Ave, Roche!"
Until that moment Roche had been in two minds about the soft light diffused by the paraffin lamp on the low table between them, for it veiled his expression no less than everyone else's. But now he wished that he could distinguish more of Audley than the man's voice and words revealed to him.
"Now come on, David—fair's fair." Stein stirred lazily on his nest of cushions beside the wine-rack. "He may not want to be summoned. He may prefer to on-look."
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"Or he may just think we're crazy." Bradford's contribution came from behind the bottles on the table; all Roche could see was his dark head shake agreement.
"And he could be right there," said Lexy. "Some orgy!"
"He doesn't have to play, surely?" said Stein.
"You can't turn him out into the night if he doesn't." The American's dark curls shook again. "The laws of hospitality forbid it—we took him in on your behalf."
But it wasn't the laws of hospitality which mattered here, in this weird place, thought Roche: it was play—he doesn't have to play—which was the operative word—Jilly had said as much—
"He may want... he may prefer ... he may think." Audley ranged his glass from one to the other, the lamp reflecting twin points of light like bright animal-eyes in his spectacles and throwing a huge shadow on the wall behind him. "He may even be right. But he will play, nevertheless."
"Why?" snapped Lexy. "Why should he?"
"Because I say so. And I am in the chair tonight. So I make the rules."
" You just have to argue with him— you have to debate the subject, whatever it is."
"What subject?"
" Whatever it is. We take it in turns, and he picks our brains.
With Davey— David Stein— it was paleolithic art, with Mike Bradford it was the Great American Novel, and what dummy5
Hollywood does to it. . . and with me it was the aftermath of the Korean War."
“It all sounds a bit juvenile."
" So it does— yes, you're right. . . a bit juvenile. . . It is."
“And they put up with it— Stein and. . . the American—
what's his name?"
“Mike Bradford? Yes, they do. I think they quite enjoy it, to be honest. You see, they're the same really— they all missed out on that— the juvenile bit. What they call now 'the teenage', don't they?"
“Missed out? How?"
" It's just a theory of mine. They grew up in the war, or just before— and as a result they missed out on something we had. Something we took for granted.''
"What was that?"
"I don't know, quite. . . They grew up too quickly, perhaps.
Or they had to grow up, rather. Because they were at war when they should have been at college."
"But they all came through.''
" That's right. Maybe they felt guilty about that— maybe they're too serious— or too frivolous— because ofthat. . . I told you— I don't know. All I know— all I think— is that you shouldn't be surprised that they don't behave quite normally, because they don't know how to. Because they don't have the same rules as we do, that's all."
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What rules do they have, then?"
" Don't ask me— I don't know! 'Give us back our teenage', perhaps. Only we can't— and they know it. It's just my theory. But..."
“But what?"
" Well. . . we were sitting in the Tower the first evening, the six of us, and . . . we'd been drinking. . . and I said, 'we'd better get back, otherwise La Peyrony will think we're engaged in an orgy', or something like that. And David said
— David Audley said—' That's a jolly good idea'. And I said I'd be damned if I was going to hand over my body to the three of them, just to spite La Peyrony..."
" Yes?"
" And then he said— I'll never forget what he said, because suddenly he was dead serious, and he didn't say what I expected him to say— he said 'Damn your body, Jilly— it's a perfectly good body, but I prefer Lexy's, it's more pneumatic and more my size, as well as being more available— but bodies are two-a-penny these days, and have been ever since '39 ... it's your mind I want to get into— if you can open that to me you can hold a penny tight between your knees for as long as you like!' And ... that's how it all started, anyway."
"Is that agreed and understood?" said Audley. "That I am in the chair tonight?"
"In the chair?" Jilly echoed him inquiringly, mock-dummy5
innocently. "But if you fall out of the chair are you still in it, David?"
That might be an explanation of the slight slur in Audley's voice, for all that the grammar and the syntax were still clear enough. But Roche had never heard that voice before, and so could not judge the degree of slur against previous experience, even if the rugger players of Cahors were as alcoholically inclined as their English counterparts.
"In—or on—or out—or off ... or under or beside ... I am still in it tonight, until cock-crow or the wine runs out, whichever comes first," said Audley defiantly. "And I say that he's summoned—and he plays. Right?"
Still he didn't look at Roche, and still Roche couldn't decide whether or not the faint slur was public-school-and-army-drawl or a sign that the speaker was loaded over the Plimsoll line. But it didn't matter, because Roche would play now whatever the game was—because now he had the chance of playing for what he needed to win the real game.
"He plays!" He lifted his glass towards Audley. " Moriturus te saluto!"
"And a classicist too, by God! Bravo!" Audley's teeth also caught the lamplight. "Fill the man's glass again, Lexy . . .
The wine of Cahors, Roche—they sent Cahors wine to Rome in classical times, did you know that?"
"I'm not a classicist. Just a soldier."
"Huh!" murmured Lexy, tipping the bottle inexpertly.
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"But not merely a soldier—if I heard a-right?" Audley cocked his head.
"I told you . . . he's a sort of historian,"said Lexy vaguely.
" Bastides and things..."
"So you did!" Audley wasn't letting go. "University?"