The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium Page 10

  On this particular occasion, I had already spent much more than I had intended (but who if he has any resolve in his make-up, strength in his character, can refuse to buy a book on Elephants or the Anatomy of The Gorilla?), when I suddenly saw, squatting peacefully on a shelf level with my eyes (so I could not possibly miss it) a series of volumes I had long wanted to acquire. This set was bound in a dark maroon coloured cloth and, apart from the difference in the thickness of each volume, they were identical. The title, in block, was so obscure as to be almost unreadable, and indeed I might easily have missed this Pandora’s box of books if a stray shaft of winter’s sunlight had not wandered through the dusty window at that precise moment and illuminated the volumes and their titles: The Psychology of Sex, by Havelock Ellis.

  Now, anyone who studies, keeps or, most important, breeds, rare animals knows how important sex is, and the study of sexual impulses in an animal which can talk and write of its experiences and feelings – the human animal, man – is of enormous help in the study of the less articulate members of the animal kingdom. Though I possessed a fairly extensive library on the subject of human sex, it was lacking one master work for which I had been searching for some time – the classic Havelock Ellis, to a large extent now superseded by modern research but still an important early study on that subject, and certainly a wealth of information.

  The young lady who helped me carry the books downstairs obviously thought that a man of my age should not be buying nine volumes on the subject of sex. John Ruston, the owner of the shop who had known me for a good many years, was more sympathetic.

  ‘Yes,; he said, swaying to and fro like a dancing bear. ‘Yes, Ellis. We don’t get him in often.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to find him for ages,’ I replied. ‘I’m delighted.’

  ‘It’s a nice, clean copy,’ said John, with unconscious humour, picking up the volume dealing with homosexuality and examining it.

  So my Havelock Ellis was packed up, together with a few last-minute purchases (who, with red blood in his veins, could resist The Speech of Monkeys, or A Slave Trader’s Journal, or The Patagonians?), and John Ruston had me driven round to the hotel where, for the next week, I devoted myself almost exclusively to Havelock, carrying him around, a volume at a time, and marking with a pencil those parts which I thought applicable to animal breeding generally. What I didn’t realize was that, at mid-winter in a nearly deserted hotel, my movements were studied by the staff about as carefully as I studied my own animals. What they saw was me deeply absorbed in a book (since all the volumes looked much the same), in which I kept marking passages as I drifted from cocktail bar to restaurant, from restaurant to deserted lounge. When they brought up my breakfast at seven-thirty, I was lying in bed reading Havelock and the night porters would find me still engrossed in him at two o’clock in the morning. Obviously there must be something about the book that kept me riveted and silent for such long periods.

  I was totally unaware of the interest that my absorption with Havelock was arousing, until Luigi, the Italian barman, said to me:

  ‘That seems to be a very interesting book you are reading, Mr Durrell.’

  ‘It is,’ I said vaguely. ‘Havelock Ellis.’

  He said no more, not wishing to confess that be did not know who Havelock Ellis was. Then Stephen Grump, the Viennese Under-Manager, said to me:

  ‘That seems to be an interesting book you are reading.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Havelock Ellis.’

  He, too, not wishing to appear ignorant, merely nodded his head wisely.

  So enchanted was I, not only by the research work that Havelock had done, but by the character that seemed to emerge from his prose – earnest, pedantic, humourless, as only Americans can be when they take a subject seriously; an omelette made up of the meticulousness of a Prussian officer, the earnestness of a Swedish artist, and the cautiousness of a Swiss banker – that I was oblivious of the fact that all around there were people who were dying to know what I was reading. The dull red cover, the almost undecipherable title, gave them no clue. Then one day, quite by accident, my secret was out, and immediately pandemonium broke loose on a scale that I had rarely seen equalled. It all happened quite innocently in the restaurant, where I was reading Havelock as I demolished an avocado pear and an excellent lasagne (for the restaurant was exclusively run by Italians though some of the kitchen staff were English). In between mouthfuls of pasta heavily laced with Parmesan cheese, I was reading Havelock on the different aspects of beauty in women, and what attracts and does not attract in different parts of the world. I came to a phrase used in Sicily which I suspected would provide much food for thought if only I had the remotest idea what it meant.

  Irritatingly, Havelock assumed that everyone spoke fluent Italian and so there was no footnote with a translation. I puzzled over the phrase for a moment and then recalled that the head waiter, Innocenzo, was from Sicily. Little realizing I was setting alight the fuse that led to a powder keg, I called him over to my table.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he enquired, his large hazel eyes flashing round the table to make sure.

  ‘Delicious,’ I said. ‘But that’s not what I called you for. You said you came from Sicily didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, from Sicily,’ he nodded.

  ‘Well, can you just translate that for me?’ I asked, pointing to the relevant passage.

  It had a curious and quite unprecedented effect on him. His eyes widened unbelievingly as he read. Then he glanced at me, walked away from the table a few steps in embarrassment, came back, read the passage again, looked at me, and retreated from the table as though I had suddenly grown another head.

  ‘What is that book?’ he asked me.

  ‘Havelock Ellis. The Psychology of Sex.’

  ‘You read it now for one week,’ he said accusingly as though he’d caught me in some underhand dealing.

  ‘Well, there are nine volumes,’ I protested.

  ‘Nine?’ he exclaimed. ‘Nine? All on sex?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a big subject. But what I’m interested in is whether this is true. Is this what you say about women in Sicily?’

  ‘Me? No, no!’ said Innocenzo, hurriedly, living up to his name. ‘Me, I never say that.’

  ‘Never?’ I asked, disappointed.

  ‘Maybe sometimes my grandfather may have said it,’ said Innocenzo, ‘but not now. Oh, no, no! Not now.’ He gazed at the books fascinated. ‘You say this man write nine books?’ he asked again. ‘All on the sex?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Every aspect of it.’

  ‘And this is what you are reading all this week?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So now you are an expert,’ he said, laughing embarrassedly.

  ‘No, he’s the expert. I’m just learning.’

  ‘Nine books,’ he repeated wonderingly, and then dragged his mind back to his job. ‘You want some cheese, Mr Durrell?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘Just some more wine.’

  He brought a bottle, uncorked it, and poured out a drop for me to taste, his eyes fixed fascinatedly on the book. I approved the wine, and he poured it out.

  ‘Nine books,’ he mused, carefully untwisting the cork from the corkscrew. ‘Nine books on sex. Mama Mia!’

  ‘Yes,’ I concluded. ‘Havelock did the job properly.’

  Innocenzo left me, and I returned to Havelock, earnest and meticulous in his investigations among the hot-blooded Sicilians. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, my hot-blooded Sicilian had passed on to the waiters the news that Mr Durrell possessed nine volumes on sex, surely a record for any hotel guest. The news spread through the hotel like fire through summer gorse-land. When I returned from a shopping expedition that afternoon, two of the porters rushed to open the doors of the hotel for me, and behind the desk not one but four receptionists b
linded me with their smiles, their faces as pretty as a flower-bed. I was somewhat startled by all this sudden enthusiasm, but, in my innocence, did not connect it with my owning Havelock Ellis. I went up to my room, ordered some tea, and lay on the bed reading. Presently, my tea was brought to me by the floor waiter, Gavin, a tall, slender boy with a delicate profile, a mop of blond hair like the unkempt mane of a Palomino, and large blue eyes.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said, his eyes fixed on my book.

  ‘Good afternoon, Gavin,’ I said. ‘Just bung it on the table, will you?’

  He put the tea on the table and then stood looking at me.

  ‘Yes?’ I asked. ‘Do you want something?’

  ‘Is that your dirty book, then?’

  ‘Dirty book!’ I replied, indignantly. ‘This is Havelock Ellis; the definitive work on the psychology of sex. Dirty book, indeed!’

  ‘Well, that’s wot I mean,’ said Gavin. ‘Sex.’

  ‘Sex – contrary to what the English think – is not dirty,’ I pointed out, with some asperity.

  ‘Naw, well . . . you know . . . I know it’s not,’ said Gavin. ‘But, well . . . Imeantersay . . . everyone else thinks so, don’t they?’

  ‘Fortunately, there is a small minority that holds other views,’ I retorted. ‘You among them, I trust.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Imeantersay, I’m all in favour of it, like. What I say is, let everyone do what they like, more or less,’ said Gavin, adding, ‘providing it’s not somefing you’re not supposed to do . . . you know, like drugging girls and sending them off to Buenos Aires and places like that . . . that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, even in sex one should have fair play,’ I agreed gravely.

  He twisted the napkin he carried in his hands and sighed gustily. It was obvious that he had a problem.

  ‘Wot’s it say, then?’ he asked at last.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About sex, of course’

  ‘Which particular aspect?’

  ‘Wot you mean? Aspect?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘Well, do you want to know about ordinary sex, or lesbianism, homosexuality, sadism, masochism, onanism?’

  ‘’Ere!’ interrupted Gavin. ‘Does ’e write about all those? Honest?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s all sex in one shape or form.’

  ‘Gawd Almighty!’ exclaimed Gavin, with feeling. ‘Yeah . . . well, I suppose you’re right. Live and let live is wot I say.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Gavin tied a knot in the napkin and beat it against the palm of his hand. It was obvious he was dying to ask something.

  ‘Have you a problem?’ I asked.

  Gavin jumped.

  ‘Who me?’ he cried, backing away towards the door. ‘No, no! I’ve got no problem. Not me. Not a problem.’

  ‘So, Dr Havelock Ellis can’t help you?’ I enquired.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Gavin. ‘Imeantersay . . . I got no problems. Not like wot some people ’ave . . . I’ll be back for your tray presently. All right?’

  He made a hasty exit.

  By now, I judged, the whole hotel would be throbbing, as a jungle throbs with talking drums, with the news of Havelock Ellis. I sipped my tea and waited expectantly. Within the hour, Gavin was back.

  ‘Enjoy your tea?’ he asked.

  He’d never asked this before.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said, and waited.

  There was a pause while he juggled the tea tray dexterously on to one palm.

  ‘Read any more, then?’ he asked at last.

  ‘A few pages.’

  He blew out his cheeks and sighed.

  ‘I suppose it’s a good book to read if you’ve got. . . well, problems?’

  ‘Very soothing,’ I said. ‘He treats everything sensibly, and doesn’t give you a guilt complex.’

  ‘Yeah, well . . . that’s good. It’s bad to have a complex, isn’t it?’

  ‘Detrimental. Very detrimental.’

  Silence fell. He shifted the tray from his right hand to his left.

  ‘Yeaa . . .’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘I got a friend wot’s got a complex.’

  ‘Really? What sort of complex?’

  ‘Well, it’s sort of difficult to explain, like,’ he’s quite a good-looking fella, like . . . Well, Imeantersay, ’e’s not bad-looking, ya know. I mean, all the girls like ’im. In fact, to tell ya the truth, there’s, er, two of ’em wot’s come ta blows over ’im,’ he said, with modest satisfaction. ‘Two of them Portuguese chambermaids . . . Yea, didn’t arf hurt each other. Pulled each other’s hair and punching each other. ‘Ot tempered, these foreigners are, don’t ya think?’

  ‘Very,’ I said. ‘Is that your friend’s problem? Too many hot-blooded Portuguese girls to take to bed?’

  ‘No, no! No . . . no . . . it’s not that. ’E don’t like ’em, see.’

  ‘You mean, he’s got a girl-friend already?’

  ‘No, no! Wot I’m saying . . . ’e don’t like girls, see?’ he blurted out, desperately. ‘I mean ta say, ’e doesn’t like . . . well, you know . . . muckin’ about with ’em.’

  ‘You mean he likes boys?’ I asked.

  He reddened.

  ‘Well, no . . . I mean . . . well, ’e says ’e’s . . . you know, mucked about with a few boys and . . . well, ’e says . . .’

  His voice trailed away uncertainly.

  ‘He says he prefers them to girls?’ I enquired.

  ‘Well . . . yeah . . . sort of. That’s wot ’e says.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. Does it worry him?’

  ‘You mean, it’s all right being . . . sorta queer, like?’ he asked.

  ‘If you’re born like that, it’s no sin. You can’t help it, any more than you can help the colour of your eyes.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, struck by this thought. ‘No . . . I suppose ya can’t really.’

  ‘Would your friend like to borrow Havelock Ellis and see what he says about homosexuality?’

  ‘I expect he would,’ said Gavin, but slightly defensively. ‘I should think he probably would. I’ll . . . um, ask ’im, like, and let you know.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to take it now, just in case?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, his eyes fastened on the book I held out. ‘Well, I might just take it an’ . . . if ’e doesn’t want to read it . . . well, I’ll . . . I’ll just bring it back. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Tell him not to spill beer all over it.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said, as he made for the door with the book under his arm. ‘I won’t do that.’

  The door closed behind my first patient.

  On the fifth morning Gavin brought my breakfast up to me. He entered the room jauntily.

  ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘Did your friend derive any comfort from the book?’

  ‘My friend?’ asked Gavin, blankly.

  `Yes. Your friend with the complex.’

  ‘Oh, ’im . . . Yes, well . . . ’e said it was very interesting I took a glance at it meself. Very interesting. Imeantersay, ’e writes about it . . . well, sensible. I mean, ’e doesn’t sorta say your a bloody poof, or anything.’

  ‘As it should be,’ I agreed, sipping my tea.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gavin. ‘I’ll tell you wot, though – all of them receptionists aren’t arf worked up about that bit wot ’e says in there abaht lesbians.’

  ‘You lent it to them?’ I asked. ‘You realize that if the manager catches you, I shall be thrown out and you’ll lose your job for peddling pornographic literature.’

  ‘Naw, ’e won’t catch me,’ said Gavin, with fine scorn.

  ‘Well, what did the receptionists say?’ I enquired, wondering if it would ever be safe for me
to venture downstairs again.

  ‘Ya know Sandra? The blonde one? The one wot’s quite good looking? Well, she shares a flat with Mary . . . Mary, the one wot’s rather fat, with glasses. Well, after reading wot ’e says in that book, Sandra says she’s goin’ to get ’er own flat. She says she wondered why Mary always wanted to scrub ’er back in the bath, and now she knows, and she’s not ’aving none of that. Mary’s ever so cut up about it . . . crying all over the place and saying she’s not a lesbian. She says it’s very difficult for people to keep their own backs clean, and she’s only trying to be ’elpful; but Sandra says she’s got enough trouble with ’er boy-friends without ’aving Mary in the bath with ’er.’

  ‘She’s got a point there,’ I said, judiciously. ‘And what about the other two?’

  ‘Aw, well, ol’ Miss ’Emps, she says she’d share a flat with Mary, ’cos she liked having ’er back scrubbed and didn’t see any ’arm in it. And Sandra said Miss ’Emps was tryin’ to seduce Mary, and so Miss ’Emps got ever so angry an’ said she’d rather have ’er back scrubbed by a girl than ’er front scrubbed by a man, which is wot Sandra seemed to like. So Sandra got livid and said she was just as much a virgin as Miss ’Emps, but she stayed that way ’cos she wanted to, while Miss ’Emps was virgin ’cos she ’ad to be. So none of ’em is speaking to each other now.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I observed. ‘Don’t you think you ought to take them the volume on pure motherhood?’

  ‘Naw, they’ll be all right,’ said Gavin. ‘Does ’em good, a bit of a row; clears the air.’

  ‘But it also deprives Mary of her one pleasurable activity,’ I pointed out.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ said Gavin. ‘They’re all going to a party tonight, so that’ll be OK for ’em.’

  ‘Are you going to this party?’ I asked, hoping for a first-hand report.

  ‘Naw,’ said Gavin, looking me in the eye with a certain pugnacity. ‘I’m goin’ out with me friend, Rupert.’

  ‘Well, have a good time.’

  ‘You bet I will,’ said Gavin, as he swaggered from the room.