The Lord Won't Mind (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (42 page)

“Oh, darling, how marvelous. That must be why you smell so funny. But what’s it all about? Is she afraid I’ll have little black babies?”

They shook with laughter until Charlie’s hands were so full of the feel of Peter’s convulsed body that a shiver ran down his spine and his breath caught and he instantly sobered. “God, I wish you could. You were right about her. As always. She really wants me all to herself.”

“But do you suppose it’s true?”

“About her father?” He realized immediately that the question should have occurred to him. Not that it mattered. What mattered was the new knowledge that she was capable of fabricating the story if she thought it would suit her purpose. True or false, he was beginning to rather like the idea. If he was going to be an outcast, he might as well be a thorough one. A bit of black blood was the final touch. He looked into Peter’s dancing eyes. “I don’t care, so long as you don’t mind my touching you. Jesus. To think I was in a state about your being kissed by a Negro.” Their eyes were filled with memories of cruelty and hurt, and of lost, now recaptured ecstasy. Charlie took a deep breath and ran his tongue over his lips. “You’re such a goddamn miracle. When I think I actually did everything I could to fuck this up I feel like—I don’t know what. Down on my knees again. Worship isn’t enough.”

Peter leaned forward and rubbed his forehead against Charlie’s “I’m going to like this,” he murmured. “Daily services. Hourly services. Golly, I wish they could begin right now. Come on. We might as well get going.” He drew his head back and looked around him. “Good lord, what am I talking about? I’m nuts. We don’t have to go anywhere. This is ours. That’s something I have to tell
you
. I’ll call that hotel and tell them we’ll pick up the bag in a week or so. We’ll go look at houses when your cock has healed. Go on. Take those lousy pants off and put on a robe. No more clothes until it’s all well again. We’ve got to have a drink. There’s so damn much to celebrate. Is it too early? No. Champagne. That’s the thing. I’ll phone for some. There’s so much to talk about.”

They stood with their arms around each other while Peter called a nearby liquor shop and ordered bottles of iced champagne. He hung up and put his hands on Charlie’s face and ran them through his hair. He growled.

“You’re sexier than anybody, even with your cock in a bandage. I wish something was the matter with mine. It feels as if it’s going to go right up through the ceiling. Enough of that. Come here.” He took his hand and led him to the desk, where he had placed a cardboard folder. “I’ve planned a kind of ceremony. It’s sort of weird, but it means a lot to me.” He opened the folder and took out Charlie’s self-portrait. “I know you’ve never liked it, and I can see now that it isn’t as good as what you can do. I don’t need it any more. I want you to tear it up.”

Charlie took it from him and studied it, holding his hand over it at various angles. “No, it’s not good. True, though. The artist greeting Peter Martin.” They laughed. “Where’s the other one you stole? The one of yourself.”

“It’s hanging in pretty good company—Michelangelo, Leonardo, Donatello, all those kids.”

“Did you donate it to a museum?”

“Practically. It’s downstairs. You’ll see it tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes. Walter. OK, you ready?” He held the drawing out and tore it in two.

“Ouch. That hurt. That was pretty final. Well, that’s what I wanted it to be. You realize what you’ve done, don’t you? That makes it official. You can’t leave me or kick me out again, ever. I haven’t got anything to take your place now.”

Charlie looked at him, and his eyes widened as he stared. They turned liquid with tears. He shook his head incredulously. “You’re not true. I’ve measured everything, but there’s so much more. You go on and on and on. I’ll never get to the end of you. I’m going to try, darling. Just give me a lifetime to try.”

He was still staring when there was a knock on the door. Neither of them moved to admit the champagne.

IT’S a shame epilogues are no longer in fashion; Jane Austen would have had a field day with all that’s left over. We could shift about in time: twenty years, thirty years. Thirty years would project us slightly into the future, which is perfectly all right with me. There would be my modestly successful career as a painter. (I can emerge from my third-person anonymity; nothing very discreditable happened after Stamford.) There would be Peter’s quite extraordinary success as a financier, if that’s what you call somebody who makes money out of nothing; he was able to give Walter a fifty thousand dollar picture years ago. Always there would be Peter and Charlie, surviving the separation of war, against exotic backgrounds, passion intact if tempered by the years, experiencing daily happiness that plunges sometimes into despair, since it is man’s nature to be easily surfeited with happiness. There would be very little new to record, for they have developed within the circle of their preoccupation with each other, a limitation that all intense relationships impose. Peter and Charlie. Peter has always been one for public declarations. I can’t do better than this.

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A ship’s whistle hooted in the night. The blond American closed his book and sat in the soft light of a kerosene lamp and tried not to hope.

After a moment of total immobility, he sprang up and crossed the bare whitewashed room and went out onto the terrace that hung over the port. Lights bobbed on the water below. Launches were running between the quai and a steamship lying at the entrance to the harbor. People bustling about their little business. Coming from Athens? Going to Athens? As if it made any difference.

The terrace was too high for the American to distinguish individuals as they clambered ashore in the dark so he made no effort to concentrate on the arrivals, although there was one head he felt sure he would recognize even at this distance if it should appear. He stood with godlike detachment, watching the human ants scurrying about beneath him. The sound of excited voices drifted up to him.

Was the beloved voice among them? Even at this distance, he felt sure that his ear would catch its unique note. It was an absurdity to hope to hear it, since not a soul in the world knew that he was here on this small Greek island. He had only himself to blame if nobody attempted to rescue him from the shipwreck of his life. An apt metaphor, very nearly the formulation of fact.

He turned his back on the picturesque scene below and retraced his steps, skirting the area of the terrace that looked as if it were about to cave in. He seated himself once more in the rickety straight-backed chair at the unpainted wooden table and pulled the kerosene lamp toward him. He looked at his book but didn’t reopen it. He wondered how long it would be before the unreasonable hope died. And was it really hope? He would never know unless it were fulfilled. Otherwise, what? Would he stay on in this crumbling ruin of a house, slowly dying with it into time? Why not? He had made the acquaintance of death—whether voluntary or involuntary didn’t seem important—a new acquaintance but not an unwelcome one. There was much to be said for being dead. The hazards of rescue were perhaps more to be feared than the oblivion he had found here.

He thought of the day of the trip from St. Tropez to Porquerolles, the day he had first known, no matter how much he had tried to close his mind to it, that the years of unbroken tranquility were ending. He felt as if an eternity of torment separated him from that day, but it had been only the time it took to sail from France to Greece, the time it took to test and reshape everything he had thought himself to be.

He felt already, after barely a week here, that he was taking on a new, dim identity. Kyrios Carlos, as some of the shopkeepers had begun to call him, since apparently “Charles” was a sound the Greeks couldn’t pronounce, and “Mills” became something he might eat three times a day. Kyrios Carlos, the silent foreigner who had unprecedentedly bought a house. Give him twenty years or so and he could turn into the island’s colorful old eccentric. By then, his unborn child would be fully grown and a total stranger to him. His child? Of course. There was little room for doubt, no justification for the disclaimer of a question mark.

He wished he could decide whom he was punishing. Himself? The others? If he could find the answer to that question, he would be able to glimpse the shape of the future. He knew that he deserved punishment, but he was far from sure that he was qualified to administer it. Was his being here an evasion of it or a submission to it? As he was discovering about most questions in life, there was no clear-cut answer. Therein lay hope’s resilience.

His mind was timing imaginary movements on the port. So many minutes to collect oneself at the point of debarkation and get into the center of the built-up area of the port where there were lighted shops and cafés. So many minutes being passed from hand to hand until the old man who spoke English was found. So many more minutes for the ritual interrogation, with perhaps some ouzo or retsina thrown in. A little more time for a guide to be produced, and the final eight minutes or so to get up to the house. It could happen. If anybody really wanted to find him, it would be possible. Nobody could just disappear off the face of the earth.

He opened his book. As he did so, his straining ears picked up a sound. He sat without moving as the sound grew nearer. He leaped to his feet and stood motionless, as a thrill, like light fingers running over him, crawled up the skin of his back. The unmistakable footsteps were mounting the last rise to the house. For an instant, his ears lost the sound, or perhaps his mind distrusted the boon of what he so longed to hear. He caught another sound. Voices? His mind clouded in protest: he couldn’t face both of them. The sound of hurrying feet again, just outside now. His heart stopped at the knock on the door.

We must take a step back in time and break in on a private conversation.

“Is it true you two go in for fidelity and all that?”

“I don’t know about ‘all that’ but fidelity, yes. Does that sound terribly quaint?”

The two young men were strolling past the bare central square of Porquerolles, elegant in the French way without containing any single elegant element, in the wake and out of earshot of a small band of holiday friends. Ahead of them was a stand of wind-twisted pines beyond which could be glimpsed a curve of white sand and the intense blue of the Mediterranean. The sun was hot and harsh, soaking up color, so that the gaily dressed party looked somehow ghostly against the black pines. Only the blue of the sea survived.

“I find it not only unlikely but damned inconvenient for me,” the dark young Frenchman persisted. His name was Guy de Sainval and he was very rich. “I think you and I could have something very exciting together.”

“The thought has crossed my mind,” Charlie Mills, the blond American, lied. He lied not because Guy was rich and, having bought two of his paintings, was something of a patron, but because he had had this conversation with so many others that he had developed a set of stock replies in order to get it over with as quickly as possible. Life with Peter had made him resent people making passes at him, especially men; the implied assumption that he could be had was an affront.

“You see?” Guy flashed him a suggestive smile. He had a face that interested without attracting Charlie, a witty, intelligent face, fine-boned, like an aristocratic bird. “Fidelity is altogether too limiting. Especially for an artist. Even normally married couples don’t attempt it.”

“But that’s just it. We’re not a normally married couple so we’ve made up our own rules. It’s really no great hardship. We like it that way. What about you and Harry?”

“That gangster? If you’ll forgive my speaking so of a compatriot of yours. All my friends warned me against him. They were right. I’d get rid of him in an instant for someone like you.”

“Just so that we could be unfaithful to each other?”

“Yes. Absurd, isn’t it? But one must have someone to be unfaithful to.” They both laughed, although Charlie’s laughter was not wholly spontaneous. Something was wrong. He didn’t like to joke about something so deeply ingrained in his life and precious to him, but it wasn’t that. Was it too soon to be in Europe for pleasure? The war had been over for five years but evidence of its agony was still vivid and pervasive. Was that why he had felt a shadow over the day, the drive from St. Tropez in expensive cars, the voyage out to the island on the regular tourist boat, which, for this run—though some magic of Guy’s—had been entirely reserved for them, all in order to taste what Guy described as the only perfect
bouillabaisse
in the world? Frivolity in a vacuum? Graveyard gaiety?