Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Caroline's voice called:

Hello, aunt.

Miss Quincey said:

Hello, dear. How did you get in?

Gerard got the back door key.

Gerard…?

The voices retreated into the kitchen. He looked at himself in the mirror, and combed his hair. Then, to supply a reason for his presence upstairs, he pulled the lavatory chain. He made sure that his clothes were adjusted, then went downstairs.

Caroline was alone in the kitchen, pouring water into the teapot. When he looked enquiringly at her, she pointed towards the door. He went into the other room and found Miss Quincey taking several books out of a briefcase and arranging them in the bookcase.

She said brightly:

Hello, Gerard. What brought you here?

I was hoping we could have some tea together.

Was it important?

No… I've been at the British Museum this afternoon. I got tired of reading and thought I'd like to see you.

She finished arranging the books, and straightened up.

That was sweet of you. You should have rung. How long have you been here?

Oh, five minutes. I met Caroline at the end of the street…

She smiled at him.

Well, you'll have to come over some other afternoon. Would you like to stay for supper tonight?

What about your meeting?

You needn't come if you don't want to. You could take Caroline for a walk on the Heath. It'll be over by nine.

No. I'd like to, but I'm seeing Austin… Anyway, we couldn't really talk much, could we?…

She said cheerfully:

No. I expect you're right.

She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed it as she went past, smiling at him.

He wondered what had made her so good tempered. The slight sense of guilt about Caroline made him feel that, whatever the reason, he was exceptionally lucky.

When he heard her speaking to Caroline in the kitchen, he was glad he was seeing Austin later. It gave him no excuse to stay. With the two women together, in the same room, he experienced a draining sense of self-division, a feeling of being victimised.

For heaven's sake, not so much whisky! You'll have me pie-eyed before we get to this club.

Drink what you can, Nunne said. He handed Sorme a tumbler half full of whisky.

He said:

Now. Food. Let's see what we have in the fridge.

May I come and look at your kitchen?

Do.

He followed Nunne out of the room, and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him take food out of the refrigerator and place it on a trolley. He said: It's bloody big. Big enough for four kitchens.

It belonged to my uncle. He liked giving large dinners prepared by several cooks.

It's really rather large for me. But I like a lot of space when I'm cooking.

The kitchen gave the impression that it had been installed as a showroom, or transferred immediately from the Ideal Homes Exhibition. The rack of glass plates and dishes, the rows of saucepans, even the enormous deal table in the middle of the room, looked as if they had never been used. The white-enamelled bench next to the gas stoves had half a dozen electrical gadgets clamped to its edge. The pattern of yellow and white check that covered the walls was repeated in marble shades on the floor. Sorme said: Don't you ever have girls trying to marry you to get in on this?

It has happened. Not recently, though. I don't let girls see it any more. Do you like asparagus?

I don't think I've ever had any.

Really? Then here is where you start.

What does Gertrude think of this place?

She sometimes comes and uses it. When she wants to cook something really exotic. It has timing gadgets fixed to everything… Catch!

He gave the trolley a sudden push and sent it shooting towards Sorme. Sorme said, laughing: Fool!

He caught it before it hit the wall. It contained a dish of asparagus spears, and a cold chicken with one leg missing. There was a glass jug of mayonnaise that looked as if it was frozen solid. He said:

What would you have done if I'd missed it?

Taken you out for supper. Would you take it in there? I'm buttering bread. Help yourself. Plates and things underneath. I'll bring the salad.

Back in the dining-room, he pulled a wing off the chicken, and cut several slices, leaving the leg for Austin. He piled asparagus on his plate, and spooned the almost solid mayonnaise beside it. He propped a book against the cushion and began to read. From the kitchen came the sound of a cork shooting out of a bottle.

Nunne came up beside him as he read, and piled salad on to his plate.

I've found some champagne.

Good. But I've still got all that whisky.

Drink that later.

Sorme was forced to stop reading as the plate wobbled and almost fell off his knees. Nunne said:

Hold on. I'll give you a tray.

After looking around vaguely for a moment, he said:

Can't find a tray. Use this.

He pulled a large, thin book out of the case, and handed it to Sorme. Sorme asked: What is it?

He opened it, and discovered sheets of music, written with a pencil, and curious symbols drawn between the lines.

Do you recognise it?

No. I can't read music.

It's not just music. It's the original manuscript of Nijinsky's Rite of Spring. Those funny signs are a choreography he invented himself. That's his handwriting across the top.

Where did you get it?

From a collector.

Sorme began to eat again. He left the manuscript volume open on the cushions beside him. Nunne said, smiling:

Can't you bring yourself to eat off it?

It's a funny sensation. To know he wrote this with his own hand.

That writing in green ink on the cover is Stravinsky's handwriting.

Yes?

I say, you're not eating those asparagus spears whole!

Aren't I supposed to?

No! You eat down to the tough part. Like me.

Oh, I see. Thanks.

He reached out for his champagne glass. He said:

To Vaslav.

He emptied it in one draught. A sensation of warmth and delight coursed through him like a faint electric shock. Nunne repeated: To Vaslav, and drank, Sorme said: I suppose it must be rather fun to be rich.

Nunne grimaced:

Better than being poor. But it doesn't guarantee anything.

No?

He laughed, feeling that the pleasure had to find some expression. Nunne said curiously:

What is it?

I was hungry.

He would not tell Nunne the real reason: that he felt suddenly reconciled to his own existence, able to weigh it, summarise it, and feel only gratitude. It was a sensation he would have been glad to convey to Nunne, feeling grateful to him for being the cause of his insight. But saying it would have meant nothing. Nunne stood up and poured more champagne into both glasses. He said:

I'm surprised you get so enthusiastic about Nijinsky. You never saw him dance.

Sorme shrugged.

It's not that. There's something else. The independence. A sort of pure vitality.

I'm surprised you don't prefer someone like D. H. Lawrence, who expresses it far more clearly.

No. I can't stick Lawrence. He seems to me to stand for a diluted version of what Nijinsky stood for. He always gives me a feeling that people matter too much to him.

They nag him, and he doesn't like them much. Anyway, he was all wrong about sex.

I'm afraid I just can't agree. I admire him very much.

All right. Let's not argue about it. Tell me something. Why is Gertrude so fond of you?

I'm afraid I don't know. I just don't know. We've known one another so long…

He swallowed the last of the chicken leg, and placed the bone carefully on the side of his plate. He said, with apparent irrelevance:

I'm delighted you get on so well with her.

She's sweet. But all this religious stuff worries me.

Don't let it worry you. She likes you.