‘No one would have the gall,’ said Dash.
‘What was it Woodrow Wilson said?’ asked Gore. ‘That loyalty means nothing unless it has at its heart the absolute principle of self-sacrifice? Something along those lines?’
‘And you think other writers should sacrifice themselves for the likes of Erich Ackermann?’ asked Dash. ‘Would you?’
‘Probably not. But then I barely know the man.’
‘Well, then.’
A silence descended on the table, a mutual understanding that, were they to pursue this topic, the evening could end in an argument that no one had the stomach for. Howard opened another bottle of wine, poured a fresh drink for everyone, and the clinking of their glasses determined the end of that particular conversation.
‘Can I ask how long you two have been together?’ asked Howard when the silence became uncomfortable, looking back and forth between Dash and Maurice.
‘Well, it’s difficult to put an exact—’ began Dash.
‘We’re not together,’ said Maurice, speaking over him. ‘We’re friends, certainly. But that’s all.’
‘You’re not lovers?’ asked Gore.
‘We’re friends,’ repeated Maurice.
‘But you’ve been lovers? In the past, I mean?’
‘These are such personal questions.’
‘Are they? I don’t see why. You’re not a child and we’re not gathered together at the annual convention of Stick-up-your-ass Puritans. There’s nothing so peculiar about being lovers, is there? What say you, Dash?’
‘As Maurice says,’ replied Dash quietly, looking crestfallen, almost as if he might cry. ‘We’re friends. Very good friends. We care enormously for each other.’
‘It doesn’t matter a damn to Howard or me, you understand,’ said Gore. ‘So there’s no particular reason for secrecy. But if you want to keep the nature of your relationship ambiguous, feel free. Although I can’t help but think it’s a little ridiculous. It’s 1990, after all.’
‘From a purely logistical point of view,’ said Howard, ‘we need to know whether you require separate rooms tonight. Naturally, Gore and I assumed that you’d be two gentlemen sharing.’
‘If you only have one prepared,’ said Dash, ‘then please don’t put yourself to any trouble on our behalf. I’m happy to share if—’
‘Separate rooms, please,’ said Maurice, looking at Howard. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep Dash awake with my snoring.’
‘But you don’t snore,’ said Dash.
‘Ah,’ said Gore with a smile, winking at Dash, who blushed scarlet then looked up at his host, biting his lower lip.
‘I’ll let Cassiopeia know,’ said Gore, ringing a bell and passing some instructions in Italian to the maid who appeared on the terrace above them. ‘Anyway, whatever your arrangement is, I’m sure it’s a very sensible one. Howard and I have always maintained separate rooms and we find it a very satisfying way to live. Dash, will you have some more wine?’
‘No thank you, Gore,’ said Dash.
‘You look upset. Has someone said something to distress you?’
‘No, I’m just tired, that’s all.’
Gore softened a little. Dash was a fool and, worse, a mediocrity in his chosen profession, but there was no reason for him to be so ill-used by a child he’d taken under his wing. He had known boys like Maurice all his life. When he was young and starting to make his way in books, they’d come crawling out of the woodwork, attaching themselves to him, and then, once they made a name for themselves, dropping him without a second thought. At first, their Machiavellian ways had proved hurtful. Then, for some time, it had simply been annoying. But soon enough he mastered the rules of the game and used the boys purely for sex, giving them nothing in return, throwing them out before they had an opportunity to ask for favours. If only Dash could be so shrewd. Time to cheer him up a little, thought Gore.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I meant to tell you that I’ve read your new novel.’
‘You have?’ asked Dash, looking up hopefully.
‘Yes. It’s your best in many years, if you don’t mind me saying so. I thought I might write a little notice about it for the New Yorker, if that’s all right with you. Something to recommend it to readers.’
‘That would be very kind of you,’ said Dash. ‘Every little helps, as you know.’
‘Maurice was telling me earlier that he was reading it on the plane,’ said Gore.
‘Yes, I must admit I was flattered when he plucked it out of his bag as we took our seats.’
Gore, lifting his wine glass, set it down and looked from Maurice to Dash and back to Maurice again.
‘You brought the novel with you?’ asked Gore.
‘Of course, I posted him a copy upon publication,’ continued Dash. ‘But I know how busy he is and didn’t expect him to find the time to read it.’
‘I thought you said that Dash gave it to you at the airport,’ said Gore, looking at the boy.
‘You must have misunderstood,’ said Maurice. ‘I said that there were many copies of it in the airport bookshop.’
‘Is that what you said?’ asked Gore. ‘I remember differently.’
‘It’s a fine piece of work, Dash,’ said Maurice, turning to his benefactor. ‘Very moving and insightful on the ways of the flesh. I hope to be able to write as well as you one day.’
Dash looked around the table proudly, beaming from ear to ear, while Maurice reached for his wine glass and drained it in one go. Gore enjoyed the look on the boy’s face at that moment, although it was almost impossible to interpret exactly what he was thinking. Why, he thought, he could write a thousand words on that expression alone.
He discovered Dash walking the grounds early the following morning, when Howard and Maurice were still asleep. Gore usually took a walk at this time of day, immediately following his bath, the morning air clearing his mind of the fog that lingered from the night before. In recent times his dreams had become disturbing and his sleep more fretful, a condition he put down to looming old age. He would be sixty-five this year. Pensionable. Neither of his parents had made it past seventy-four and the idea that he had less than a decade to live was alarming to him. There were still so many books to write and, although he feigned indifference to the current publishing world, so many that he wanted to read.
Sometimes he wondered who would go first, he or Howard. Wasn’t there something in Wuthering Heights about Heathcliff wanting Cathy to die before him so she wouldn’t have to go through the trauma of a life spent alone? Or was it the other way around? He couldn’t remember. It had been so long since he’d read the novel. But the line was in there somewhere. Do I want Howard to die before me? he asked himself now; and no came the unequivocal answer. Let me go first, he muttered, appealing to the gods. Let him deal with the loneliness. In ancient times, a sacrifice would have been offered for such petitions. An animal slaughtered and its vital organs burnt upon an altar while the priest wore a mask to prevent himself from witnessing evil rising in the smoke. For a brief moment, he considered how easy it would be to set out a dais at La Rondinaia and how he could procure a young lamb from one of the village boys, but then shook his head, laughing at the absurdity of the notion. Howard would have him committed if he came out to discover him dressed like a monk and chanting incantations on the terrace.
He spotted Dash strolling where the garden met the cliff-face, cutting a ridiculous figure in a garish Hawaiian shirt and shorts that revealed pale, hairless legs. Gore’s first instinct was to walk back towards the villa, where he could breakfast in solitude, but his friend’s dejected gait and unhappy expression persuaded him to walk in his direction.