. . . With a flinch I looked up: still no weather. Sometimes, when the sky is as grey as this — impeccably grey, a denial, really, of the very concept of colour— and the stooped millions lift their heads, it’s hard to tell the air from the impurities in our human eyes, as if the sinking climbing paisley curlicues of grit were part of the element itself, rain, spores, tears, film, dirt. Perhaps, at such moments, the sky is no more than the sum of the dirt that lives in our human eyes.
——————
All set. I’m back at my flat now. The sheets have been changed, the socks coralled, the mags stashed. I myself am scrubbed and primped. Soon the bell will ring and Selina will be here with Persian eyes, overnight bag, hot throat, omniscient underwear, scarred wrists, boudoir odours and, quite possibly, the odours of other men. Under the auspices of pornography, however, this is all right, this is okay. This’ll do. I ought to wait until I know you a bit better before I reveal what I get up to with Selina in the sack. But I’ll probably tell you anyway. Who cares? I don’t. Is she an infidel? Does she go to bed with men for money? No, not my Selina. She simply makes blue films while I’m out of town, for private screening in this old head of mine. Tonight I get the lot. I can’t say I’m too much bothered now that pornography is on its way in a cab.
While the champagne cooled in my small but powerful refrigerator, I uncapped a tube of beer and swallowed ten capsules of Vitamin E. I am a vitamin addict, I am a penicillin addict, I am a painkiller addict. Painkillers, now they’re some good shit… Numb, groaning, restless, helpless, I paced the flat. I stood still. I sat down. Using the remote-control console I activated the television. With a premonitory crackle the Prince of Wales surged on to the hired screen. Hi, Prince, I said to myself. When did you get back? This guy is getting married in a month or so. He’s pulled a little darling called Lady Diana. She doesn’t look as though she’ll give him any trouble— not like my Selina gives me, anyway… In a series of clips, the Prince played polo, climbed mountains, flew fighters, bossed battleships. He sat before a fireplace, quietly chatting with his mother, the Chick. Full face to camera, the Prince then answered questions about his childhood and youth. He was, he said, profoundly grateful that he had been taught self-discipline at an early stage in life. Self-discipline, said the Prince, seemed to him absolutely essential to any kind of civilized existence .. . Boy, I wish someone had taught me self-discipline— when I was young, when you learn things without really trying. They could have taught me pride, dignity, and French too, while they were at it. I wouldn’t have had to lift a finger. But no one ever did teach me all that stuff. I’ve endeavoured to teach it to myself. I sit around trying to teach myself self-discipline. I can’t be doing with it, though (it just isn’t enough fun, self-discipline), and I always end up going out for a good time instead.
The door-buzzer sounded and I climbed to my feet, hands busy in my pockets with the money.
‘Got laid recently?’
The evening, at last, has reached its promised, its destined stage. We’ve just got back from dinner at Kreutzer’s. This was traditional, a matter of convention. Kreutzer’s provides the costly setting of our reunions, our foreplay and our lies. There have been rich meat and bloody wine. There have been brandies, and thick puddings. There has already been some dirty talk. Selina is in high spirits, and as for me, I’m a gurgling wizard of calorific excess.
‘Yeah,’ she said, after a pause, and sipped her champagne.
‘Who? Anyone I know?’
‘… Yeah.’
‘You’d better tell me about it.’
‘I was in my room. I was kneeling on the window-seat looking at the common. It’s so lovely now. Then this big fat black car pulled up outside the hotel. It was made of chrome and gold. The window went down and a hand with twelve rings appeared and beckoned to me.’