Madison Avenue was at its decorously inviting best. Mark and George had lunched in a little French restaurant and the wine and the company had persuaded Mark to relax, more than a little. They’d chatted about the embassy, and his efforts to talk round the press. Mark remarked, ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be talking so freely,’ and George smilingly said, ‘You’re safe with me.’
Now they were sauntering along Madison Avenue and wondering whether to go for a walk in the park when he heard a loud English voice.
‘Why, Mark, hello!’
It was Harry. Mark looked at him in astonishment, then horror. What was Harry doing in New York? He was supposed to be in Mexico City.
‘I should have warned you I was coming to the States, but it’s confidential, I can’t tell even you what my business is. I’m not coming to Washington or of course I’d have. . .’ He looked at George.
‘George Bruegmann.’ George held out his hand.
‘Harry Mansell. Mark, after so long in the Service you ought to know how to make introductions.’ He and George laughed.
‘How long are you in the States, Harry?’ asked Mark, trying to sound pleased to see him.
‘Oh, a few days in New York, then business elsewhere. I’m on my way home, my posting in Mexico’s over. I tried to enlist but they said no. You too, I gather.’
Mark looked at the sidewalk. Then George made himself highly agreeable, gave Harry his card, told him to look him up if he had time to spare in New York.
‘It’s good to see you, Harry,’ said Mark. ‘I’ (he avoided saying ‘we’) ‘am going to meet a friend, can’t really stay. . .’
‘See you soon, no doubt,’ said Harry. ‘Good to meet you, George.’
Mark and George walked along in silence.
‘So, where are you going to meet your friend?’
‘Which friend?’
‘The friend you’re going to meet.’
‘I’m not going to meet a friend, you know that.’ Then, with an effort at warmth which sounded hollow even to him, ‘You’re my friend.’
‘So why did you tell such a stupid lie? Did you think I was going to say to that man, “Mark and I have to get back to my apartment because we want to make love”?’
Mark had never seen him angry before. Was this a quarrel? They had never quarrelled. Mark hated quarrelling, and George was good-natured and equable, that was understood.
‘D’you think I liked standing on the sidewalk while you pretended I wasn’t there? You were embarrassed, were you? Embarrassed to be seen with me, as though people might think you were associating with a queer?’
‘Don’t talk like that, not on the street.’
‘Not on the street, because someone might hear, and think, “Dear little Mark from the embassy. . .”’
‘Don’t, please don’t.’
‘Someone might think dear little Mark was a queer. Which of course he isn’t, he just likes going to bed with men. Or rather with me, it’s nothing serious. . . I don’t want to embarrass you, let’s each go our own way. Unlike you, I do have friends I’d like to visit, but I don’t think you’d like them, they’re inverts.’
Mark realised he was opening and closing his mouth like a frightened rabbit.
‘Oh and by the way, if you intend to stay tonight, use the spare room.’ Mark went back to the apartment. He passed his eyes round George’s living room, he would never see it again. It was spare, with pale walls, the minimum of furniture, as tidy and convenient as you might expect of an ex-naval officer’s quarters.
He packed his bag slowly, putting in all the things he normally left between visits. He wondered what he should do with the cufflinks George had given him as a birthday present. He often wore them. They’d been a reminder of George, but unobtrusive. He decided to leave them. That would signal the end of their friendship, he supposed. He put the little black box on top of the chest of drawers and made for the front door. On his way across the living room, he changed his mind, went back and fetched the cufflinks. He wrote a little note: ‘I’m so sorry, Mark.’ He caught the train to Washington and drank several cocktails in the restaurant car. They made him even more miserable.