s what I’d get him, I thought. I would go to that little bookshop on the corner and ask the bookseller if he had some poetry, not by Cavafy but by someone similar to Cavafy—something that an admirer of Cavafy was sure to like.
Part II
a prelude
Four hours until curtain-up.
I’ve just looked in the mirror. I haven’t shaved for two days. I look old. Well, not old, but beyond my twenty-six years (is it possible only nine years have passed since that night?). I dreamt last night that my hair had turned white, and I’ve just now noticed several grey hairs in front of my ears and a couple of white whiskers on my chin. My father went prematurely grey; I can’t even remember him with dark hair. Perhaps I’ll be grey by thirty too. I am looking more like him: my face is getting longer, thinner; my eyes more deep set, without that wide-eyed gaze.
I ought to have had a haircut for tonight’s concert, made the kind of effort I once might have made. One time I met up with Noël after a visit to the barber, my hair brilliantined into oily submission, and he told me I looked like Dirk Bogarde. Noël adored Dirk Bogarde.After he saw Hunted he didn’t stop talking about it for weeks.
Today, I dare say, I look more like Bela Lugosi after a night on the town. Yes, a vampire—how
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