Novels. Jimmy there writes poetry. He founded his own school…
Aw, can it! Jimmy said.
…which our friend and sympathetic mentor Professor Trilling…
Sonofabitch! Jimmy shouted.
…referred to as the diarrhoea school of poetry!
He began to laugh; it was a high laugh that lurched and squeaked; somehow it reminded Sorme of an old car on a bumpy road. Jimmy said vengefully:
Yeah, and ya know what Time Magazine said about his last novel…?
Nunne handed him a tumbler half full of whisky. He seized it, sniffed it ecstatically, and poured it down his throat immediately. He said affectionately:
Aust'n, I love ya. Ya got what it takes.
He allowed Nunne to pour more whisky, saying with mock belligerence:
Who cares what the bastards say? Like Omar Khayyam said, 'the dogs bark but the caravan rolls on'.
Nunne handed Cal a glass, asking gravely:
Have you boys been drinking already?
Oh, he's not drunk, Cal said. He's always like this. Ain't ya, daddy-o? He's been talking all night.
What about? Sorme asked.
Oh, God or something.
Jimmy asked: Where d'you keep your records?
In there.
Cal said: Somebody told him about Merejkovsky or something, how these Russians used to sit up all night, and when somebody yawned, they'd say…
Jimmy shouted: Hey, wait, lemme tell it. Listen! They'd argue all night, these guys, and when somebody suggested hitting the sack, do you know what they'd say? 'We can't sleep yet. We haven't decided if God exists.'
He gave a high whoop of delight, and turned back to the record cabinet. A moment later, he said with admiration:
Hey, man, get this! Miles Davis and Dizzie and — wow! — a whole album of Bird. Can we play some?
Nunne said cautiously:
Don't you think we should go and eat first? It's after one.
Just one, Jimmy said. Just one side of Bird. We can grease later.
Gal asked Sorme: Do you dig bop?
I…
Before he could answer, the gramophone drowned his voice. Jimmy lay back on the floor and kicked his feet in the air: he shouted: 'Bells, daddy-o!'
Cal leaned over, and shouted in Sorme's ear:
You a jazz fan?
I don't know much. I like Bix Beiderbecke.
Great! Cal shouted. He gestured at Jimmy. He don't. Thinks it's square stuff.
Sorme glanced cautiously at his watch, wondering how soon he could get away. The noise and strange language struck him as deliberate exhibitionism. He looked up, and caught Nunne regarding him with amused interest: the brown eyes were as soft as an animal's and as sardonic and caressing as a heathen god. For a moment Sorme felt again the curious awe and submission that he had felt before in Nunne's presence; the sense of being with someone of a different species. Nunne closed his eyes and relaxed in the chair.
As the record came to an end, Jimmy sat up. He said sadly:
That gone cat Charlie. He killed himself.
He looked across at Sorme, and Sorme was struck by his sincerity. He asked: What happened to him?
Cal said briefly: Booze and hop.
Little fat guy, Jimmy said. As sweet as they come, but temperamental. We used to know him, on the West coast.
Nunne switched off the gramophone. He said:
Let's go and eat. I'm ravenous.
Sorme followed them out of the room. Jimmy walked with a shambling gait that was almost ape-like. Sorme wondered what Cal meant by 'booze and hop': he presumed 'hop' was another word for 'bebop'; the idea of a short, fat man dancing himself to death struck him as curiously depressing.
The two Americans stopped talking during the meal; they ate voraciously, giving Sorme the impression they hadn't eaten for days. But when Nunne asked casually, Hungry? Cal said:
I ate a big breakfast. That always makes me eat like hell for the rest of the day.
They drank the wine like beer, in long pulls. Jimmy said abruptly:
Trouble with British writers, you don't kick enough.
Kick who? Sorme asked.
Anybody. F'rinstance — what you writing now?
A novel.
About what?
A sexual killer.
They looked impressed. Cal said:
That's a good subject. Why d'you want to write about it?
To make money.
Well, why not, Jimmy said. 'S a good reason.
He looked puzzled. Nunne said, smiling:
He's pulling your leg.
Jimmy smiled, broadly and candidly:
Oh yeah? Well, it's still a good reason. But seriously, you really writing about a sex killer?
Yes.
Cal leaned forward.
Do you know any?
Certainly, Sorme said. Several. Me and Austin, to begin with. Perhaps you and Jimmy. I don't know.
He's right, Jimmy said unexpectedly. He's got you there, Cal. You don't need to know one. It could be anybody.
Is that what you're gettin' at? Cal asked.
Suppressing a strong desire to get up and leave, Sorme said:
No. Not really.
What, then?
He decided to make the best of it; after a moment's thought, he said:
I want to isolate the modern sense of dispossession. The sense of being left in the cold. Of not having enough of life. Do you know what I mean?
Do we! Cal said.
Jimmy said excitedly: Sure, I know what you mean. Like a guy I knew in S.F., spent most of his life in reformatories and gaols, and you couldn't hold him still. His favourite diversion was landing his girl friends with babies. That way he felt he was making the best of it. That boy wanted to eat and drink his freedom… anything for kicks; he had to keep moving, doing things, drinking, smoking tea, laying sweeties. That boy wanted a past to look back on next time he landed in gaol.
He turned to Nunne, saying:
Didj'ever read Thomas Wolfe? There was a dispossessed man for you… 'Scuse me, man, I just gotta go to the can. Where they keep it in this place?
Nunne directed him; they watched the two of them crossing the room together, talking excitedly, attracting attention from most other diners in the room. Nunne said:
What do you think of them?
They tire me out. I'd like to get home.
