Blame It on the Bossa Nova Page 2

  “What about Cuba?” I said. “Is it that important to you?”

  “Yes it is.” She looked steadfastly at the electric fire.

  “Oh Jesus Christ. Not another political nutter,” I thought.

  She was too good for that. There always had to be something to spoil it.

  “And deep down I’m sure it’s important to Alex,” chimed in Toby.

  “Yes. Deep down,” I said.

  “Somewhere,” she murmured.

  “Oh come on Pascale, this is unfair. In your eyes Alex stands accused and judged on the strength of superficial appearances and a few flip comments.” Basically I agreed with him, but I wasn’t so keen on the superficial appearances.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded. “I’m sorry Alex, if I put you off.” She stood up, leaned across and kissed me on the cheek. “It was naughty of me. I won’t do it again.”

  “That’s OK,” I mumbled.

  “You forgive me. That’s good.”

  “Yes. It is good,” said Toby, ever the bridge-builder.

  “We all care for the suffering of our Cuban brothers,” he intoned as if challenging me to disagree.

  “I have this recurring dream,” I said. “It’s always the same. I see peoples of every class, colour and creed joining hands to form a worldwide fraternity of love and comradeship.”

  “I told you you were wasting your time with him. He’s a berk,” said Pascale rising again, but this time going to the window just as I had done a few minutes previously. The word ‘berk’ sounded strange on French lips but I was more concerned that it was being applied to me. I would normally have felt either anger or irritation, but both these reactions were muted by my awareness that I was beginning to feel an enormous physical attraction towards Pascale. Her insult gave me the excuse to look at her frankly. She leaned provocatively back against the wall, looking sideways out of the window. She had a good figure. For the first time I studied her face in depth.

  Her mouth was dropped slightly open revealing her teeth, which I was pleased to see were all intact. Her eyes were either hazel, green or grey, I couldn’t make out which, and in their constant movement, now casual, now urgent, they suggested to me a nervous intelligence either hunter or hunted.

  “Perhaps you’ve never had that dream,” I said, going for broke and trying to sow the seed of doubt that I might have been sincere. She ignored my comment and I looked instead across to the courtyard of the Museum, which was full of a considerable number of tourists.

  “Look at those idiots, searching for history in the Elgin Marbles or a Pharaoh’s tomb.... The idiots. It’s right in front of them on their TV screens.”

  These sentiments sounded to me as if they would be better on the lips of Françoise Hardy in a Hollywood imitation new wave film, should any such animal ever exist. Their content didn’t excite me but there was a beautiful sincerity and intensity in the way she spoke. The atheist envied the believer and I felt even more attracted to her. At that point I decided I would do everything in my power to have an affair with her..... But at that moment in time it did not appear to be imminent.

  “Have you never seen the Elgin Marbles, Pascale?” asked Toby.

  “Never.”

  “That’s funny. Neither have I. Something in common at last,” I suggested.

  “They’re well worth seeing,” said Toby.

  “Why did he bother to bring them in the first place?” said Pascale. “I always thought they looked better on the Parthenon .... The Greeks think so too.”

  “The Turks were using it as an ammunition dump at the time,” said Toby. “I think on balance he was right to take them.”

  “A tricky moral dilemma,” I said. There was a short silence.

  “Do you ever have any of those - moral dilemmas, I mean?” said Toby. It was a genuine question.

  “Not normally, no. I must admit. My conscience always acts in a purely advisory capacity.”

  “Lucky you,” said Pascale. But Toby looked thoughtful.

  “Can I be candid?” he said suddenly.

  “For God’s sake don’t bother, Toby,” said Pascale quickly, “...He’ll cock it up for sure.”

  “He might not Pascale.”

  “He would, he would. He’s a berk, can’t you see that. It’s obvious.”

  “Perhaps not, perhaps not,” said Toby. He fell into a ruminative silence and I waited wondering whose will would prevail, and how it would affect me.

  “Oh for God’s sake ask him then,” said Pascale and she turned away again to survey the ants in the courtyard whom she so despised.

  “Are you hard up, Alex?” he said.

  “Ah, hard up....” I repeated the phrase as if considering its origins.... “Well.... Yes, er.... I suppose you could say I was.”

  He just kept looking at me so I continued. “....That’s not to say I couldn’t lay my hands on a bob or two if I needed it desperately.”

  “So you are hard up?” he said, cutting through to the essence of my reply.

  “Well, yes. If I had to say, I am either....A... Well off, or....B... Hard up.....B Hard up.” I repeated with emphasis.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “....Nothing to be ashamed of about that of course. Half the world’s population is at starvation level.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “But if you tell me it’s so, then I’ll believe it.”

  “So you could use some money,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. I’d been planning to get away. Some friends of mine were down in Athens. They’d written to me to join them. All I needed was a bit of money. It seemed I was about to get my hands on some.

  “And you wouldn’t be too particular about what you had to do to get it?”

  “Well I could stretch a point or two.”

  “But as you say, your conscience doesn’t rule you.”

  “No, but my instinct for self-preservation has permanent right of veto.”

  He chuckled. “Well we wouldn’t want you to do anything that would get you into trouble.” It sounded to me as if he would like very much to do something like that. Pascale had turned and was starting to look at me with renewed interest. That made me nervous as well. It occurred to me that this was an important point in the conversation and it was down to me to decide which way it went. There was no argument really; my personal commitment to getting my hands on some quick, hopefully easy, money, and also getting my hands on Pascale, limited my options to one.

  “Yeah, I’m interested.” A silence. “You can definitely take it I’m interested....especially now you’ve explained to me how concerned you are about not getting me into trouble.” Toby looked positively relieved, Pascale looked alarmed. She rummaged in a big black bag and lit up a cigarette. I looked at the packet expecting some exotic foreign brand, but to my surprise it was a pack of Lucky Strike.

  “Now you’ve done it, Toby. Now you’ve gone and put us all in the shit.” She exhaled dramatically and a blue cloud formed round her shoulders. “...Tell him then.”

  “You’ve made a wise choice my boy. Depending on how it goes you could be earning really big money for very little effort.”

  “How much if it doesn’t go at all?”

  “If you’ve done your bit.... Five hundred.”

  “Five hundred?” I repeated.

  “Dollars.”

  “Dollars?” I repeated.

  “Pounds,” he amended. “... Not bad for just getting to know someone.”

  “Getting to know who?” I said hopefully.

  “Him.” He handed me a glossy 8” by 6” photograph that had been lying face down all the time on a glass coffee table in front of me. It was a portrait. It looked like a publicity shot of an ageing juvenile lead – three quarter face, overdone on the light and shade, a fine show of wavy hair above a pair of powerful eyes that looked as if they were working hard to convey compassion, wry humour, wistful nostalgia and a handful of other marketable emotions. I turned the photo over. On the
reverse side was the stamp of a studio in Maida Vale overprinted by the words ‘PROOF ONLY. NOT FOR SALE’.

  “Who is he?”

  “Christopher Bryant.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Harley Street doctor, socialite, friend of the stars,” said Toby.

  “Ponce,” said Pascale.

  “Is he rich?” Toby made a vague kind of gesture that told me he wasn’t poor.

  “Queer?”

  “Bent as a brush,” said Pascale.

  “You speak very good English Pascale. Which finishing school did you attend? And please don’t say University of Life, School of Hard Knocks.” She was to ignore most of my comments in our brief relationship. She ignored this one.

  “So what am I meant to do?” I said.

  “Get to know him, that’s all,” said Toby.

  “How do I do that?”

  “We’ll arrange all that. We’ll give you spending money so you won’t feel out of place.... Get you new clothes.”

  “And why am I doing it?”

  “Because we’re paying you,” said Pascale.

  “And why are you paying me?”

  “Ah hah aha!” said Toby. “Let us keep some of our little secrets. Would you be reassured if I told you it was for a good cause?”

  “I’m reassured already,” I said.

  Five hundred pounds doesn’t sound very much these days. But in 1962 it spoke wonderful words to me. It said a first class ticket on the Blue Train out of Paris ....Rome, and on to Brindisi. It said a leisurely sea crossing to Piraeus, and three months idleness in summer climes. So possibly the deal was open ended, but I could handle that, I thought. And if the going got tough I could always pull out. And then there was Pascale.

  “Now I can understand your fears Pascale,” I said putting a friendly hand on her shoulder. “... I look far too clean-cut to get involved in this sort of deal.” She looked straight through me but it didn’t hurt and I looked straight back at eyeball to eyeball range. I was falling for her by the second.

  “So what’s the deal Toby?” I said.

  “All in good time Alex. Today was just to establish principles. We don’t want to feel you’re being hustled into anything. Sleep on it. See how you feel in the morning.”

  “No I’ll do it. Once my mind’s made up I carry a thing through.” This wasn’t strictly true but I thought a determined statement would go down quite well at that point, and the taste of retsina was coming on strong.

  “The news is on,” said Pascale, and Toby stepped lightly across the room and flicked a switch on a portable radio. The sound of the GMT pips were followed by the well modulated tones of the news reader... “... Earlier today in a speech in Washington Secretary of State Dean Rusk suggested a conference of American Republics to discuss the worsening situation with regard to Soviet intervention in Cuba. Meanwhile President Kennedy has made a request to Congress to ratify the calling up of one hundred and fifty thousand reservists.” He went on to the other headlines and Toby flicked the switch.

  “The stupid bastards. The silly stupid bastards,” said Pascale. Toby said nothing but looked glum. I said nothing. Pascale poured herself another drink and I helped myself to a whisky then remembered I’d been drinking rum. Suddenly conversation was in short supply.

  “Well, I’ll be making tracks then,” I said gaily.

  “Yes, yes, of course dear boy,” said Toby, obviously glad to get rid of me now that he’d done his business. It was evident that he never had nurtured hopes of any kind of relationship between us. This seemed to me to be a bit of an up in the air kind of way to leave things.

  “So we’ll be meeting again then?”

  “Of course.” He seemed abstracted. “I’ll phone you tomorrow. Fill you in on all the details.” I hovered nervously. It seemed to me that if I was to benefit from this deal, now was a good time to start. I was skint. The drift of my thoughts must have communicated.

  “I won’t insult you by offering you money now,” he said.

  “Oh Toby. I think we know each other well enough for me not to be insulted by a little thing like that.” A little grudgingly, I felt, he took out his wallet and peeled off four fivers.

  “A small retainer,” he said. “...To show our good will.”

  I looked across to Pascale but our parting appeared to hold no special significance to her, so I left with a brief nod to both of them, and seconds later I was rubbing shoulders with stupid idiots hell-bent on seeing the Elgin Marbles or a Pharaoh’s tomb.

  I made my way to the French pub in Soho, the York Minster. Things were really lively there and I knew the crowd but surprisingly their merrymaking jarred on me. By the time I got back to Battersea Park I was in a depressed state but not pissed. I don’t get drunk very easily; my personality does not undergo metamorphoses. I suppose it’s because I spend so much time exploring its farthest recesses, that my sub-conscious holds so few surprises for me when it is revealed unexpectedly through drink.

  The gates of the park were closed. I slumped into an armchair in the living room that gave a view of the tops of trees and the London sky. I was furious with myself for taking all that shit from Pascale and Toby. What for? A few measly quid? They knew what they could do with it. I didn’t need it that badly. Fuck Pascale. Fuck Toby. The more I thought about it, the more unreal it seemed. Who was the guy again? Christopher Bryant? And had I actually agreed to put it on the line for him? Or at least, give him the come-on. That’s what I understood. Jesus Christ! And I’d been sober at the time. Well I was sober now and they could stick it. It was the five hundred pounds that had done it. Five hundred minimum he had said. But the more I thought the more I realized I didn’t need anything like five hundred pounds to get to Greece. Fifty would do it and money to burn. Once in Athens things would be taken care of, and then something would turn up. I could give English lessons, sell my blood if it came to it. But the trouble was I was skint. I felt in my pockets. I had three crumpled pound notes and a great weight in coppers out of the twenty that Toby had given me. And that was all I had in the world. I lay back and closed my eyes but meditation has never come easily so I opened them again. I saw the interior of the flat and a message flashed from my brain. There must be money here, somewhere. Half hidden, half casually deposited. There must be money in this dwelling place.

  I stopped searching at three a.m. The place looked as if it had been turned over by the flying squad. On the table in front of me was four pounds eighteen shillings and elevenpence. I turned off the lights and went to bed.

  Again I was awakened by the telephone ringing. Again it was Toby.

  “How the hell d’you know my number?”

  “Let us keep some of our little secrets old boy.”

  “You keep saying that to me and one day you’ll get punched in the mouth.”

  He chuckled. “Really Alex, you’re too violent.”

  He told me all the details he hadn’t told me the day before. The day that had been reserved for getting principles sorted out. He told me shops I could go to where I would be given new clothes without the embarrassment of having to handle money. He told me lots of things I didn’t find very interesting but he told me they were important. He told me things to say and things not to say, things to do and things not to do. And finally he told me the time of my appointment with Christopher Bryant.

  *****

  Names etched on brass give a reassuring message of permanence and respectability. I had a selection of them to look at on the front door as I waited for the receptionist to open it. Christopher Bryant’s sat snugly in the centre of the group. Harley Street waiting rooms have a depressing uniformity; above the neo-Adam fireplace was a mirror; the curtains and wallpaper had the drabness that can only come with extreme old age. On the table in the centre were copies of Country Life and Punch. I sat on one of the hard straight-backed chairs placed round the perimeter of the room. In an armchair by the window was a woman, about fifty, in a navy blue suit. After a while a nurse came
and called her and she disappeared. I sat alone in the room, slightly apprehensive, as many must have sat there before me, but I’m sure not for the same reason.

  The sound of a descending lift and the clanging of shutter gates jarred me back to the present. The door was opened by a nurse I hadn’t seen before and very shortly I was inside the lift heading upwards, reading as always the name and address of its makers and the maximum number of persons it could safely carry. The lift halted abruptly and we crossed the strip of faded floral pattern carpet to a door at the end of the corridor. She opened it and I stepped inside. There behind the inevitable foursquare hardwood desk sat Christopher Bryant: The end of my pilgrimage, the beginning of my penance. He rose, stepped sideways and with practiced ease shook hands with me in greeting. He motioned to a chair and I heard the door close behind as the nurse slipped out. He resumed his seat; behind him through long net curtains I could see a black cast-iron fire escape. It closed my horizon, beyond it was a void. It brought one’s mind back into the room. Inside the room was everything, outside nothing. Bryant looked at me quizzically and, as I had previously prepared, I dropped my eyes nervously in a crude attempt to simulate the confusion of a latent homosexual whose dirty little mind has just been read by someone with x-ray vision. It was one of many poses and gestures I had thought out: My imperfect perceptions of the mannerisms of a queer. Their strength I hoped lay in the overall impression they would combine to create. I regarded none of them as a laser to my soul.

  “So what brings you to see me?”

  “A friend recommended you.”

  “A friend?” His eyebrows arched. I told him a name that Toby had given me. It seemed to satisfy his curiosity.

  “How is he these days?”

  “Fine, fine.”

  “Good.... And what is the problem then?” I embarked on my tale of woe; my strained leg muscles, recurring pains years after a car accident, the failure of conventional medicine, nothing apparently wrong, in agony, would try anything - no insult intended - if he could only help. I warmed to my task. Sympathy steeped in self-awareness expressed itself on his face. I had been told he was charming and I could understand why he was considered so. Charm can be conveyed by subtle facial movements. I immediately assumed this was a cynical mask; later I was to be less certain. The resonance of his voice also contributed to his attractiveness. I have often thought it strange that this physical chance can denote a personal quality. It is as if blonde hair indicates compassion. His voice was a weapon, soft and silky, and he used it. He could have made telling the time an immoral suggestion. His face was well suited to complement the tones of his voice and his mastery of gesture, but perhaps the face of anyone so endowed is automatically the right face. His hair was swept back and his eyes were accentuated - large, lively, compassionate, etcetera, etcetera. Their range was great. His nose was long and thin and he had a well proportioned mouth. This I noticed over the first few minutes of our meeting as I played my little game of nervously raising my eyes to meet his, then dropping them down again. He was happy in my discomfort and relaxed in it. He asked me questions about my accident and the pains in my leg; which doctors I had seen, the nature of the attacks. He wrote my answers down as if he was really listening to me. My image of his cynicism, as reported by Toby, made it inconceivable to me that he could be a competent, conscientious doctor. I told him that I had last had a spasm of pain playing squash the previous week. He wrote it down, paused for a second and then dropped his pen on the blotter.