Ritual in the Dark Read Free Page B

Because you’d know it meant something, that it wasn’t meaningless. Look. None of these people live a whole life. They only live a few odd days at a time. It’s like never eating a full meal, but getting an occasional mouthful every few hours. Or like not hearing a symphony in one sitting, but hearing two or three notes at a time, spread over several months. That’s how they live. Well, some people don’t live like that.
    Nunne interrupted smoothly: How are you so sure Nijinsky didn’t?
    No, he didn’t, Sorme said.
    Nunne offered him the open cigarette case; Sorme shook his head saying: Thanks, I don’t. Nunne lit a cigarette, looking at him over the lighter. He breathed out a mouthful of smoke, saying contentedly:
    You really are a very odd person, Gerard.
    Sorme finished the whisky, staring hard at Nunne. He signalled again to the waiter, and waved a hand at the two glasses. He said deliberately:
    It’s not oddness. I am convinced that life can be lived at twenty times its present intensity. . . somehow. I spend all I my life looking for the way to it. I envy madmen. But somehow I never get closer to it myself. But I cling to symbols. Nijinsky is one of my symbols.
    The waiter set down two more large whiskies. Sorme said:
    I’ll get these.
    No. No. Please.
    As the waiter went away, Sorme asked: Why should you pay for my drinks?
    Because my father’s disgustingly rich.
    Oh.
    You look shocked!
    No. Tell me, what do you do with your time?
    Ah, there you touch a delicate subject. I have developed fifty different ways of wasting it. I write books—not very good ones. I attend all the concerts and operas and ballets. I fly to Vienna and Milan and Berlin for concerts. If I was just a little more worthless I’d drink two bottles of pernod a day and kill myself in a year. As it is, I fly a plane and like fast cars.
    Sorme said, disingenuously: You’re not married, of course?
    No, I never met anyone I wanted to settle down with. For some reason, I prefer bitches. I don’t suppose you understand that?
    No, I don’t really. I hate bitches—of any sex.
    You obviously lack a masochistic leaning.
    I hate pain of any sort—to myself or anyone else.
    Ah, you talk like a moralist, Gerard. One shouldn’t be a moralist.
    You don’t understand. It’s not a matter of morality. It’s what I said before—you have to work on the assumption that there could be a vision of the total meaning of life. And if that’s possible, everyone ought to live as if that was the aim.
    Ah, you are a moralist, Gerard. You ought to meet my aunt. You’d like her.
    Why?
    She’s a moralist too. She disapproves of me. Jehovah’s Witness. Believes the Last Judgment’ll happen any day now. That’s what you want, isn’t it? People believing in the Last Judgment.
    You’re damn right. It’s just what I want.
    Shall I tell you what I want?
    What?
    Something to eat. Shall we go and have a meal?
    Where?
    Anywhere. Leoni’s or Victor’s or somewhere.
    I have to go.
    Oh no. It’s not the money that worries you, is it? I’ve got lots on me. Look.
    Nunne produced his wallet and waved it vaguely under Sorme’s nose. Sorme caught a glimpse of a wad of notes. He realised that Nunne was becoming drunk: he also suspected that he was behaving as if he were more drunk than he actually was.
    No, really. I’d rather not.
    But you must. I don’t want you to go yet. You don’t want to go yet, do you?
    No, but. . .
    Well, we can’t drink any more on empty stomachs. I’m getting disgustingly drunk already. Had no lunch. So we’d better go and eat. C’mon, boy.
    As the uniformed man helped Sorme into his raincoat, Nunne said:
    Let me into a secret, Gerard. Why on earth do you carry a woman’s umbrella?
    Sorme took the umbrella from the man, and handed him a shilling.
    It’s not mine. It’s my landlady’s daughter’s. She insisted on lending it to me when I came out today.
    They came out into the rain again. Sorme felt fortified against it and