Джон Бойн - A Ladder to the Sky

‘A successful writer,’ said Gore, placing a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘And a good one too. A rare dyad.’

‘A competent one,’ said Dash, offering a half-smile. ‘Let’s not pretend otherwise. I can write, yes, but I won’t be remembered. Not like you. My books lack whatever alchemy is needed to ensure immortality. You’ll be read when we’re both worm food, Gore. I won’t.’

Gore said nothing. This was an accurate representation of the future, as far as he was concerned, and he had no wish to patronize his friend by pretending otherwise.

‘When I first met him,’ continued Dash, ‘it was as if every nerve in my body became alert to his presence. I couldn’t take my eyes off him and when I approached him—’

‘Where was this?’ asked Gore.

‘In the Prado.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘I know, it’s the stuff of clichés. Like something out of a terrible Hollywood film.’

‘There’s no other sort, as far as I can tell, these days,’ said Gore. ‘What room was he in?’

‘What?’

‘Maurice. When you discovered him. Do you remember what room he was in? What he was looking at?’

‘The El Grecos. He was wearing white trousers and a navy shirt, the colour of which matched his shoes. He wore no socks and his cologne contained a scent of lavender. He was carrying a rather nice shoulder bag, leather and cream, and a copy of that morning’s El País , featuring a large photograph of Felipe González on the front page, pointing a finger at Francisco Ordóñez.’

‘Oh, my dear Dash,’ said Gore, shaking his head sadly. ‘You do have it bad, don’t you?’

‘Of course, he was with Erich at the time.’

‘With him in what sense?’

‘It’s hard to know, although I’m reasonably certain that nothing physical happened between them. He was simply using him the same way he’s been using me. Poor Erich was in love with him too, of course.’

‘You chastised me last night for using the phrase Poor Erich .’

Dash shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m feeling rather better disposed towards him today. He probably went through the same level of torment that I’ve been going through over the last couple of years.’

‘He doesn’t let you touch him, does he?’ asked Gore, and Dash shook his head. ‘And nor does he touch you?’

Dash said nothing, simply staring into the distance, watching the spin and roll of the early morning waves.

‘I don’t quite see it,’ said Gore when it became clear that Dash wasn’t going to reply. ‘He’s good-looking, yes. He has an undeniable sex appeal and he’s aware of the power of his beauty. Too aware, some might say. But so do most boys his age. What’s so special about him? What is it that you and Erich see in him that I’m missing?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Dash. ‘But whatever it is, I’m enslaved to it. As was Erich, I’m certain. I was so incredibly jealous when I first encountered them together. I assumed that Maurice was just some trick that Ackermann had picked up on his travels. But I quickly realized that their relationship was more complicated than I’d initially understood it to be. I wanted to break them up from the moment we met and, once I put it into Maurice’s head that he’d gained everything he could from mentor number one, it wasn’t difficult to persuade him to move on to mentor number two. Someone with an “in” on the New York literary scene. Which Erich never really had, even after Dread .’

‘And, what? He just dropped Ackermann?’

‘Like a red-hot coal. Erich was devastated. Maurice didn’t tell me much, he can be rather discreet when he wants to be, but it wasn’t long before the poor man’s life fell apart.’

‘But surely that was due to the revelations in Maurice’s book?’

‘I think he could have fought his way through them if he’d wanted to,’ said Dash. ‘But I suspect he didn’t have the energy for the battle, not without the boy by his side.’

‘And since then?’

‘Well, Maurice’s novel has been a tremendous success. He’s much in demand, the hot young star of London literary circles, while I’m nothing more than the desperate old fag whose best work is behind him, trotting around after a young boy with his tongue hanging out, humiliating himself more and more at every turn. There are times that I wish he was dead or that I was dead or that we both were dead. Yesterday, while we were driving up the road to your house, I gave serious thought to tipping us both over the edge into the sea. But I couldn’t do it, of course.’

Gore reached over and took Dash’s hand in a gesture of friendship, squeezing it tightly.

‘And what happens next?’ he asked. ‘When you leave today, I mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Dash. ‘He’s going back to London, he’s already working on his next novel. I offered to accompany him but he said he’d prefer if I didn’t. He told me he’d catch up with me the next time he was in New York. Catch up with me! I suppose I’ll just go home and wait for him. There’s nothing else I can do.’

‘Will you start work on a new book?’

‘I’ll try. It’s hard to imagine being able to focus on a novel when I feel so overwhelmed by desire.’

‘You know he won’t come, though, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know that when he says goodbye today, it will most likely be for ever?’

‘I know.’

He sighed and watched as a bird landed on one of the flowers, investigating its stamen for a few moments before looking up, its beak quivering slightly.

Movement on the terrace caught Gore’s eye. Two men, walking towards the breakfast table.

‘They’re up,’ said Gore. ‘Should we go back?’

‘I suppose so.’

They rose and started to walk towards the villa.

‘Did you ever wish you had a wife?’ asked Dash. ‘Did you ever wish that you could just have lived a normal life instead of suffering the endless pain that men like us undergo, falling for beautiful boys who will never stay with us, no matter what we do for them?’

‘No,’ said Gore, shaking his head. ‘No, I’ve never wished that for a moment. The very idea seems hellish to me.’

Ahead, Maurice was leaning over the railing, watching them approach, and, Gore thought, enjoying how Howard was staring at him from behind. He was shirtless, his muscles glistening in the sunlight, the definition of his abdomen startling and his hair, still wet from the shower, brushed away from his forehead.

‘That line from Villette ,’ said Dash quietly. ‘How does it go? Where is the use of caring for him so very much? He is full of faults. ’

‘Funny,’ said Gore, laughing a little. ‘I was thinking about Wuthering Heights earlier, just before we met. You know you’ve gone off the deep end when you start obsessing about the Brontës.’

The bedroom door was ajar and he pushed it open wordlessly, watching as the boy lifted the shirt he’d worn the night before from a chair and folded it carefully before placing it in his suitcase.

‘Gore,’ said Maurice, looking up and smiling. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

‘Not long,’ replied Gore, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. ‘You don’t mind if I come in, do you?’ he added, his tone making it clear that he didn’t much care whether the boy minded or not.

‘Not at all. I was just finishing packing.’

‘You slept well?’ he asked, sitting down heavily in a wicker armchair by the window and crossing his legs.

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Greta Garbo slept in that bed once, back when we lived in Rome,’ said Gore, glancing around the room as if he were checking the inventory. The paintings were still hanging on the walls. The objets d’art seemed to be still in place. ‘So did Bettino Craxi. Nelson Rockefeller. Princess Margaret. Here in Ravello, it’s played host to Paul Simon, Edmund White. Paul and Joanne. The list goes on. It makes one wonder, doesn’t it?’