Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

“That seems to be a very interesting book you are reading, Mr Durrell.”

“It is,” I said vaguely. “ Havelock Ellis.”

He said no more, not wishing to confess that he did not know who Havelock Ellis was. Then Stephen Grump, the Viennese Under-Manager, said to me:

“That seems to be an interesting book you are reading.”

“Yes,” I said. “ Havelock Ellis.”

He, too, not wishing to appear ignorant, merely nodded his head wisely.

So enchanted was I, not only by the research work that Havelock had done, but by the character that seemed to emerge from his prose — earnest, pedantic, humourless, as only Americans can be when they take a subject seriously; an omelette made up of the meticulousness of a Prussian officer, the earnestness of a Swedish artist, and the cautiousness of a Swiss banker — that I was oblivious of the fact that all around there were people who were dying to know what I was reading. The dull red cover, the almost undecipherable title, gave them no clue. Then one day, quite by accident, my secret was out, and immediately pandemonium broke loose on a scale that I had rarely seen equalled. It all happened quite innocently in the restaurant, where I was reading Havelock as I demolished an avocado pear and an excellent lasagne (for the restaurant was exclusively run by Italians though some of the kitchen staff were English). In between mouthfuls of pasta heavily laced with Parmesan cheese, I was reading Havelock on the different aspects of beauty in women, and what attracts and does not attract in different parts of the world. I came to a phrase used in Sicily which I suspected would provide much food for thought if only I had the remotest idea what it meant.

Irritatingly, Havelock assumed that everyone spoke fluent Italian and so there was no footnote with a translation. I puzzled over the phrase for a moment and then recalled that the head waiter, Innocenzo, was from Sicily . Little realizing I was setting alight the fuse that led to a powder keg, I called him over to my table.

“Is everything all right?” he enquired, his large hazel eyes flashing round the table to make sure.

“Delicious,” I said. “But that’s not what I called you for. You said you came from Sicily, didn’t you?”

“Yes, from Sicily,” he nodded.

“Well, can you just translate that for me?” I asked, pointing to the relevant passage.

It had a curious and quite unprecedented effect on him. His eyes widened unbelievingly as he read. Then he glanced at me, walked away from the table a few steps in embarrassment, came back, read the passage again, looked at me, and retreated from the table as though I had suddenly grown another head.

“What is that book?” he asked me.

“ Havelock Ellis. The Psychology of Sex. ”

“You read it now for one week,” he said accusingly, as though he’d caught me in some underhand dealing.

“Well, there are nine volumes,” I protested.

“Nine?” he exclaimed. “ Nine ? All on sex?”

“Yes. It’s a big subject. But what I’m interested in is whether this is true. Is this what you say about women in Sicily ?”

“Me? No, no !” said Innocenzo, hurriedly, living up to his name. “Me, I never say that,”

“Never?” I asked, disappointed,

“Maybe sometimes my grandfather may have said it,” said Innocenzo, “but not now. Oh, no, no! Not now .” He gazed at the books fascinated. “You say this man write nine books?” he asked again. “All on the sex?”

“Yes,” I said. “Every aspect of it.”

“And this is what you are reading all this week?”

“Yes.”

“So now you are an expert,” he said, laughing embarrassedly.

“No, he’s the expert. I’m just learning.”

“Nine books,” he repeated wonderingly, and then dragged his mind back to his job. “You want some cheese, Mr Durrell?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “Just some more wine.”

He brought a bottle, uncorked it, and poured out a drop for me to taste, his eyes fixed fascinatedly on the book. I approved the wine, and he poured it out.

“Nine books,” he mused, carefully untwisting the cork from the corkscrew. “Nine books on sex. Mama Mia! ”

“Yes,” I concluded. “ Havelock did the job properly.” Innocenzo left me, and I returned to Havelock, earnest and meticulous in his investigations among the hot-blooded Sicilians. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, my hot-blooded Sicilian had passed on to the waiters the news that Mr Durrell possessed nine volumes on sex, surely a record for any hotel guest. The news spread through the hotel like fire through summer gorse-land. When I returned from a shopping expedition that afternoon, two of the porters rushed to open the doors of the hotel for me, and behind the desk not one but four receptionists blinded me with their smiles, their faces as pretty as a flower-bed. I was somewhat startled by all this sudden enthusiasm, but, in my innocence, did not connect it with my owning Havelock Ellis. I went up to my room, ordered some tea, and lay on the bed reading. Presently, my tea was brought to me by the floor waiter, Gavin, a tall, slender boy with a delicate profile, a mop of blond hair like the unkempt mane of a Palomino, and large blue eyes.

“Afternoon,” he said, his eyes fixed on my book.

“Good afternoon, Gavin,” I said. “Just bung it on the table, will you?”

He put the tea on the table and then stood looking at me.

“Yes?” I asked. “Do you want something?”

“Is that your dirty book, then?”

“Dirty book!” I replied, indignantly. “This is Havelock Ellis; the definitive work on the psychology of sex. Dirty book, indeed!”

“Well, that’s wot I mean,” said Gavin. “Sex.”

“Sex — contrary to what the English think — is not dirty,” I pointed out, with some asperity.

“Naw, well . . . you know . . . I know it’s not,” said Gavin. “But, well . . . Imeantersay . . . everyone else thinks so, don’t they?”

“Fortunately, there is a small minority that holds other views,” I retorted. “You among them, I trust.”

“Oh, yeah. Imeantersay, I’m all in favour of it, like. What I say is, let everyone do what they like, more or less,” said Gavin, adding, “providing it’s not somefing you’re not supposed to do . . . you know, like drugging girls and sending them off to Buenos Aires and places like that . . . that sort of thing.”

“Yes, even in sex one should have fair play,” I agreed gravely.

He twisted the napkin he carried in his hands and sighed gustily. It was obvious that he had a problem.

“Wot’s it say, then?” he asked at last.

“About what?”

“About sex, of course.”

“Which particular aspect?”

“Wot you mean? Aspect?” he asked, puzzled.

“Well, do you want to know about ordinary sex, or lesbianism, homosexuality, sadism, masochism, onanism?”

“ ’Ere!” interrupted Gavin. “Does ’e write about all those? Honest?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s all sex in one shape or form.”

“Gawd Almighty!” exclaimed Gavin, with feeling. “Yeah . . . well, I suppose you’re right. Live and let live is wot I say.”

“Quite.”

Gavin tied a knot in the napkin and beat it against the palm of his hand. It was obvious he was dying to ask something.

“Have you a problem?” I asked.

Gavin jumped.

“Who me?” he cried, backing away towards the door. “No, no! I’ve got no problem. Not me. Not a problem,”

“So, Dr Havelock Ellis can’t help you?” I enquired.

“Oh, no,” said Gavin. “Imeantersay . . . I got no problems. Not like wot some people ’ave . . . I’ll be back for your tray presently. All right?”