No you don't. I owe you a lot. I'd have been bored stiff on my own. Have you got any booze in your room?
I'm afraid not. At least, only some beer.
Excellent. Let's drink that. Or are you too tired?
Not at all, Sorme said. Come on up.
As they opened the front gate, Sorme said quietly:
Don't make a noise until we get into my room.
Are they asleep already?
No, probably watching the TV.
They tiptoed up the stairs, Nunne walking in front. A door below opened; a woman's voice called:
Is that you, Mr Sorme?
Yes.
Oh.
The door closed again.
Sorme switched on the light and closed the door.
You don't know how lucky you are to have no landlady. I detest landladies.
He lit the gas fire and turned it on full. The room was small and had too much furniture in it. Two cheap suitcases, bound with string, stood near the door. The table was completely occupied by the remains of a meal and an empty drawer. A large cardboard soap-carton, half full of books, stood in the washbasin in the corner. Sorme took off his overcoat and hung it in the wardrobe. Nunne was seated on the bed; he lit a cigarette: I had an awfully nice landlady in Hamburg.
Sorme took the empty drawer and fitted it back into its place in the sideboard.
I've had too many landladies. I've had so many that now even pleasant landladies make my flesh crawl. That's the main advantage of this new place — the landlady doesn't live on the premises. Even the decentest landladies end by persecuting me.
Don't be neurotic, Gerard.
You'd be neurotic if you'd had as many as I have. Stupid, petty-minded old cats who leave little notes in your room. They don't like visitors after ten o'clock. They don't like you to have women in your room. You never know when some triviality's going to upset them and make them give you notice. If I were a dictator I'd open concentrations camps for landladies. Mean, trivial, materialistic old sods. They poison our civilisation.
He moved the carton of books on to the floor, and let the hot tap run, then washed two glasses, and dried them with the hand towel.
Poor Gerard. You ought to find yourself a flat.
Sorme took a quart bottle of ale from the bottom of the wardrobe, and poured into the two glasses. He handed one to Nunne, saying: Cheers.
Nunne took a sip, and set it down on the table. He said:
I'm sorry I'm going away just as we're getting acquainted.
Sorme sat in a wooden chair near the fire; he said sententiously: There'll be plenty of time.
Without a doubt. Give me your new address, will you? and I'll give you mine.
They exchanged address books; both wrote silently for a moment. The warmth made Sorme's stockinged feet steam. He suppressed a yawn. Nunne moved to the end of the bed, where he could see the fire, and stretched out his hands towards it.
Gerard. What you were saying earlier. About looking for some other way to live…
Yes?
You ought to see a friend of mine. Father Carruthers, at a hotel in Rosebery Avenue.
That must be where Brother Maunsell lives: there are quite a number of priests there. Do you know him?
No, I don't recall him.
You're not a Catholic, are you?
No. My mother is. Carruthers is her friend, really, but I'm sure you'd like him.
Sorme sipped his beer slowly. He had no real desire to drink it; it tasted bitter and wholly disagreeable to him.
What do you think this Father Carruthers could do?
I don't know. I like him. He's awfully clever. He knows a lot about psychology — he was a friend of Adler.
That sounds dangerous.
Why?
I can't imagine the Church approving. Does he talk about neurosis instead of sin?
Yes. Well no, not exactly. You'd have to go and see him. He's written a book on Chehov.
Sorme shifted his chair further back; the fire was too hot. He said, for the sake of saying something:
I probably will.
Nunne tilted the beer glass and emptied it. Sorme pushed the quart bottle over to him. Nunne allowed the beer to slop into the glass; the froth immediately brimmed over and ran on to the tablecloth. He leaned forward and sucked up a mouthful of the froth, until it ceased to overflow. He looked up at Sorme suddenly over the brim of the glass, saying, with a casualness behind which Sorme could sense the control:
You seem to have an awful down on queers, Gerard.
Sorme said, shrugging:
No. On the contrary, I always get on very well with them.
But you don't like them?
It's not that I don't like them. I disapprove of the queer mentality.
What on earth is the queer mentality?
I shouldn't say.
Do say. Don't mind me. I wouldn't take it personally, I assure you.
All right. Most queers I've known have been too personal. With them, everything is personal. It all depends on people. I can't imagine a homosexual visionary, or a homosexual Newton or Beethoven. They seem to lack intellectual passion — the capacity to become fanatically obsessed by purely intellectual issues. They're like women — everything has to be in terms of people and emotions.
You do talk nonsense, dear boy. How do you know Newton and Beethoven weren't homosexual? Neither of them got married. What about Schubert, Michelangelo?
Sorme said, laughing:
OK. I'm sorry I spoke.
No, but answer me! I'd like to hear your views.
No. I'm too tired. When you go tonight, I've got to finish packing. I'll have to be up early tomorrow to start moving.
Nunne looked at him; his eyes were serious, almost pained. Abruptly, he shook his head, and drank the rest of his beer. He stood up, saying:
All right, I'll leave you.
Sorme immediately felt guilty:
You don't have to go yet. It's hardly eleven. You could stay for another hour.
No, I'd better go. Why are you smiling?
You're like a jack-in-the-box, Sorme said. Why don't you sit still for a while?
This was not the real reason Sorme was smiling. He had thought: He has taken it personally. Everything is personal for them. But he was glad Nunne was leaving.
Bye-bye, Gerard.
Where will you go?
Nunne shrugged:
Home, perhaps. Or a club I know in Paddington. Bye-bye.
Goodbye, Austin. Thanks for the evening.
Don't come down, Nunne said.
