New York was seductive. Mark could not go there every weekend, it wouldn’t be approved of and the minister liked to know his staff ’s movements. But as often as possible he would jump on the train and be transported across the great rivers and past the brick towns to the most exciting of American cities.
He went for the first time in June 1915 because George Bruegmann invited him to stay. George had a bachelor apartment off Washington Square. Mark liked the narrow spare bedroom with its fold-up bed and its typical Greenwich Village view of chaotic brick walls and disorganised backyards. George told him to treat the place like home.
One hot Saturday evening Mark arrived in New York extremely tired and on edge. The news was excruciating, the casualties unbearable, the Gallipoli initiative turning into a disaster. The atmosphere at the embassy was pessimistic: if anything, American public opinion was turning against the Allies. Everyone there knew somebody who had been recently killed or wounded, often a close relation. Five from Trinity Hall had been killed, and a don who’d taught him. Mark would put all this out of his mind at work, but at night he’d dream of his friends’ faces shot to pieces.
George was at home, having a cocktail. This was normal on a Saturday evening. What was not normal was that George was only wearing a singlet and shorts. Mark had not really seen his body before. He became aware that he was looking George up and down.
‘Come here.’
Mark went over. George stood up.
‘We’re on our own.’
Mark nodded politely.
‘I think you should take off that jacket, it’s a warm day, you don’t need it.’ Mark hesitated, and obeyed. Then George did what Mark had done, slowly inspecting Mark’s body from top to toe. When he’d finished he put a hand on Mark’s thigh.
‘Ever been kissed, Mark? Properly? By someone you know.’
No answer.
‘That’s what I thought. Well, here goes.’
Mark resisted.
‘From the moment I first saw you,’ said George, ‘I wanted you, and I knew it was possible. I have an eye for these things. Forget convention, do what you really want to do.’
No answer.
‘Oh come on, Markie, you like me and I like you. Nobody’s going to know, you’re safe with me. It’s just pleasure, it doesn’t mean you’re a queer, this is just close friendship with another man.’ He stroked Mark’s body. ‘You need to extend yourself – and look, you have extended yourself ! Well. . . you need to follow a lead as long as that one.’ He took Mark by the shoulder. ‘Don’t look so grim. I want you to try an experiment.’ And he stroked Mark’s cheek.
Mark shook his head.
‘It’s what the Ancient Greeks did, you know. Have you read Havelock Ellis? Interesting about male love: nothing inherently wrong about it, genetically determined, a genuine form of love.’
‘I’ve not read him.’ Mark realised how cold and stiff he must sound, but what was he to say?
‘Well, his works are banned in England. A member of His Majesty’s Diplomatic Corps is not going to read him, is he? But you’re in America now, Mark, we like to cross new frontiers. Anyway, I wouldn’t be the first one, would I?’
Mark looked away.
‘Just the first whose name you’ve known, is that right? Isn’t it a little odd, to want to make love only to people you don’t know?’ He put his arm round Mark’s shoulder, and shook him. ‘We’ll make a pact. If, by ten, you aren’t enjoying it, you can get out of bed.’ Mark jerked his head. ‘And in the morning we can go to Macy’s, and you can buy me a red tie, and I’ll buy you a true blue tie.’ This made Mark smile just a little, a red tie meant you were a man who liked men.
‘That’s my boy.’ And George steered him towards his bedroom.