Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Sorme took the empty drawer and fitted it back into its place in the sideboard.

I've had too many landladies. I've had so many that now even pleasant landladies make my flesh crawl. That's the main advantage of this new place — the landlady doesn't live on the premises. Even the decentest landladies end by persecuting me.

Don't be neurotic, Gerard.

You'd be neurotic if you'd had as many as I have. Stupid, petty-minded old cats who leave little notes in your room. They don't like visitors after ten o'clock. They don't like you to have women in your room. You never know when some triviality's going to upset them and make them give you notice. If I were a dictator I'd open concentrations camps for landladies. Mean, trivial, materialistic old sods. They poison our civilisation.

He moved the carton of books on to the floor, and let the hot tap run, then washed two glasses, and dried them with the hand towel.

Poor Gerard. You ought to find yourself a flat.

Sorme took a quart bottle of ale from the bottom of the wardrobe, and poured into the two glasses. He handed one to Nunne, saying: Cheers.

Nunne took a sip, and set it down on the table. He said:

I'm sorry I'm going away just as we're getting acquainted.

Sorme sat in a wooden chair near the fire; he said sententiously: There'll be plenty of time.

Without a doubt. Give me your new address, will you? and I'll give you mine.

They exchanged address books; both wrote silently for a moment. The warmth made Sorme's stockinged feet steam. He suppressed a yawn. Nunne moved to the end of the bed, where he could see the fire, and stretched out his hands towards it.

Gerard. What you were saying earlier. About looking for some other way to live…

Yes?

You ought to see a friend of mine. Father Carruthers, at a hotel in Rosebery Avenue.

That must be where Brother Maunsell lives: there are quite a number of priests there. Do you know him?

No, I don't recall him.

You're not a Catholic, are you?

No. My mother is. Carruthers is her friend, really, but I'm sure you'd like him.

Sorme sipped his beer slowly. He had no real desire to drink it; it tasted bitter and wholly disagreeable to him.

What do you think this Father Carruthers could do?

I don't know. I like him. He's awfully clever. He knows a lot about psychology — he was a friend of Adler.

That sounds dangerous.

Why?

I can't imagine the Church approving. Does he talk about neurosis instead of sin?

Yes. Well no, not exactly. You'd have to go and see him. He's written a book on Chehov.

Sorme shifted his chair further back; the fire was too hot. He said, for the sake of saying something:

I probably will.

Nunne tilted the beer glass and emptied it. Sorme pushed the quart bottle over to him. Nunne allowed the beer to slop into the glass; the froth immediately brimmed over and ran on to the tablecloth. He leaned forward and sucked up a mouthful of the froth, until it ceased to overflow. He looked up at Sorme suddenly over the brim of the glass, saying, with a casualness behind which Sorme could sense the control:

You seem to have an awful down on queers, Gerard.

Sorme said, shrugging:

No. On the contrary, I always get on very well with them.

But you don't like them?

It's not that I don't like them. I disapprove of the queer mentality.

What on earth is the queer mentality?

I shouldn't say.

Do say. Don't mind me. I wouldn't take it personally, I assure you.

All right. Most queers I've known have been too personal. With them, everything is personal. It all depends on people. I can't imagine a homosexual visionary, or a homosexual Newton or Beethoven. They seem to lack intellectual passion — the capacity to become fanatically obsessed by purely intellectual issues. They're like women — everything has to be in terms of people and emotions.

You do talk nonsense, dear boy. How do you know Newton and Beethoven weren't homosexual? Neither of them got married. What about Schubert, Michelangelo?

Sorme said, laughing:

OK. I'm sorry I spoke.

No, but answer me! I'd like to hear your views.

No. I'm too tired. When you go tonight, I've got to finish packing. I'll have to be up early tomorrow to start moving.

Nunne looked at him; his eyes were serious, almost pained. Abruptly, he shook his head, and drank the rest of his beer. He stood up, saying:

All right, I'll leave you.

Sorme immediately felt guilty:

You don't have to go yet. It's hardly eleven. You could stay for another hour.

No, I'd better go. Why are you smiling?

You're like a jack-in-the-box, Sorme said. Why don't you sit still for a while?

This was not the real reason Sorme was smiling. He had thought: He has taken it personally. Everything is personal for them. But he was glad Nunne was leaving.

Bye-bye, Gerard.

Where will you go?

Nunne shrugged:

Home, perhaps. Or a club I know in Paddington. Bye-bye.

Goodbye, Austin. Thanks for the evening.

Don't come down, Nunne said.

He went out quickly, closing the door behind him. Sorme stood there, until he heard the front door slam. His landlady immediately called: Who's there? He said angrily to the door: Oh, drop dead! The car door slammed. He looked out of the window, in time to see the rear light disappearing into the darkness.

He emptied the rest of his beer into the sink, and washed the two glasses, then systematically washed the rest of the crockery on the table. When he had told Nunne he wanted to finish packing he had been sincere; but now he felt sleepy and drunk. The room was hot and stuffy. He turned the gas fire off, and opened a window. Before undressing, he swallowed three dyspepsia tablets with a glass of milk. The sheets felt pleasantly cool. He yawned in the dark, and stretched in the bed, experiencing intense sensual satisfaction from the contact of the sheets. He thought of Nunne flying to Switzerland, and felt a faint envy, which he immediately suppressed. Sleep came quickly and easily.

He liked the new room. When the boxes had been unpacked, and the radio and record player were arranged on the chest of drawers, it seemed smaller than he had anticipated. A fire escape ran past the window, which looked out on a piece of waste ground and on a church. He had also the use of a small kitchen that was probably a converted lumber-room. It was reached by a narrow flight of stairs opposite his door: he was to share this with a Frenchman who lived in the next room.

The move exhausted him. He had awakened without a hangover, but feeling tired and dry-mouthed. When he had finished arranging the room, he felt the sweat running down his sides and along his thighs. He set a kettle to boil on the gas ring; he could hear the thump of his heart, and the roar of the traffic in the Kentish Town Road. The bed stood under the open window; the breeze cooled him. He fell into a doze, and was awakened suddenly by the whistle on the kettle.

He made tea in a two-pint thermos flask, and poured it out through a strainer. He put a record on the gramophone, then sat down at the table, staring at the glowing nipples of the gas fire, sipping the tea. Someone tapped on the door; he called: Come in.

The man who opened the door said: I hear we are to be neighbours and share the kitchen.

Come in, Sorme said. Would you like a cup of tea?

Thank you, I would.

The French accent was not strong, but quite perceptible. Sorme stood up, holding out his hand.

My name's Gerard Sorme.

Edmond Callet. How do you do?

Do you mind sterilised milk in your tea?

Not at all.

He took the whisky-cap off the sterilised milk bottle that he had brought from Colindale; the milk was three days old. He turned down the volume of the gramophone.