A Ladder to the Sky(39)

‘A compendium of my essays,’ he told him.

‘All your essays?’

‘Well, a lot of them, anyway. It’ll be a big book.’

‘Will you come home to promote it?’

‘My dear Dash, I am home.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I expect so,’ said Gore. ‘I may even stay for a month or two. Catch up with whoever’s still alive and terrified of running into me.’ In the olden days, of course, he would have been invited to stay in the White House when he was visiting Washington but there was precious little chance of that now. He’d slept in the Lincoln Bedroom dozens of times when Jack and Jackie were in charge. Never under Lyndon, who’d frozen him out because he didn’t like the idea of a queer sullying the bedsheets. Twice under Tricky Dick, including a night where they’d got drunk on whisky and ended up making midnight raids on the kitchen, like a pair of teenage boys, leading Pat to come down and give them a thoroughly enjoyable scolding. Ford had never liked him, Carter had never understood him and Reagan had never approved of him. Bush, he assumed, had never even heard of him. So that was that, he was certain, until a cultured Democrat, if such a thing still existed, got elected again. ‘Shall we sit?’ he asked, indicating a bench that stood beneath the shade of an olive tree, facing in the direction of the coastline.

‘What plants are these?’ asked Dash, pointing to a cluster of bright pink five-leaved flowers with serrated edges that resembled the hem of a debutante’s ballgown.

‘Yes, they’re pretty, aren’t they?’ said Gore. ‘But you’d have to check with Howard. He’s the gardener. Are you in love with the boy, Dash? Is that what this is all about?’

His companion didn’t seem surprised by the question or by how suddenly it had been asked. He swallowed and looked down at the ground, where an elongated family of ants were scuttling past in single file, and nodded.

‘It’s ridiculous, I know,’ he said. ‘I’m fifty-eight years old, after all.’

‘And what is he?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘Is he a bugger? It’s hard to tell. He was so enigmatic on the subject over dinner last night.’

‘I think Maurice is whatever he needs to be, whenever he needs to be it. He’s an operator, that’s for sure. And I don’t much like him, Gore, if I’m honest. Sometimes I think I might hate him. He’s rude and unkind, utterly self-centred, and treats me like a dog. But I can’t seem to break away from him. When we’re together, I’m in torment, but when we’re apart he’s all that I can think about. I wonder who he’s with and what he’s doing and whether he’s thinking of me at all. It wasn’t like that when we met, of course. I had the upper hand then. I’m … well, I am what I am.’

‘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 Ordó?ez.’

‘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.