There was silence in the room. The green-shaded lamp gave a dim light. Nigel had stopped massaging Bruno’s hands and sat staring at him, his long legs hooked round the edge of the chair. Nigel’s eyes were round and vague and his thin-lipped mouth hung open where he had been chewing the lank end of a lock of dark hair. He looked like a slice of a human being. He groaned faintly to indicate understanding of what Bruno had said.
”Odd,” said Bruno. “There are people with whom one always talks about sex. And there are people with whom one always talks about God. I always talk to you about God. The others wouldn’t understand.”
Nigel groaned.
”What is God made of, Nigel?”
”Why not spiders? The spiders were a good idea.”
”The spiders were a good idea. But I just hadn’t the nerve, the courage, to hang onto them. Perhaps that’s where it all began.”
”It doesn’t matter what He’s made of.”
”Perhaps God is all sex. All energy is sex. What do you think, Nigel?”
”It wouldn’t matter if He was all sex.”
”If He’s all sex how can we be saved?”
”It doesn’t matter whether we are saved.”
”I can’t help it,” said Bruno. “I want to be saved. Do you love Him, Nigel?”
”Yes, I love Him.”
”Why?”
”He makes me suffer.”
”Why should you love Him for that?”
”I dig suffering.”
After a further silence Bruno said, “I suppose one is like what one loves. Or one loves what one is like. All gods are private gods. Do you pray, Nigel?”
”I worship. Prayer is worship. Being annihilated by God.”
”Do you think one must worship something?”
”Yes. But real worship involves waiting. If you wait He comes, He finds you.”
”I never went in much for suffering,” Bruno went on. “But I wouldn’t mind it now if I felt it had any meaning, as if one were buying back one’s faults. I’d take an eternity of suffering in exchange for death any day.”
”I think death must be something beautiful, something one could be in love with.”
”You’re young, Nigel. You can’t see death.”
”When I think of death I think of a jet black orgasm.”
”Death isn’t like that, it isn’t like that at all.” Bruno wondered if he could tell Nigel about the dressing gown and decided he could not. He added, “I’m going to see my son. We shall forgive each other.”
”That’s beautiful.”
Would it be beautiful, something golden, complete and achieved? Could there still be achievement?
”You understand almost everything, Nigel.”
”I love everything.”
”But you don’t understand about death. Do you know what I think?” said Bruno, staring hard at the dressing gown in the dim light. “I think God is death. That’s it. God is death.”
12
Danby closed the door of the fan-lighted sitting room behind him and leaned against it. His heart was beating like a steam hammer.
Diana was standing tense and erect near the French windows. They stared at each other without smiling.
The distance between them was a huge airy magnetic space. Danby moved into it slowly, pushing the little rounded chintz chairs out of the way with his feet. Diana stood rigid. When he was a yard away from her he stopped again.
Then very slowly he came nearer, opening his hands, not with a grasping gesture but with a praying gesture, or perhaps a gesture of benediction. The blessing hands descended, outlining, a foot away, her figure. With a very deep sigh he put his hands behind him. Another step forward and the stuff of his jacket was lightly touching her breast. She slowly leaned her head back and, hands still behind him, he kissed her on the lips. They remained for some time, immobile, eyes closed, lip to lip.
”The metaphysic of kisses,” said Danby. He put his arms round her now, caressing her slender neck and running his hands very slowly down the length of her back. The fragility, the flexibility, of the human neck. He could feel the pain of her heart beating strongly against his own.
”You made quite a ceremony out of that.”
”The first time I kiss you is worth a ceremony. This is the first of thousands.”
”Or the first of few. Who knows?”
”What am I saying? Millions.”
Her hands were still hanging at her side.
”I am a very determined and highly organized hedonist, Diana.”
”We aren’t in love.”
”Yes we are. In a way suited to our advanced age.”
” ‘The heyday in the blood is tame’?”
”I don’t feel at all tame, my dear. What about it?”
”I’ve told you. I love my husband.”
”Well, that was a jolly good kiss from a girl who loves her husband. Come on, be a sport, put your arms round me. Or if you can’t manage that, at least laugh at me!”
”Dear, dear, dear Danby. God, you’re sweet!” She laughed. Then she threw her arms round him and burrowed her head violently into the shoulder of his jacket.
Danby tried to lift her head. He took hold of her hair and drew it back and kissed her again. “Number two. Let’s sit down, shall we?”
There was a small plump tasselled sofa against the wall.
There was just room for two. The chilly lucid afternoon sun was beginning to slant into the room. “Number three.”
”I shouldn’t have let you come here,” said Diana. She was relaxed in his arms now, thrusting back his white hair from his face.
”But you did because you wanted to see me.”
”I’m afraid I wanted very much to see you.”
”Oh goodie!”
”But it’s all ridiculous, Danby. This is the sort of argument that ends in bed-“
”Goodie, goodie!”
”Only that’s not where we’re going.”
”We’ll see. There’s no hurry. I’ve only kissed you three times. Number four coming up.”
Danby began to unfasten the front of her dress. Her hand fluttered for a moment trying to stop him and then gave in. Burrowing through white lace his hand covered her left breast. They became still, gazing at each other with wide vacant eyes.
After a moment Diana struggled to sit up. Only she did not do up her dress but left it hanging open. “Let’s try to talk rationally. Tell me about yourself. You say there was a girl and she went to Australia. How long ago was that?”
”About four years ago.”
”And how long had you been together?”
”Three years.”
”What was her name?”
”Linda.”
”You didn’t think of marrying her?”
”No.”
”Why not?”
Danby thought. He had removed his hand from its first wonderful position and was beginning to edge it up a little under her skirt. She was wearing a different dress today, much smarter, a sort of oatmeal silk affair with buttons all the way down. Convenient. “She didn’t want it. And I think I couldn’t marry again.”