Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Chirico. He never did anything better than these designs for Le Bal. Don't you agree?

I don't know, Sorme said, I don't know his work.

The stranger looked at him and smiled, and Sorme realised that he must have been watching him in the glass covering the design ever since he came in. He began to feel slightly irritated and embarrassed. Something in the man's voice told him instantly he was a homosexual. It was a cool, slightly drawling voice.

You know, the man said, I could have sworn I knew you when you came in. Do I?

I don't think so.

The eyes rested on him detachedly; he had the air of a Regency buck studying a horse. Sorme thought: Damn, he thinks I'm queer too.

I thought you knew me, the man said, you looked at me as if you knew me.

His voice was suddenly apologetic. Sorme's irritation disappeared. He cleared his throat, lowering his eyes.

As a matter of fact, I did think I recognised you. But I don't think that's possible.

Perhaps. My name is Austin Nunne. I was quite sure I knew you,

Austin Nunne…? Did you write a book on ballet?

Yes. And a slim volume on Nijinsky.

Sorme was excited and pleased, as the memory returned: the photograph of Nijinsky.

Of course I remember you. I've read them both. So that's why I thought I knew you!

You surprise me. It's a very bad photograph of me on the dust jacket.

No, I haven't seen that. But the photograph of the Nijinsky bust. Wasn't that in your book?

The Una Troubridge? O no. Karsarvina found this one in a junk-shop in St Martin's Lane. I didn't even know it existed. But I think I know what you mean. The photo of Nijinsky in L'Apres-Midi. The head and shoulders?

Sorme suddenly felt irritated and depressed. He felt that his enthusiasm had placed him in the position of an admirer, a 'fan'. Nunne suddenly turned away, saying in a bored voice:

Anyway, they're neither of them very typical of Nijinsky. To tell the truth, I used that L'Apres-Midi photo because friends said it looked like me.

Sorme looked at his watch, saying: Well, I hope you didn't mind my asking?

Not at all. Are you in a hurry to go? Have you been all round?

No. But I've been here for an hour and a half. I don't feel as if I could take any more.

You're undoubtedly right. It's my fourth time around. I saw it when it opened in Edinburgh.

Sorme said embarrassedly: I must go.

Look here, why don't you come and have a drink? It's about opening time.

Sorme hesitated, and at the same time felt angry with himself for hesitating. He was interested by the feelings of attraction and repulsion that Nunne aroused in him. He had no particular dislike of homosexuals, but was aware that the consequences of being picked up by one could be difficult. He said uncertainly:

I don't know any pubs near here.

I do. Lots. Come and have a quick one. I always like meeting people who are interested in ballet. How are you travelling? Tube?

Yes.

That settles it. They're beastly at this hour. You'd much better hang around for a while.

Sorme followed him down the stairs. Nunne said over his shoulder:

You haven't told me your name.

Gerard Sorme.

Sorme? That's an odd name. What is it, French?

I don't know. My family come from Yorkshire. My father thinks it's a Yorkshire version of Soames.

They were passing through the portrait gallery. Sorme asked him:

Do you notice that odd scent?

Yes. Do you know what it is?

No.

It's called 'Mitsouko'. It was Diaghilev's favourite scent. Oriental. You'll smell it much stronger in here.

They were passing through a room lit by blue bulbs, that had been designed to look like a haunted theatre. There the scent was overpowering. It seemed to emanate from old ballet costumes that hung in the blue air, surrounded by backstage scenery. The scent followed them down a short corridor, through a room hung with caricatures, and out on to a wide staircase that had been decorated with a tableau representing the legend of the Sleeping Beauty. The music met them loudly as they came down the staircase. Nunne walked jauntily, swinging his umbrella. He had the graceful walk of a dancer. There was a faint touch of the theatrical in his manner as he descended the staircase. He asked Sorme:

What made you read my books? Are you interested in ballet?

I used to be once. Not now.

Where do you study?

What makes you think I'm a student?

You've got a student's ticket sticking out of your top pocket. Anyway, you look like one.

They were outside again, standing near the immense Negro statues, and the drizzle fell steadily.

I'm not a student, Sorme said, but for some reason everyone supposes I am. I suppose it's the scruffy appearance.

He was wondering how he could indicate to Nunne, as quickly and as tactfully as possible, that he was not homosexual. He started to raise the umbrella, but Nunne stopped him:

Don't bother. That's my car over there. Let's run for it.

It was a long, red sports model with a canvas hood. Nunne yanked open the unlocked door and Sorme slid past the steering wheel, into the passenger seat. The car made a neat half-turn and glided forward towards Wellington Place. Nunne grumbled: I suppose there'll be a bloody traffic jam all the way from here to Piccadilly Circus.

Sorme stared at the moving windscreen wipers, and at the red light of the traffic-signal that burst in red drops over the unwiped area of the windscreen.

Nunne began to sing softly to himself:

Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles…

The car turned into Dover Street. Nunne said softly: It's our lucky day. Come on, move out, old son.

A car in front of them was pulling out from the pavement; Nunne slid neatly into the empty space and braked abruptly. He said:

Three cheers. We've arrived. Open your door.

Sorme stepped out on to the pavement, and immediately raised the umbrella.

Nunne slammed the door shut. He said, chuckling:

For God's sake put that thing down. The local coppers will think you're soliciting.

Soliciting?

They'll think you're trying to advertise your sex to the local queers.

I'm not queer, Sorme said bluntly. He lowered the umbrella. Nunne said, laughing: Don't be silly. I wasn't serious. I didn't suppose you were.

They crossed the road, avoiding a taxi. They turned again into Piccadilly. Nunne steered him towards a lighted doorway:

Here we are. After you.

The air was pleasantly warm. Sorme was helped out of the raincoat by a man in a red uniform, who handed the coat and umbrella to the cloakroom attendant. The man nodded at Nunne as if he knew him well:

Evenin', sir.

Evening, George.

There were only two other men in the bar. Nunne indicated a corner seat for Sorme; it was deep and comfortable.

What are you having?

Beer?

They don't have draught. You can have a lager.

That's fine, Sorme said uncomfortably. He was trying to remember how much money he had on him, and how long it had to last. He crossed his knees, and felt the trousers damp. He stared down at the frayed turnups, and at the leather strips sewn on to the cuffs of his jacket. The poverty of his appearance did not embarrass him, but he had never entirely lost a sense of its disadvantage. He thought: I wonder if they'd let me into this place on my own? and decided it was unlikely.

Nunne set the glass of lager in front of him. He seated himself opposite Sorme in a rush-backed lounge chair, and poured the entire contents of a bottle of ginger ale into a large whisky. He took a big gulp of it, then set it down, sighing:

Ah, it'll be the death o' me yit, jist like me poor feyther. Cigarette, Gerard?

No thanks, I don't smoke.

You don't mind me calling you Gerard?

Of course not.