Alicia is all pink and blue, like wallpaper in a baby’s nursery. She hasn’t sung for me in a long while. I used to cherish her private recitals, sung on nights that were gray and rainy, in November and December, when the mistral blows this way. She would clasp her hands under her breast, purse her full lips to contour sound, shaping it this way and that with ovals and circles; she emitted lovely bell-like tones and her voice transported me. I had assumed she’d given up singing, at least in company, and feel rather peeved that this scruff of a boy has become her audience.
On the other hand, this scruff of a boy is immensely pretty. Alicia and I both look at him at the same time and then look at each other. Much passes in this glance. She offers us wine, my favorite, Demestica, which I cannot refuse. My curiosity about their relationship grows by leaps and bounds. How are you spending your time, John, and will you stay here long? I inquire. Alicia directs her attention to him with an interest as great as mine. Obviously she must also be in the dark about his future plans. He swallows his wine, wipes his mouth, and says he hasn’t decided, but he doesn’t think he’ll be here that long, because there’s no way he can do his music here. Also, he says he’s nearly out of money. Impulsively I respond that I need some carpentry done, if he does that kind of thing, bookcases and so on. He perks up, observing — inspecting? — me from under his long dark lashes. Those violet eyes. Alicia seems surprised or startled but not upset, I think. The question one always wants to ask of truly ravishing individuals like John is how well aware of it are they.
The wine loosens John up; he becomes almost voluble. He likes Greek food and espouses reasonable sentiments about the people, all nuanced by a fashionable coolness and a studied inarticulateness. He seems a distrustful type, I think, but like most callow youth, betrays an enthusiasm for life — against his will, I should imagine. He discusses bouzoúki music and is apparently somewhat knowledgeable about musical instruments. He talks of modalities; I think of Joyce and modalities, the ineluctability of the visible, wasn’t it? What is ineluctable here? Alicia and I are ineluctable modalities, and John is rapturous dissonance. During the day, John tells me, he fishes down at the end of the pier in the harbor and catches enough for their dinner. He wiles away many hours with hook, line and sinker — and bait. A rock-and-roll Huck Finn, I suppose. The doctor cautioned him to be quiet, which is what he’s doing, and of course he’s not taken any drugs in weeks. Which drugs, I do not ask.
I tell Alicia and John that I have a visitor; my best friend, Gwen, has arrived, I explain, and John asks, Gwen who? Gwen Duvanel, I answer, and he says, Wow, her. She’s cool, man, a scenemaker. Gwen? I say, surprised at the appellation, Gwen, a scenemaker? What a strange term, I announce, she’s much more than that…oh, I don’t mean that’s bad, man, you know, it’s a sixties word, scenemaker, and she’s kind of sixties, John says quickly, and, you know, she’s still on the scene, and for someone pretty old, she’s heavy, great.
Pretty old, I repeat to myself. I know that Alicia is also repeating that to herself and that the phrase is reverberating within her, too, somewhere.
Now I am sure they haven’t slept together but that Alicia lusts for him just a little, or maybe a great deal, perhaps in a Death in Venice way, which I too could easily fall prey to. This thought invades me, nearly an epiphany of the negative. It feels unpleasantly real, and might be ineluctable. That is, once I have placed all of us in this narrative, I might just be determined to see it through. I am a perverse creature. But, I remind myself, I don’t need John, as I have Yannis. But he doesn’t and cannot negate John. Fantasy is fantasy, literature is literature, destiny is destiny. And I, I live life for art’s sake.
Overwhelmed almost by the sight of John now, having articulated this desire so brazenly to myself, my secret self, I tell them I must return to Gwen, who will probably be awake and hungry. John will come to my rooms tomorrow, he says, to see if he can do the work, man, as he refers to me. Man, I think to myself, yes, that is surely what I am. I rush to the door, as if to escape fate.
But the die is cast. I walk into the hallway, followed by Alicia; she is close beside me. I exclaim, Oh Alicia, the books. Which books? she asks. Yours. On Gypsies, may I borrow them? Of course, but I didn’t think you had any interest in Gypsies, dear. I do of late, I say, abashed. Yes, she answers, of late many things are different. Alicia takes my hand. Helen no longer comes for her piano lessons, she adds almost ruefully. Have you seen her? she asks. No, I haven’t. I think she is angry with me. You see, Horace, I was right to distrust her. Alicia, you distrust everyone. I was nasty to her. You were probably drunk, Horace, I worry so about you. Pish-posh, I sputter, I’m made of sterner stuff than you think.
Standing there, holding Alicia’s soft hand, I think, rather suddenly, I’ll have a party. And instantly blurt out, Alicia, come for a party the end of next week — won’t you? And John. For Gwen. I’ll invite the whole crowd, Helen too. What do you think? Alicia responds thoughtfully, What I think is, I hope you know what you’re doing. She kisses me on the cheek. I look toward the living room and admonish waggishly, I hope you know what you’re doing, too.
Alicia glides to the bookcase and gathers several books from the shelves. She hands them to me and looks steadily into my eyes, as if to unfrock me, then answers, much too wisely, I know as much as you do, dear. Alicia always has to have the last word.
Chapter 9
Yannis enters my room, agitated. His disturbance has something to do with Roger and the blond boy who was with him nights ago. Yannis is so angry I can’t apprehend what occurred. Sigá, sigá, I say, to quiet him. Just tell me, slowly, what happened. Yannis reports that he was fishing with the blond boy, the friend of Roger, as he puts it. Roger came upon them and accused Yannis of stealing his fountain pen — a beloved object inherited from his father — and perhaps some money, too. Yannis became, and is still, infuriated by Roger’s attack upon his character. Rightly so. Roger must have been drunk, I explain to Yannis, he could not have been in his right mind. I make circles with my index finger, next to my temple, to emphasize Roger’s alleged craziness. I will write him, I continue in a consoling tone.
Right then and there I take out my best-weight letter paper and begin the salutation. I intend to handle this unappealing matter directly and with speed, but I will also invite Roger to the party for Gwen. Two birds with one stone; one bird to take the sting out of the other, for it is possible that this mild rebuke may be unnecessary. Yannis may be concocting the story, or something else may have transpired, which he has been canny enough to cover up through the invention of this tale. I look at Yannis, who seems earnestly angry. I don’t want an all-out war with Roger; our nightly sniping is mission enough.
The door opens. Gwen has emerged from her beauty sleep. Naturally Yannis is not delighted to see her, being in a sullen mood. I too am a trifle agitated. I hate these kinds of bizarre disturbances. Also, I am anxious that what occurred among Roger, the blond boy, and Yannis may be revealed to be of a sinister nature, much darker and more convoluted than what I’ve heard, though for Yannis to be accused of theft is dark enough, for him. Still, my guess is that a piece is missing from this puzzle.
With Gwen present I don’t want Yannis and my unpleasant conversation to proceed. I place the letter paper under the blotter. Yannis stands by my side, still looking over my shoulder, though I have stopped writing. I halted mid-sentence — didn’t René Daumal die mid-sentence when writing Mount Analogue? Standing thus, Yannis surely is an ominous figure, or at least an unfriendly one, to Gwen. Though Gwen must be accustomed to surly and unruly types — bouncers, rock-and-roll musicians, scenemakers and the like. They probably do not disturb her, whether or not they offend her. Incivility is unnecessary. People ought to behave, to attempt first to be polite, to respect each other, simply to make the world a less disgusting place to exist in — for oneself if nothing else. Otherwise we are mangy dogs.