«No. She seems to be off Hamlet today. She's down the road with a young couple who are digging a conversation pit in their garden playroom.»
«A what?»
«A conversation pit.»
«Oh. Ah well. I see. Tell her-No. Well-« you.
«Bradley, you do-never mind what it means-love me, don't?»
«Yes, of course.»
«Sorry to be so sort of-limp and wet-Thanks for listening I'll ring again-Bye-I forgot Rachel. I decided I would go out and buy Julian a present. I still felt ill and rather faint and given to fits of trembling. At the idea of buying the present a lot of trembling came on. Present-buying is a fairly universal symptom of love. It is certainly a sine qua non. (If you don't want to give her a present you don't love her.) It is I suppose a method of touching the beloved.
The telephone rang. I staggered to it and gasped into it.
«Oh Brad. It's Chris.»
«Oh-Chris-hello, dear.»
«I'm glad I'm still 'Chris' today.»
«Today-yes-«Have you thought over my proposition?»
«What proposition?»
«Gee, Brad, you are a tease. Look, can I come over and see you right now?»
«No.»
«Why not?»
«I've got a bridge party.»
«But you can't play bridge.»
«I learnt in the thirty or so years of your absence. I had to pass the time somehow.»
«Brad, when can I see you, it's kind of urgent?»
«I'll come round to see Priscilla-this evening-probably-«O. K., I'll wait. Mind you come.»
«And God bless you, Chris, God bless you, dear, God bless you.»
I sat in the hall beside the telephone and fingered Julian's scarf. Since I retained it with me, although it was hers, it was as if she had given me a present. I sat and looked through the open door of the sitting-room at Julian's things arranged upon the tables. I listened to the silence of the flat in the midst of the murmur of London. Time passed. I waited. Being your slave what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire. I have no precious time at all to spend, nor services to do till you require.
It now seemed to me incredible that I could have had the nerve to leave the house that morning. Suppose she had telephoned, suppose she had come, when I was away? She could not spend the whole day digging a conversation pit, whatever that was. She would surely come round soon to get her Hamlet. How good it was that I had that hostage. After a while I moved back into the sitting-room and picked up the shabby little book and sat caressing it in Hart– bourne's armchair. My eyelids drooped and the material world grew dim and I waited.
The telephone rang and I ran to it, jolting the table and knocking the six volumes of Shakespeare off onto the floor.
«Bradley. Arnold here.»
«Oh God. It's you.»
«What's the matter?»
«Nothing.»
«Bradley, I hear-«
«What time is it?»
«Four o'clock. I hear you're coming round this evening to see Priscilla.»
«Yes.»
«Well, could I see you after that? There's something important I want to tell you.»
«Yes. Fine. What's a conversation pit?»
«What?»
«What's a conversation pit?»
«A sunken area in a room where you put cushions and people sit and converse.»
«What's the point of it?»
«It has no point.»
«Oh Arnold, Arnold-«What?»
«Nothing. I'll read your books. I'll start to like them. Everything will be different.»
«Have you got softening of the brain?»
«Good-bye, goodbye-I returned to the sitting-room and I picked up the Shakespeares from the floor and I sat down in the armchair and I said to her in my heart, I will suffer, you will not. We will do each other no harm. You will cause me pain, it cannot be otherwise. But I shall cause you none. And I will feed upon my pain like one who feeds on kisses. (Oh God.) I am simply happy that you exist, happy in the absolute that is you, proud to live with you in the same city, in the same century, to see you occasionally, seldom…
The telephone rang. I reached it. This time it was Julian.
«Oh Bradley, hello, it's me.»
I made some sort of sound.
«Bradley-sorry-it's me-you know, Julian Baffin.»
I said, «Hold on a minute, would you?» I covered the mouthpiece and closed my eyes tightly, groped for a chair, panting, trying to control my breath. In a few moments I said, coughing a little to disguise the tremor, «Sorry. The kettle was just boiling.»
«I'm so sorry to bother you, Bradley. I promise I won't become a pest, always ringing up and coming round.»
«Not at all.»
«I just wondered if I could pick up my Hamlet whenever you've finished with it.»
«Certainly.»
«But there's no hurry at all-any time in the next fortnight would do. I'm not working on that at the moment. And there's one or two more questions I've thought of. If you like I could send them by post, and you could post me the book. I don't want to interrupt your work.»
«In the next-fortnight-«Or month. I may be going to the country actually. My school has still got the measles.»
«Perhaps you could drop in some time next week,» I said.
«Fine. How about Thursday morning about ten?»
«Yes. That's-fine.»
«Thank you so much. I won't keep you. I know you're so busy. Good-bye, Bradley, and thanks.»
«Wait a minute,» I said.
There was silence.
«Julian,» I said, «are you free this evening?»
The restaurant at the top of the Post Office Tower revolves very slowly. Slow as a dial hand. Majestic trope of lion-blunting time.
How swiftly did it move that night while London crept behind the beloved head? Was it quite immobile, made still by thought, a mere fantasy of motion in a world beyond duration? Or was it spinning like a top, whirling away into invisibility, and pinning me against the outer wall, kitten-limbed and crucified by centrifugal force?
Concerning absence love has always been eloquent. The subject admits of an explicit melancholy, though doubtless there are certain pains which cannot be fully rendered. But has it ever sufficiently hymned presence? Can it do so? The presence of the loved one is perhaps always accompanied by anxiety. Mortals must tremble, where angels might enjoy. But this one grain of darkness cannot be accounted a blemish. It graces the present moment with a kind of violence which makes an ecstasy of time.
To speak more crudely, what I experienced that evening on the Post Office Tower was a kind of blinding joy. It was as if stars were exploding in front of my eyes so that I literally could not see. Breathing was fast and difficult, not unpleasant. I was conscious of a certain satisfaction in being able to go on pumping myself full of oxygen. A quiet and perhaps outwardly imperceptible shuddering possessed my whole frame. My hands vibrated, my legs ached and throbbed, my knees were in the condition described by the Greek poetess. This dereglement was completed by a sense of giddiness produced by the sheer conception of being so high above the ground and yet still connected to it. Giddiness of this kind in any case locates itself in the genitals.
All this, and further hues and saturations of bliss which I cannot describe at all, I felt on that evening as I sat with Julian in the Post Office Tower restaurant. We talked, and our communion was so perfect that it might have been telepathic for all I could make out afterwards about how it actually occurred. The evening had darkened to an intense blue, but it was not yet night. The forms of London, some already chequered with yellow light, glided onward through a dim shimmering corpuscular haze. The Albert Hall, the Science Museums, Centre Point, the Tower of London, St. Paul's Cathedral, the Festival Hall, the Houses of Parliament, the Albert Memorial. The precious and beloved skyline of my own Jerusalem processed incessantly behind that dear mysterious head. Only the royal parks were already places of darkness, growing inkily purple with night-time and its silence.