A Ladder to the Sky(41)

‘Makes one wonder what?’ asked Maurice.

‘How you,’ said Gore, pointing a finger at the boy, ‘ended up sleeping in it. A Yorkshire lad, barely in his twenties, with not much to show for his life so far.’

‘Well, except a fairly successful novel.’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure that means very much any more.’

Maurice rolled his eyes and Gore felt a stab of irritation. He was a giant and would not be dismissed by a boy who had barely started to shave. ‘You’re not going to tell me that literature is over, are you?’ Maurice said. ‘We’ve argued that point already.’

‘I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,’ replied Gore, trying to control his annoyance. ‘You must remember that I published Williwaw when I was nineteen. And I was only your age when The City and the Pillar appeared, provoking a scandal. E. P. Dutton told me that I’d never be forgiven for it and for years the New York Times blacklisted me and wouldn’t review any of my books. I had to go to work in Hollywood to earn my living on account of their puritanism. And believe me, you don’t know what it’s like to roll around in the shit until you find yourself driving in and out of a studio gate every day.’

‘I have no interest in film,’ said Maurice carelessly. ‘I only want to write novels.’

‘So, no, literature is far from over,’ continued Gore, ignoring the interruption. ‘What you’re doing to Dash, you know. It’s deeply unkind.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course you do. Don’t play the fool.’

‘And have you always been kind, Gore? Because from what I’ve read about you, I suspect that you’ve hurt many people along the way.’

‘That’s probably true. But I don’t believe I’ve ever deliberately set out to ruin a man. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever done that.’

Maurice said nothing, but returned to his packing.

‘But you haven’t answered my question,’ said Gore.

‘What question was that?’

‘How a young man like you ended up sleeping in a bed like that.’

‘Howard told me to use it. He said it was more comfortable than the one he was giving Dash.’

Gore smiled. ‘Some might say that your mentor should have been assigned the better room.’

Maurice frowned. ‘I’m not sure I’d describe Dash as my mentor.’

‘No? How would you describe him then?’

‘I told you last night. A friend. Someone I admire. He’s a good writer, is Dash.’

‘He’s a good writer, is Dash,’ repeated Gore, mimicking the sudden appearance of the boy’s accent. ‘Be careful, Maurice. Your roots are showing.’

‘Yes, and that’s all he’ll ever be. Let’s not pretend he’s Proust.’

‘No, he’s not Proust,’ admitted Gore. ‘But he’s shown a generosity of spirit towards you for which you should feel grateful.’

‘And I do,’ said Maurice. ‘Have I done something to make you think otherwise?’

‘The way you look at him. The contempt with which you treat him. How you keep him dangling on a string, desperate for some affectionate word from you. I assume you’re finished with him now and are ready to move on to pastures new?’

Maurice shrugged. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘My life has become rather busy of late. And Dash can be … How shall I put this? Very needy. It becomes exhausting after a while.’

‘I can only imagine. I have to hand it to you: you know what you want out of life and you’re determined to get it. Perhaps I wasn’t so very different to you when I was your age. Although I was better-looking, of course.’

Maurice smiled. ‘I’ve seen the pictures,’ he said. ‘And yes, you were.’

‘So, is this it?’ asked Gore. ‘Being a writer. This is all you’ve ever wanted? There’s nothing else?’ Maurice hesitated, and Gore noticed him biting his lip. Was there a weakness in there somewhere, a chink in the boy’s armour? ‘There is something, isn’t there?’ he said. ‘There’s something more that you want? I took you for utterly single-minded, but no. Tell me, I’m intrigued.’

‘You’ll laugh,’ said Maurice.

‘I won’t.’

‘It will seem ridiculous.’

‘Probably. But everything seems ridiculous to me these days.’

‘I’d like a child,’ said Maurice.

‘A child?’

‘Yes, a child.’

Gore sat back in his chair, his eyes opening wide. ‘A child?’ he repeated.

‘God, is it so unusual?’

Gore stared at the boy, uncertain what to make of this declaration. ‘I thought I could see right through you,’ he said finally. ‘But I must admit I hadn’t expected that. What on earth do you want a child for? What good is a squealing infant to anyone? They demand instant attention. A puppy, I could understand. But a child? Really?’

Maurice shook his head and smiled. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said. ‘You’ve obviously never wanted one.’

‘I don’t even like passing them in the street. Children are banned here at La Rondinaia.’