Sheer pettiness, Gerard. I get offended about little things. I know damn' well I'm being silly, but I get offended all the same.
Sorme regarded him with mistrust, mixed with a certain disappointment, feeling as if Nunne had confessed to a tendency to shoot at old ladies with a revolver. Nunne seemed not to notice. When the waiter filled his glass, he drained the Chianti without lowering it.
Nunne had ordered roast duck, cooked with paprika and cheese. When it arrived he stopped talking and gave full attention to the food, speaking only to reply to acquaintances who came past the table. When this happened Sorme did not look up; he was aware of being regarded with curiosity. He could almost feel the conjectures being made, and he ate quickly and mechanically to conceal the irritation.
He had difficulty in dissuading Nunne from ordering a second bottle of wine. His motives were purely selfish; he knew that if he drank another half bottle, he would be sick before the end of the evening.
The rain had stopped when they left. Sorme walked contentedly beside Nunne, now feeling happier in the anonymity of the Soho crowd. His feelings about Nunne were mixed. He calculated that the meal he had just eaten was the most expensive he had eaten in his life. The sight of the six pound notes Nunne had dropped on to the waiter's plate had shocked him; it represented a week's food and rent. The most he had ever paid for a meal had been ten shillings. He felt a certain gratitude for Nunne's generosity, now that he had ceased to suspect his motives. But a faint dislike rose in him periodically. There was something distinctly repellent about Nunne. It had to do with the combination of coarseness and femininity in him. The brown hair was long and silky, almost beautiful, a woman's hair. The teeth were irregular and yellowish; two at the front were pointed, canine. When he looked closely at the face, no scars were visible; it was hard to determine what produced the pock-marked effect. When he had asked Nunne, as they drank coffee and vodka, Nunne had said briefly: Car accident, and drawn his finger along a faint, hardly perceptible line that ran across the left cheek, parallel with the jaw.
What would you like to do now, Gerard?
Do you think I might buy you a drink now?
I see no reason why not, dear boy. Let's go into the French, shall we, that is, if we can sit down.
The pub was crowded. Nunne was immediately hailed by a short, leathery-faced drunk.
Carl Castering, Nunne said. This is Gerard Sorme.
The man seized Sorme's hand, and looked into his face with the liquid eyes of a drunk.
You're very good-looking, Gerard. Don't you think he looks like Rimbaud,
Austin? Don't you, though?
Sorme allowed his hand to be caressed between two damp palms, then withdrew it. He asked Nunne:
What will you drink?
Straight scotch for me.
Sorme asked the drunk: Will you have a drink?
The leathery face turned to him coquettishly.
Why, that's awfully sweet of you. Yes, I will. Scotch and water.
Sorme finally attracted the barmaid's attention. He passed two whiskies back to Nunne and his friend. They stood, wedged together in the crush, holding their glasses tightly.
Nunne said: Carl is one of the best photographers in London, Gerard.
Castering leered at Sorme, then suddenly regarded him seriously:
I would like you to sit for me, Gerard. Would you do that?
Only if I'm present, Nunne said lightly.
Why? Don't you trust me with him?
I was joking, Nunne said.
He said to Sorme: Drink up and let's find somewhere less crowded.
Sorme obediently threw back the whisky. It no longer made his eyes water.
Outside, Sorme asked him: Is he a friend of yours — Carl?
Swine, Nunne said shortly. Masochist. But a damn good photographer.
They walked slowly along Old Compton Street, keeping close to avoid being separated by the crowd. Outside the Cinerama theatre Nunne was saluted by the uniformed man who controlled the queue.
You seem to know everyone.
He worked as a chucker-out at a place I knew once.
They stopped to look at the coloured pictures, displayed behind glass, that showed scenes from the film. Sorme, glancing up at Nunne, suddenly caught a look of revulsion and absorption. Nunne was staring at a photograph of a switchback car swooping over a hump. A pretty, plump girl stared at the camera, holding her dress over her knees, but the sides of the dress, caught by the wind, revealed the tops of her stockings and suspenders.
Nunne turned away abruptly, saying:
Let's go, Gerard.
Sorme said, laughing: I didn't think you liked women.
Nunne said: What do you mean?
Nothing; you were staring at that girl as if she fascinated you. The look passed over Nunne's face again, then disappeared. He said, smiling:
She does. Come on.
They walked back to the car.
Where now, Gerard?
Sorme said, dubiously: I'd like a little quiet.
So would I. What about my flat?
Where is it?
Near Portland Street station.
I'd rather stick to somewhere closer to my way home. I ought to think of getting back.
Where do you live?
Hendon. Until tomorrow.
Of course. All right, we'll head that way. I know rather a good little pub in Hampstead we might go to. Quiet.
Hampstead? Is that on the way?
Certainly. We can cut over to the Hendon Way. Straight route.
They moved slowly along Old Compton Street. Nunne blew the horn; it emitted a gentle, warning note. Nunne said, grinning: Excellent invention this. I can adjust the tone and volume of the horn. Loud and blatant for the open road; gentle and, as it were, coaxing for London crowds. Come on, shift, you stupid bastards, or I'll turn the cow- catcher on. This is the only part of London that reminds me of Hamburg's Reeperbahn.
Do you know Hamburg, Gerard?
Sorme said abstractedly: No. He had been staring at his watch for half a minute without registering the time. It was ten past nine.
As they passed Chalk Farm station, Nunne said suddenly:
I know. Let's go to my aunt's place. She'll give us a drink.
Who's your aunt?
You'd like her. Her name's Gertrude, and she's not really my aunt, but she's terribly sweet. She lives all on her own in a house in the Vale of Health, and never sees anyone. She likes me to drop in. Unless she's holding a meeting.
What kind of a meeting?
Jehovah's Witness. It's her only vice. But she's really rather sweet.
Sorme said with dismay: You're not serious, are you?
Why not?
About her being a Jehovah's Witness?
Oh yes, quite serious about that.
But — I mean — they're quite up the wall, aren't they?
Couldn't say, dear boy. I don't know a thing about them. She's never tried to convert me. Anyway, we don't have to stay if you can't bear her. But she'll give us a drink, anyway.
