He’d met the boy while on a school trip to Paris in the spring of 1921 (he’d been seventeen). One supposedly went to Paris to look for romance, but Bart had already decided at a young age that he was going to marry Bettina because not only was she the funniest person he knew, she was also gorgeous and capable of reluctant kindness in the right circumstances. And she came from wealth, so there you go. He had been going to try to kiss her, in fact, and had almost done so on one occasion, but had bottled it when he’d caught the sarcastic curve of her mouth once in close enough range.
He went to Paris thinking of one thing – freedom. He’d twice been on school trips, once to Edinburgh to visit the castle and the other time to Caerleon to see the old Roman amphitheatre, and on both instances, he and his schoolmates had enjoyed a moderate loosening of the leash – a couple of hours here and there to explore places unwatched (the upper-school boys, far from keeping an eye on the younger boys as they were supposed to, had pissed off to find cigarettes and flirt with girls). It was the same in Paris. There were tours around the Louvre, visits to Notre-Dame cathedral and a showing of Othello at the Chaillot (with Mr Fletcher continuously nudging him throughout the performance to make sure he was paying attention; Bart was the most promising student of the school’s drama cohort). On the fourth day, all boys were granted the afternoon to go off and explore by themselves, with explicit instruction to stick together and behave with the bearing and dignity of a Winchester boy. ‘We will be checking your breath on your return, so don’t do anything stupid,’ added the headmaster.
The boys did not stick together. A band of six went off to the Folies-Bergère to see a burlesque show, a few others returned to the Louvre, some went to a picture house on one of the grands boulevards to see The Mark of Zorro and a brave bunch ventured into the Goutte d’Or district to look for a brothel (four out of seven would wind up contracting crabs and return to England in a blind panic, eventually procuring some ointment from a pharmacy in Weeke). Many others went off by themselves, some taking their fags along, but Bart had no intention of taking Roger with him. He told him to meet him ‘back in this exact spot’ in four hours. ‘If you get into any trouble, I get into trouble, so bloody well watch yourself,’ he said, before booting Roger’s arse as he turned to run away.
Bart bought some cigarettes and found a café. He sat outside under the low hanging branches of a cypress tree and ordered a beer. A light breeze rustled the branches above him and the sun came out sporadically from behind slow-coasting white clouds. Heaven. He ordered more drink and a bowl of garlic mushrooms hoping it would conceal the alcohol on his breath. If the headmaster really wanted to check for immoral conduct, he’d be better off smelling all the boys’ cocks, because it was women they were after more than anything else (except for those subhuman bores re-treading their steps in the Louvre), and even the boys at the cinema had only gone because they’d heard rumours of loose women giving out handies in the back seats. Bart laughed to himself, imagining his classmates standing in a long row with their cocks dangling out, the head going from boy to boy and sniffing them with the snooty air of a wine-taster inhaling a new vintage. ‘Hmm, this has a fully rounded and robust bouquet and I’m getting spicy and syphilitic undertones of Parisian tart.’
‘Qu’est-ce qui est si drôle?’
It was a boy at the next table. He looked around the same age as Bart and was dressed in a sailor’s uniform – white middy blouse with a black and white striped undershirt and white beret. He had large brown eyes with the thickest, darkest lashes. A blocky, squarish nose, wide at the bridge. Deep dimples. Placed in front of him was a tiny coffee cup and a leather-bound notepad and pencil. He held a fatly rolled cigarette between thumb and forefinger.
‘Nothing I care to share,’ said Bart.
‘That’s a shame.’ The boy made a mock-sulky face.
Bart turned away from him and fixed his eyes on the passing people. A very tall woman dressed in trousers marched haughtily past. Bart had never seen a woman in trousers before. A man in rumpled evening wear was thrown out of a restaurant door across the road. He jumped to his feet and screamed French obscenities before dusting himself off and looking around with a dignified air of hurt feelings. A group of black men in cheap brown suits were gathered around two other black men playing chess on a granite table, talking fast and gesticulating with jerky, sophisticated movements. Bart had only seen black people a handful of times before. It was all dizzying and marvellous.
‘What do you think?’ Sailor boy again. He was holding up his notepad. Bart squinted to see, but the sun was flashing off the white paper. He came over, handing the notepad to Bart. It was a pencilled profile sketch of Bart, hastily done with zippy little squiggles. It caught the pleasure in his observing eyes and the sardonic twitch of his mouth.
‘A fair likeness,’ said Bart. ‘I expect you want me to give you money for it.’
‘No, no,’ he said, waving his hand and taking a seat at Bart’s table. He ripped out the drawing and placed it in front of him. ‘It is for you, a present.’
Bart looked at the boy with nude scrutiny. ‘Then I suppose you’re hoping to sell me something else.’
He affected a look of bewildered, shocked hurt. ‘Such sharp words! I have no need for your money. Look…’ He took out a thick band of notes from his pocket and waved them in Bart’s face.
How many cocks did you have to suck for all that? Bart thought. No, he was being mean-spirited. It was a beautiful day. Why not just let it be beautiful? He offered the boy a vague apology. ‘And thank you for the sketch, it’s very good. Are you an artist?’
‘Yes, I’m a street artist. Also I supply satire for some newspapers.’ Up so close, Bart could smell the boy’s sweat. Strong and spicy.
‘Aren’t you a sailor?’
The boy laughed. ‘Never! It looks good though, non?’
‘It looks very good.’
The boy plucked a pre-rolled cigarette out of his packet and lit it with quick hands. ‘I have a special feeling about you,’ he said, smiling brightly through a fog of grey smoke.
Bart drank his beer, trying to suppress the hooks of a smile. He was being duped in some way; he was an obvious tourist and the boy a shark, and yet… the boy’s eyes were gentle, musical and emanating an earnestness that Bart would normally find embarrassing. He seemed at ease with himself, abnormally so. And those dimples. Bettina had a name for boys like him: musky cherubs. He couldn’t remember how she’d come up with it, but it probably had something to do with working-class body odour.
A waitress came out to collect glasses and the boy got her attention, ordering two beers and two shots of peach schnapps. He turned back to Bart and said, ‘Please, tell me about yourself,’ and Bart said, ‘Fantastic, my favourite topic,’ and rubbed his hands together gleefully, and they both laughed, looking at each other while trying not to look at each other.
The walls were watermarked by damp with clusters of black mould in the corners, except for one wall, which was painted a shocking bright green, but only half-heartedly, with unfinished patches and the edges not yet done, as if he’d got bored of the project halfway through or run out of paint. There was a soot-blasted fire grate topped with blocks of wood and twists of newspaper, and in singeing distance, a small table and two wicker chairs. In one corner were piles of books, some mildewed along the edges. Empty wine bottles stuffed with candles dominated every surface, save for a space on the boy’s work desk, which was kept relatively clear, the woodtop stained by a constellation of ink blots. Here were signs of the boy’s artistic delusions – a box of pencils and pastels, jars filled with paintbrushes and muddy water. The bed was a mattress on top of box crates, and Bart was surprised to see it made, the blankets drawn tight around the mattress; but, ruining this, an overflowing ashtray lay on the pillow, and next to it was a tattered pamphlet of pornographic drawings. A smell of piss, eggs and tobacco smoke was in the air.