Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

The man raised himself to his knees, and crawled across the pavement. He sat down heavily, banging his head against the wall. He said:

Amori. Goway. Sleep.

By all means, Nunne said.

He stepped over the outstretched legs. He said:

Virgil guides Dante into the second circle. Dove il sol tace. Where the sun keeps its trap shut.

Sorme said grinning:

Not Virgil. Mephistopheles.

What charming ideas you do have! I'd like to wear red tights.

The man behind the door asked: Members?

I am, Nunne said.

Got your card?

Nonsense, Sam. You know me.

Sorry. No admission after midnight without a card.

I never had a card.

Nunne leaned forward, and whispered something in the man's ear. The man's eyes dropped to the wallet, which Nunne tapped with the head of his cane. He glanced at Sorme.

Is he all right?

Of course. As sober as I am.

Ten bob each. Member and guest. Sign the book for 'im.

The stairs were narrow. Sorme was reminded of innumerable coffee bars in Soho and Chelsea. The notice on the door said: The Balalaika Club. Members Only. There was a drawing of a banjo underneath.

Sorme's first impression was of a large room crowded with men and women. The lights were shaded with pink paper. On a raised platform a quartet of Negroes began to play their instruments; the music was jerky, low-pitched, unsoothing to the nerves. A tall man in a dinner jacket hurried to meet them. He said:

Good evening, Mr Nunne. And how are you?

Fine, thank you, Mitzi. Lot in tonight.

Ah, yes. We've been very busy. This is your table, sir.

He led them across the dance floor to a table in the corner. Nunne pulled the table back for Sorme, saying: You go inside, Gerard.

The man asked: What can I order you to drink?

More champagne, I think. Don't you, Gerard?

Sorme said: Anything for me. He would have preferred soda-water, but did not like to ask.

Champagne, please, Mitzi.

While Nunne ordered, Sorme had a chance to look around. He could see nothing unusual in the appearance of the room, or in the people who danced. No one seemed to be drunk. A few feet away from him a man dressed in evening clothes was kissing a girl, pressing her head back against the wall. One of his hands, partly concealed by the long tablecloth, lay on her thigh. She broke away from him, saying in a deep masculine voice: Lay off, will yer?

Sorme looked away quickly. He found Nunne's eyes regarding him with amusement.

How do you like it, Gerard?

I haven't had much chance yet.

Listen, Gerard, why don't we get away? Right out of England? To some other country.

You suggested that the other night.

Did I? And what did you say?

I can't remember. But it's impracticable.

Why?

For several reasons. To begin with, I haven't any money.

I know that! I didn't expect you to pay!

That's even more impracticable!

Why?

Oh… I couldn't take your money. Secondly, I don't want to waste time gallivanting round the world. I'd rather stay in London and work.

You could work on board ship. There'd be plenty of time. We could go to India…

It was South America the other day!

No, India. Let's make it India. You know, Gerard, I'd like to go into a Buddhist monastery for a while… You could work there!

I'd rather be in London.

But why? You admitted to me the other day that you're bored here.

I was. That's quite true.

Aren't you still?

Well, that's the odd thing, you see, Austin. Ever since I met you I've been feeling better… I've been getting a sort of sense of purpose.

But you'll be bored again if I go to India!

You don't understand.

Well, explain to me…

Sorme made an effort to push back his drunkenness. His thoughts were clear, but he anticipated the effort that would be involved in speaking them without slurring most of the words.

You see, it's like this, Austin. Before I met you, I used to feel.. no, that's not what I mean. What I mean is… I used to feel purposeless. See? I used to live from day to day… Why? Because I was alive, and it's easier to live than do anything else, once you're alive. It wasn't always like that. But you know, when I was at work I used to think that the one thing I wanted was to be free. Free to work and do as I like. Sometimes, in the evenings, I'd read a book, or listen to a symphony concert, and when it was time to go to bed I'd feel so excited and… well, so certain of what I wanted to do with my life, that I couldn't sleep, I just couldn't sleep. Well, I thought that if I didn't have to work all day, I could really do everything I'd ever wanted to. You see? I could read those books and listen to those symphonies at ten in the morning, and be happy and excited before midday, and then write like a madman for the rest of the day, while the inspiration lasted.

That's what I thought I'd do…

But it wasn't like that, was it?

No, it wasn't. I've told you what it was like. I got to the stage of living like an animal — just eating and sleeping, and feeling a contempt for myself cover me like soot. I knew that if I'd got enough money I'd spend all my days buying books and gramophone records — or probably, like you, going to hear Sartre lecture in Paris, hear Callas sing in Milan.

Touche, dear boy, Austin murmured.

Well… enough of that. I think I'd just forgotten to live. I let myself slip into a state of sloppiness and boredom, that's all. And since I've met you I've begun to recover the old sense of purpose. Oh, it's not anything very clear. It's just a sense of excitement, like being on the point of discovering something. But it's genuine all right. And you started it, but it's nothing to do with you personally.

Oh, I see…

Don't take that personally. I'd be very sorry if you went away..

Nunne said gloomily:

Be careful. One of these days, you might be glad to run away from those glimpses of purpose.

Why?

Nunne seemed suddenly sober. He stared at the tablecloth. He said: It depends what you pay for them… Is anything the matter? You look rather pale.

I'm feeling a little sick. It's this heat, I think.

Can I get you anything? Try an angostura. I always have one when I feel sick.

No, thanks. I think I might go outside…

There's a door next to the lavatory. It will take you into a backyard. Have a sit down out there.

Sorme said: Thanks.

The dancing stopped, and he stood up, hoping to get an unobstructed passage to the door. Unfortunately, the music started again immediately. Nunne said: Listen, Gerard. If you feel sick, go up the fire escape, and into the second door on the left. You'll find a bathroom.

Thanks, Austin.

He pushed his way to the door, feeling the sweat standing out on his face. The night air was cold. He felt better in the yard. It was as if something flat and alive, something with legs, turned itself slowly in the pit of his stomach.

The yard seemed completely black when he came out. He found the fire escape, and sat down on the bottom step. As he sat there, he heard a movement in the far corner of the yard, and whispering. He felt too sick to worry, leaning his cheek against the cold iron of the rail.

On the other side of the wall a train whistled and released steam, startling him.

Drops of water fell on his face. The sky was clear, full of stars. On the other side of the door the music sounded exhausted and inconsequent.

Someone crossed the yard towards him. A man's voice said:

Listen, would you mind going away?

A face was thrust close to him; the breath smelt of tobacco and garlic. It was too much for him. He jumped to his feet and turned his back away from the man as the first heave came. He was sick, his head pressed against the wall, tasting simultaneously champagne, whisky and asparagus. He felt a kind of incredulity, wondering how he could ever have swallowed these things, things that now seemed wholly revolting, that he could not imagine himself at any time finding pleasant. The stupidity of drinking champagne when he had no desire to drink also overwhelmed him. He heard the man recross the yard, and say: