contentedly:
You really are a very odd person, Gerard.
Sorme finished the whisky, staring hard at Nunne. He signalled again to the waiter, and waved a hand at the two glasses. He said deliberately:
It's not oddness. I am convinced that life can be lived at twenty times its present intensity… somehow. I spend all I my life looking for the way to it. I envy madmen. But somehow I never get closer to it myself. But I cling to symbols. Nijinsky is one of my symbols.
The waiter set down two more large whiskies. Sorme said:
I'll get these.
No. No. Please.
As the waiter went away, Sorme asked: Why should you pay for my drinks?
Because my father's disgustingly rich.
Oh.
You look shocked!
No. Tell me, what do you do with your time?
Ah, there you touch a delicate subject. I have developed fifty different ways of wasting it. I write books — not very good ones. I attend all the concerts and operas and ballets. I fly to Vienna and Milan and Berlin for concerts. If I was just a little more worthless I'd drink two bottles of pernod a day and kill myself in a year. As it is, I fly a plane and like fast cars.
Sorme said, disingenuously: You're not married, of course?
No, I never met anyone I wanted to settle down with. For some reason, I prefer bitches. I don't suppose you understand that?
No, I don't really. I hate bitches — of any sex.
You obviously lack a masochistic leaning.
I hate pain of any sort — to myself or anyone else.
Ah, you talk like a moralist, Gerard. One shouldn't be a moralist.
You don't understand. It's not a matter of morality. It's what I said before — you have to work on the assumption that there could be a vision of the total meaning of life.
And if that's possible, everyone ought to live as if that was the aim.
Ah, you are a moralist, Gerard. You ought to meet my aunt. You'd like her.
Why?
She's a moralist too. She disapproves of me. Jehovah's Witness. Believes the Last Judgment'll happen any day now. That's what you want, isn't it? People believing in the Last Judgment.
You're damn right. It's just what I want.
Shall I tell you what I want?
What?
Something to eat. Shall we go and have a meal?
Where?
Anywhere. Leoni's or Victor's or somewhere.
I have to go.
Oh no. It's not the money that worries you, is it? I've got lots on me. Look.
Nunne produced his wallet and waved it vaguely under Sorme's nose. Sorme caught a glimpse of a wad of notes. He realised that Nunne was becoming drunk: he also suspected that he was behaving as if he were more drunk than he actually was.
No, really. I'd rather not.
But you must. I don't want you to go yet. You don't want to go yet, do you?
No, but…
Well, we can't drink any more on empty stomachs. I'm getting disgustingly drunk already. Had no lunch. So we'd better go and eat. C'mon, boy.
As the uniformed man helped Sorme into his raincoat, Nunne said:
Let me into a secret, Gerard. Why on earth do you carry a woman's umbrella?
Sorme took the umbrella from the man, and handed him a shilling.
It's not mine. It's my landlady's daughter's. She insisted on lending it to me when I came out today.
They came out into the rain again. Sorme felt fortified against it and happy. It was the first time for several years that he had been drunk, and the sensation delighted him.
Nunne grasped his elbow and squeezed it, asking:
Has this girl got a thing about you?
I suspect so. At least, her mother does. And she suspects me of taking base advantage of it — or of being about to. She gave me notice last week.
Really? What do you intend to do?
Nunne backed the car slightly, then pulled out expertly.
I'm moving to another place tomorrow morning.
Whereabouts?
Kentish Town. I'm living in Colindale at the moment.
My God, that's up Bedford way, isn't it?
Not quite that far. It's near the newspaper library, which is rather useful. But the new place'll be more convenient for the British Museum.
And is the daughter moving with you too?
No fear. She's a sweet girl, but I don't want to go to bed with her.
How virtuous of you. Get out of the way, you stupid bastard.
This was addressed to a taxi-driver who was turning his taxi in the middle of Brewer Street. Nunne honked his horn twice. It had a braying, brassy tone. As the taxi came past them, the driver shouted:
Tike yer bloody time, can't yer?
Swine, Nunne said serenely. If we lived in the Middle Ages I'd have him hanged, drawn and quartered for that.
The car shot forward, narrowly missing a pedestrian who came out from between two parked cars.
Fool! Nunne screamed.
You should drive a juggernaut chariot. It'd be more in your style.
Nunne said indignantly: All drivers should be more dangerous. That would reduce the number of careless pedestrians. Eventually, there'd only be careful ones left.
What about when you're a pedestrian?
I'd carry a gun. All pedestrians should carry tommy guns to shoot at dangerous drivers. That'd make London far more interesting.
The car cruised down Dean Street. Nunne said:
Not a single bloody parking place in Soho… Ah! We are in luck tonight.
An Anglia pulled out of a row of parked cars. Nunne slid past the empty space and backed into it. He turned the engine off.
You're so good-tempered, Gerard. You obviously don't hate people as much as I do.
Sorme said, smiling:
You obviously don't know me as well as I do.
Nunne commanded good service. The manager came to their table and made a polite speech about being delighted to see him. Their waiter was obsequious; he exuded a desire to please.
You seem well known here.
Sorme was not interested; he said it only to make conversation.
I've changed my restaurant a dozen times in two years. I haven't been here for over a fortnight, so they probably assumed they wouldn't ever see me again.
Why do you change?
Nunne masticated and swallowed slowly the last mouthful of smoked salmon. He said, sighing:
