It’s to be salmon and champers in the intervals. As for the Bloater, he’s never been so sizzling. He arrives dressed to the nines. A trans-continental dinner jacket, a soft white shirt with the most complex crimping down the front (almost a doily) edged in black. A purple tie, a purple silk handkerchief in pocket – both flat and immaculate, or are my eyes deceiving me? An opera cloak, lined again with purple. His hair combed and scented, both glossy and crisply curling (tongs?). Gloves, the score (in case I should want it), a box of liqueur chocolates, naturally, to increase drunkenness, a single red rose on a very long stalk, for me. And on top of this, his hugeness all controlled, he moves properly on clean, shiny shoes. Why, one could actually take such a supple man skating!
Billy, where are you?
And the B. is holding right at the tips of his clean fingers the scrumpled envelope I sent him with my menu for the evening written down in terse badly formed writing.
Does he think I shall be embarrassed by this? No, no. He’s grown up in the last few months. He’s at pains to explain to me the subtle reasons for countermanding certain of my orders.
‘I remembered,’ the massive, now scented head is bending down, ‘how much you liked smoked salmon. You used to say you could stay up all night eating it.’
‘And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’
‘You made me laugh, you know, describing yourself sitting up in bed squeezing lemon over it while you read War and Peace.’
‘Well, bad luck. Because I’m not going to eat it in bed.’
‘Ha-ha-ha. No, of course not.’
‘Hee-hee-hee. You’re dead right I’m not.’
As for myself, I’m dressed in black, as if for a smart funeral, Prince Youssoupoff’s perhaps. Except that I’m a trifle naked. Oh yes, even though the nakedness is down to the minimum, the B. keeps taking a deep breath as though he’s doing the crawl and has to hurry because he’s out of his depth. My dress is a very short pleated culotte in crêpe with a deep V neck, the skirt is two-thirds up my thigh and I’ve polished my legs with cream to make them shine. But really it’s my feet that the B.’s eyes keep returning to. It’s those vulgar sandals with imitation precious stones on them, they make my toes look straight and pretty. Is it that? No, it’s the fact that they’re bare. Bare feet, you understand, bare feet in Europe in late autumn are worth twenty-hundredweight of K. Sutras. Don’t think for a minute I’ve done this purposely. On the contrary, if I’d known the consternation they were going to cause I’d have worn gumboots. If the B. thinks that a pair of bare feet will be the supports for No. 61, then he can take those greedy, restless eyes off to the steppes of Russia for all the good his glaring and staring will do him.
Whew! He does believe in swivelling about. I’ve never been so out-Bloatered. What is that eau-de-cologne? He whooshes it this way and that, and it seems to flow out of his once-pestiliential armpits in great waves of musty rain. I’m nearly asphyxiated, but one must admit it’s good. I’ve just remembered Claudi’s description of his coat, the old one lined with fur: ‘It smells as if it came off a dead Russian lance corporal.’ Come to think of it, tonight’s smell is rather Russian. It smells like the old Czars’ St Petersburg, pulverised at the height of its glory, and sold off in ounces of solid cologne … one gets an impression of chandeliers, ice-buckets, and indoor Russians in crocodile shoes talking French.
Suddenly he makes a mistake! A hum comes out of him. He dowses it instantly. And looks round to see if I’ve heard. I have. His shirt and dinner-jacket creak and rustle apologetically. He looks at his watch.
‘Well, if you’re ready …’
Of course I’m not ready. Let’s see how badly he’ll wait for me. And he hates being late for an opera.
Silver-kid gloves make you look like a surgeon operating on something in a space-ship, so I pick up the black doeskins which fit so tightly it’s like being held by a little black hand when you have them on. What else for the funeral? My black satin Italian bag, almost too small for a lipstick the size of a torpedo, a bottle of scent (don’t underestimate me, old Bloater), a white lace handkerchief from Switzerland with my initials embroidered on it by Swiss nuns (shame on you, Carlos, have you no decency? Nuns), my glasses for seeing all the faces on the stage (I put them on discreetly when the lights go down), my compact which has to be filled by a teaspoon dipping into my great box of banana-pink powder, my comb made of shiny aluminium like a dog’s, no money (I shall borrow from the B. It’s my duty to fleece him) and that seems to be the lot. No – safety pins, and nailclippers for my nails during the car ride, and front-door key, and rings – one to go over my glove. Now my fur coat. It’s raccoon. George gave it to me last Christmas, and I’ve cut a lump out of the middle and belted it.
The creaking tolerance noises in the hall downstairs are coming up to a crescendo. Ah – my fan! I nearly forgot it. When I go down there are large oblong drops of sweat on the B.’s face, like raindrops on a Daimler. I say prettily:
‘But we’ve got masses of time.’
‘We’ll just make it if the traffic is all right.’
As this is the way I normally do things, I’m not a bit put out, and sink comfortably into my seat.
With a big rev-up of the engine the B. drives us away in his ’57 Cadillac. A bit of a let-down, but the B. never spends money on something that does not relate to his body. And he’s constructed physically on too large a scale to need a motor-car for sex advertising and body-beautiful allure. This car is noisy but has vintage rating. I must say London looks quite different out of its windows. Again, just like St Petersburg with lots of sparkling lights as white as stars, and foreign-looking trees (oh, Billy) outlined down to the last twig by the glow of theatreland in front of us.
We rattle along, while I finish myself off, bearing in mind that the B. is staring fixedly through the windscreen. He’s not looking at the traffic but streets and streets ahead where he can just see – if he narrows down his lids, which he does – the curtain going up. That makes him accelerate even faster. He’s got his lips pinched together like an academic, or an old lady, crinkled up against one another rather unpleasantly. I hope he un-crinkles them before we go in.
I set to work with the furious energy of Cellini casting Perseus in bronze, finishing the work to the last detail, as he did, down to the celebrated toe of the godling. My hair has already been fixed unalterably in position; it’s arranged in thickly gilded pieces. Damn, every time I try to do something detailed in the mirror we’re certain to pull up suddenly at a traffic light and I freeze frigid like a rabbit while the other cars close in around us. Have you ever noticed that windows on motor cars are placed at every conceivable level? And when they stop and faces look out of them, it’s like up-and-down tenement windows in some Limehouse laundry area backing onto a railway. I half expect to see a line of washing across a window or a budgerigar cage, with a fierce, energetic yellow bird looking at itself in a splashed mirror.
There’s some rich evening air rushing by outside. I lower the window and I stick my nose into it: first-class quality. The B. instantly shivers; the poor hothouse plant.
‘You’d better wear your gloves, Carlos. You’re bound to get cold at the controls.’ At the controls, a rather leaden sarcasm but it has quality; most men would feel faintly ridiculous if you said it to them.
The B’s reply is predictable.
‘Thanks … you may be right.’ He gets into his gloves reasonably well and fast while driving, though. One forgets he’s quite a good pianist. He’s probably got horribly nimble fingers.
‘By the way, there’s some terrine in the front locker, Min, if you’re feeling hungry.’
Hullo … what’s this? Has he got second sight? I must say he’s determined to please tonight. Perhaps that dirty envelope said more than I thought it did. If he was able to decipher the love message which ran between the lines, it read: ‘Dear Lousy, if you’re hoping to make me tight you can stew in your own juice, yours, Little Nell.’ (As usual I’ve paraphrased it a bit, but the gist was unmistakable). Hmm. He’s paying me back in my own coin. I wouldn’t put it past him to have a sucking-pig delivered to him in the foyer tonight. If so, I shall ask for pineapple.
I open the locker. Yes, there’s a slice of terrine lying in its greased paper on a white cardboard plate. Hooray! I bite into it carefully, trying not to injure the double painting I’ve put on my mouth. I develop a frozen pout inside which I take in and swallow rapidly the arrogant, hybrid jelly-meat with its mongrel colours.
The time-lag between the accelerating car and the beginning of the performance is diminishing with every dark block of buildings we whistle through. We can both of us hear in our imaginations beautiful fat singers in their dressing-rooms letting out trills from their strong throats. Poor Bloater, how I have inhibited you! But for me, you’d be growling resonantly yourself. And the scenery, that’s being glided into position with soft bumps; while light bulbs are switched on and off. But so long as the bassoons aren’t already in the orchestra pit running up and down the scale, we’re safe.
The Bloater swears and grinds his gears. Ah, parking! The graveyard of so many good evenings.
He rustily backs in with much twisting of neck-flesh (‘We can’t all be as hard as tennis-balls’). Then, with a final shudder, we’re at rest. No wonder they talk about being a ‘motorist’ these days, naming it as a profession. I always feel like a reincarnationist going quickly through a second life after forty minutes in a strange motor-car.
I get out, expatriated from the domestic motor-car into the dangerous, chill road. I feel as vulnerable as a newly-hatched butterly with the scent still drying on my neck.
The B. bowls us along inside his opera cloak, and here we are – arrived. Gosh, what delicious stuffiness. The Turkey carpets are covered with freshly-washed people milling to and fro. You could be at the Bourse. I like these St John’s ambulance nurses; with their elbowing manners and tom-boy heartiness they knock us all about, unable to wait for corpses. Also that antiseptic linen headgear they have on lends an almost indefinable astringent to the olfactory spectrum of odours which belongs to an expensive opera-house. A lot of musty dehydrated furs here tonight, at shoulder level it’s like a ranch of petrified foxes. What loud sentences the middle classes exchange when they meet; are they shouting across one of Daddy’s acres? Others say nothing, they just move inexorably in pairs, staring ahead and respirating through open mouths. Thank God for the continental thrusters; both sexes are here in numbers, as ugly as sin and most acceptable. You can always tell the Wagnerians, even on a Verdi evening; both men and women seem to be plastered with blue eye-shadow; they swarm through the porticos with mad eyes, they’ve lived longer, have more terrible opinions, and are definitely uglier than all the rest put together.
The Bloater is in his element. He knows everyone. People bow and scrape. He goes through all his rôles, according to whom we meet. His German and Italian are fluent. And he’s not even showing off. A student with a baby face says about some future performance:
‘I don’t care. I’ll be here anyway, Carlos. Even if it’s only Amy singing Wotan!’
We go slowly upstairs to the crush bar where the smart set, with that special brand of dirty good looks which comes from irregular hours and unaired bedrooms, is drifting along with a melancholy glamour derived from a life divided between the mascara and drug counters in a chemist’s shop. The escorts all have heads like brown, varnished doorknobs.
Just a minute, what have I done? A champagne cocktail has vanished down my throat, and I’ve got no record of it. I feel as though I’ve swallowed splintered glass. We’re at the centre of a pleasantly affected group, everyone talks sense loudly. I’m perfectly certain it’s the best blah in the house at the moment, but I’m disturbed to find myself a little unsteady. I feel resentful towards Billy; why isn’t he here? Bells ring and we go in to our seats.
From the front of the grand tier you can see nearly everyone in the house. The B. seats himself beside me and then looks at me. In his hand are a pair of opera glasses which he’s offering to me. I’m suddenly aware that his eyes are kind, that he’s eager, sensitive and much more than clever, brilliant. I’m hit by remorse. I’ve spent two years being offensive to this man. In return, he’s done me nothing but good. He may even love me, in addition to being in love with me. In that case, it’s serious, and I must behave seriously.
‘Carlos …’ It’s almost the first gentle sound I’ve ever made for him.
He takes my hand, touches it with understanding, slithering his fingers over my knuckles for an instant, and then returns it to my lap again. My impulse is to get up and go straight home.
The lights are put out. And that enormous red and gold curtain, all fringes and tassels, and heavier than twenty lions dipped in blood, is rolled away.
Zut! There’s the Garter Inn – we’re right in the middle of the goings-on. People throw things and sing gaily. The lion-head beside me is still. He is smiling slightly. I sigh, and prepare to enjoy myself.
It’s all right of course until you get the love-duet, Labbra de foco!, and then I can hardly bear to listen. To listen to an opera in the company of a man you are not in love with will only plunge you far more deeply into the power of the absent one. In fact, this is going on all over the opera-house. Everyone is in love with someone else. If you could see the yearning expressions or hear the desolate, solitary thunder of the corseted bodies!
I’m captivated, enchanted. My soul rips herself to pieces and by the first interval is whining for more champagne like an overheated violin. The B., much moved himself, leads us off to the little table just by the staircase where two gilt tête-à-tête chairs are propped inwards. Champagne and bucket, too.
Smoked salmon. I groan; and eat it. All I want to do is to get drunk and look for Billy. I feel a dark horse, like Racquel. At the thought of this name some strange premonition makes me raise my eyes.
Absolutely – of course. You’ve guessed correctly. There she is, in the middle of that animated throng, as pretty as ever I’ve seen her, in a sort of sari affair wound round her as usual (I mean just like those famous blouses) to show off her capable bosom. But with her? I’m straining every sinew. It must be, is it? That very handsome Indian, with the jet-black coat buttoned up under his chin. Oh, but he is distinctly the incarnation of Krishna, so distant, so jade-cold.
I wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to the Bloater. Let him find out in his own good time. You can’t hide anybody in an opera-house. They’ve probably got Billy down in the orchestra pits for all I know.
Oh God, everybody’s here tonight. Where’s George? And Claudi? Then we can all change partners and do a gavotte.
Racquel is coming up. The little beast. And leading that Indian like a haughty carving in chains. When I think of Jenny and myself, with our scholarly textual knowledge of Indian culture, right down to the unpronounceable sound ‘Sût’, I could weep. I bet he’s called Ram.
Racquel introduces him. For the first time in my life I feel that the whole bar is watching; I’m caught in a pincer movement between Bloaters and Rams and successful, radiant ginger women. Oh hell!
I’m glad to get back to my seat, but at once start hunting among the faces below me for familiar ones. (Billy.)
It’s only at the end of the second act that I begin to come to myself. There’s something about the Mistress Quickly scene which is familiar. The love-making, the hiding behind screens, the bursting in, the concealing of Falstaff in a laundry basket. Got it! It’s Claudi and his MacFisheries routine with the Bloater all over again! I start to laugh. I can’t help it.
By the second interval I’m in much better repair. The B. is at his most magnificent. There are women there who just can’t take their eyes off him. With his cloak looped casually over the back of the little gilded chair, the clinking of our constantly raised glasses and our practised, non-stop eating in public and snapped-out repartee (mine) we have the formal shimmer and authority of a really successful religion.
I’ve begun to sparkle ever since I saw (in my mind) the B. getting into that laundry basket on the stage, with Claudi gleefully cramming down the lid on him. (‘And I come round in a striped apron and hit him over the head with a fishmonger’s cudgel.’) I say aloud:
‘Have you ever done the laundry-basket scene?’
He quaffs, pauses, puts a napkin across his mouth (I wonder he doesn’t take a sitz bath before answering too) and replies:
‘Many times. And you know going down in that chute from the window off-stage at the back really shakes you up if they’re not careful. I remember once I got my neck jolted, and had to have massage for six weeks.’
‘Does the dirty linen affect your sinuses?’ (Couldn’t resist it.)
‘Not terribly.’ He raises his head and thinks it over. He knows quite well what I’m up to, and won’t play. He’s got the end of the evening too well in mind to slip up now. He turns his head away so that his libertine’s eyes go on looking at me out of their very corners, gleaming.
Racquel cuts our vision obliquely and disappears again. I suddenly feel my dress isn’t low enough. Thought is catching, and the B. says:
‘I must say your girl friend … knows how to wear a sari. Not many European women …’
It’s fantastic the pure corn the Bloater will come out with. I, alone, must have heard that remark about two hundred times, and those who have lived longer will have an even better score. Even more fantastic, it works! I bridle up exactly as he intended:
‘Oh crikey, don’t give me that handsome woman-in-a-sari jabber. It doesn’t go with the champagne. The best thing about that couple,’ I lean across the table, ‘is the man. He’s got the oval eyes of the perfect lover.’
I made that up on the spur of the moment, but it has an electric effect. The B. obviously thinks I know everything. I feel the brothel walls closing in as he says at once (at once mind you):
‘So you fancy east of Suez love?’
Gosh. What next? I feel I’m getting into deep trouble. I play for time by splashing with my spoon into my fruit salad. East of Suez love indeed, what the devil does that mean? Something pretty murky; chop-sticks and long jump.
I decide not to answer. I make disdainful lips over the new bottle of champagne, remembering Billy’s comment on bad champagne: ‘Bottled washing-up water from the continent.’
The B. hangs on and on with his look, and gets nothing.
Eventually, I decide on a good sentence which should swing the balance of power towards me a bit. I say in the high tin of my English voice:
‘It’s just that he has a kind of smash-hit masculine beauty. I know a girl’ (Jenny) ‘whose nose always runs when she’s introduced to an attractive man. And all Indians are good at games, Carlos.’
Worm your way out of that one if you can, Signor Driving-Gloves! The B. lets this drift out of his mouth:
‘But they don’t all hold the Black Belt.’
‘The Black Belt for Judo? Well, do you?’
‘Ummmm’ (muffled) ‘yes.’
That’s done it. He is as hard as tennis-balls. Claudi and I will have to go back to Square One in our Monopoly game and give up our ‘get out of jail’ cards.
I look at him with extreme disfavour. It really is infuriating. I can’t find anything wrong with him. And I just don’t like him. I say tartly:
‘Do you think I like you, Carlos?’
He hesitates, and answers carefully:
‘I don’t think that matters. I think you need me very, very badly.’
I’m radiantly white with rage, and sit bolt upright staring at him with vixen’s eyes. Clever, clever Bloater. I say:
‘In what especial capacity?’ (I must be off my head.)
Now’s his chance to frame some piffling speech, something really scummy which will touch my heart made of pressed steel. The B. ignores the danger, gets up as the bells for the last act ring, and comes round to pull my chair back. These superb good manners are strictly for public consumption; in private he wouldn’t even tie the shoelace of a woman’s shoe or hand her the sugar for her tea. He says calmly:
‘I think you need me badly in a sexual capacity.’
He stands over me in a posture of pitiless, exultant ecstasy, as high and tilted as a steaming Wagon-Lit leaning over you in the Gare de Lyon on a winter’s night.
If I could scorch the facing off his lapels with my eyes, I would.
Still, at least I can tell myself I’m part of life after all. But am I old enough, too old, to play this game?
That’s the last time we speak before the ‘Bravos’ and the final curtain. Do you realise he’s only said ‘ummm’ once this evening?