William Boyd: Waiting for Sunrise

“Rief,” he said. “I thought it sounded familiar. Are you any relation to Halifax Rief?”

“He was my father.”

“My god!” Bensimon seemed genuinely astonished. “I saw his King Lear in…Where was it?”

“The Apollo.”

“That’s right, yes, the Apollo…He died, didn’t he? Halfway through the run or something.”

“In ‘99. I was thirteen.”

“Good lord. You’re Halifax Rief’s son. How extraordinary.” Bensimon gazed hard at Lysander as if seeing him for the first time. “I think I can spot a resemblance of sorts. And you’re an actor as well, goodness.”

“Not as successful as my father — but I earn a fairly decent living.”

“I love the theatre. What was the last play you were in?”

“ The Amorous Ultimatum .”

“Don’t know it.”

“By Kendrick Balston — drawing-room comedy. It’s just closed after four months at the Shaftesbury. That’s when I came on here.”

“Goodness…” Bensimon repeated, nodding slightly, as if something had been revealed to him. He went back to his desk and Lysander looked at the silver bas-relief. He was becoming very familiar with it, he felt, even if this was only his second session with Bensimon.

“So — you’re naked in the stalls bar of the Majestic. Are you aroused?”

“I’m enjoying being there, I suppose. I’m not ashamed of being naked in front of these people. Not embarrassed.”

“There’s no laughing or sniggering, no pointing, no mockery.”

“No. They seem to take it perfectly normally. Idle curiosity would be the strongest emotion. They just glance at me and carry on their conversation.”

“Do they ‘glance’ at your penis?”

“Ah. Yes. Yes, they do.”

There was a silence. Lysander closed his eyes, he could hear the Bensimon pen scratching away. To take his mind momentarily off their discussion he forced himself to recall the pleasures of the last weekend. He had caught the train to Puchberg and stayed the night at the station hotel there. Then he had taken the funicular to the Hochschneeberg and had walked (he had brought his hiking boots with him) all the way to the Alpengipfel peak and back. He had felt his mind clear and his spirits lift as they always did when he was hiking in the mountains or on one of his walking tours. Maybe, he thought, this was the best reason to have come to Austria — new walks, new landscapes. Every weekend he could take a train and walk in the mountains, empty his head, ignore his problems. The walking cure –

“Is this a recurring dream?” Bensimon asked.

“Yes. With variations. Sometimes there are fewer people.”

“But it’s essentially you — naked — amongst women, fully dressed.”

“Yes. It’s not always in a theatre.”

“Why do you think you dream this?”

“I was rather hoping you might tell me.”

“Let’s continue this conversation next time,” Bensimon said, bringing the session to an end. Lysander stood and stretched — he felt strangely tired, all that concentration. He slipped his notebook into his pocket.

“Keep writing everything down,” Bensimon said, showing him the door. “We’re making progress.” They shook hands.

“See you on Wednesday,” Lysander said.

“Halifax Rief’s son, how incredible.”

♦

Lysander sat in the Café Central drinking a Kapuziner and thinking about his father. As usual he tried to bring him to mind but failed. All he had was an image of a big burly man and a square fleshy face under thick greying hair. He could hear the famous voice, of course, the resonant bass rumble, but what lingered most fixedly in his memory of his father was his smell — the aroma of the brilliantine he used in his hair, his own mix, prepared by his barbers. A sharp initial astringent whiff of lavender underlayed by the richer scent of bay rum. A very perfumed man, my father, Lysander thought. And then he died.

Lysander looked around the big café with its high ceilings and glass dome. The place was quiet. A few people reading newspapers, a mother and two little girls inspecting the pastry trolley. Sun slanting through the tall windows, setting the ruby and amber lozenges of coloured glass in the panes aglow. Lysander signalled a waiter and ordered a brandy, feeling like sustaining the tranquil mood. When it arrived he tipped it in his Kapuziner and took out Blanche’s letter. The first he’d had from her since arriving in Vienna — he had written to her four times…He flattened the sheets. Royal blue ink, her strong jaggy handwriting filling the page, going right up to the edge.

Darling Lysander,

You will be cross with me I know but I do miss you, my lovely man, honestly, and I keep meaning to write but you know me and how ‘frantic’ everything is. We had the copyright read-through of ‘Flaming June’ but something was wrong, apparently, and we all had to re-foregather two days later. It’s a lovely part for me and I was thinking there’s a young Guards officer that you’d be ‘perfect’ for. Shall I tell dear old Manley that you might be interested? He’ll do anything I ask him, silly besotted dear. But you’d need to come home soon, my treasure. It would be lovely to work together again. Is your mysterious ‘cure’ going well? Will it last ages? Are you taking salt baths and having cold showers and drinking asses’ milk and all that? I tell people you’ve got a ‘condition’ and they go — “Oh. Ah. Right. I see,” and rush off looking serious. I’m going down to Borehamwood tomorrow to have a ‘cinematograph test’. Dougie says I have the perfect face for the ‘flickers’ so we shall see. I had a lovely note from your mother asking me if we had decided on the ‘great day’. Do think about it, sweetness mine. I show people the ring and they say “When?” and I laugh — my bell-like laugh — and say we’re in no hurry. But I was thinking that a winter wedding might be so special. I could wear furs –

He folded the letter and put it back in his pocket, feeling vaguely sick. It was as if he were hearing her voice in his ear, reminding him what had brought him to Vienna, forcing him to confront the reality of his particular problem. He could hardly marry Blanche in these circumstances. Imagine the honeymoon night…

He lit a cigarette. Blanche had had lovers before, he knew. She had practically invited him into her bed but he had insisted on being honourable, respectful — now they were betrothed. He took his notebook from his pocket and made a swift calculation. The last time he had tried to have sexual congress with a woman had been with a young tart he’d picked up in Piccadilly. He counted back: three months, ten days ago. It was days after he had proposed to Blanche and was purely by way of necessary experiment. He remembered the small frowsty room in Dover Street, the one gas lamp, cleanish sheets on the narrow bed. The girl was pretty enough in a lurid way with her paint on but she had a black tooth that was visible when she smiled. He had started well but the inevitable result ensued. Nothing. We can try again, the girl said when he had paid her, don’t really count, do it, when nothing happens? You have to pay though — blank cartridge still makes a bang.

Lysander allowed himself a sour smile — some soldier-client had probably told her that and it had stayed in her head. He stubbed his cigarette out. Perhaps he should tell Bensimon he was engaged to Miss Blanche Blondel — it might impress him as much as Halifax Rief.

He paid his bill — remembered to put his hat on — and stepped out into the afternoon’s warm sunshine, pausing on the café steps, thinking he might walk back to the Pension Kriwanek — maybe skip supper? — wondering also where he might go this coming weekend — Baden, maybe, or even Salzburg, make a short trip of it, the Tyrol –