darkwall
Well-known member
The white bodies flashed in and out of the water as they moved down the shallow river: each boy thought only of the rocks under their feet as they splashed downstream, and of how sure the others looked as they ran. I watched them, remembering that thin quick feeling of all the possibilities in the world shrinking to the space between one's toes and the pieces of sharp slate around them, and how I revelled in the pure, thoughtless game. Beneath my cool, dark room the sun hardened on the gravel in the drive until its heat lived again in those fragments that my wife now walked on, smiling up through the glare.
"Darling, it's Freddie."
She deftly threw the mobile up at me and I caught it with both hands before saying nonchalantly into the phone, "Hello, old man!"
"Hullo, Charles. I'm coming up to meet you in the Lancia, hope you're not busy?"
I smiled at his arrogant, friendly tone, and replied "Actually, old man, me and the wife thought we'd have sex in about an hour's time." My wife feigned shock.
"I'll be over in an hour and three minutes, then."
He put the phone down, and I grinned at my wife. It was that sort of friendship.
He arrived early that evening, with a big case of rum and ice in the boot of his car. His handshake was warm and unselfconscious, like his smile: both things I liked in him. We laughed at nearly everything the other said, being naturally pleased to see each other, and I took him around to the swimming-pool where he deposited aforementioned booze in the outdoor minibar's fridge.
"Good lord, man! It's been months!"
"God, yes ..." As we talked I glanced for a second at the swimming pool, thinking a little sentimentally of the shining race of boys running down the river past our garden. The artificial lighting immediately looked a little ridiculous to me: I laughed then, and told Freddie what I was thinking, something I always used to do.
Freddie turned and said, "I'd like to drive hooks through their throats, and they'd kick like trouts on a line."
His voice was thick and harsh, and when I looked at him his gaze was flat and his eyes grotesque in the shimmering light. I changed the topic and we moved on to sports cars.
The evening went well. But I never really wanted to see him again, after that strange moment. It wasn't a joke, of that I am sure: it was a piece of insanity in which something like desire and hatred mingled. Worse, I realised that it was the only time I looked into those opaque eyes when something real answered.
Freddie, I have heard, bought a vinyard near my property in Bordeaux. Whether it was a coincidence or a reconciliatory gesture I am sure I will never know. But when I think of the lustre in his eyes flashing like the white bodies, my heart sickens: and I pass my hands over my eyes, as if to protect them from a sudden heat.
"Darling, it's Freddie."
She deftly threw the mobile up at me and I caught it with both hands before saying nonchalantly into the phone, "Hello, old man!"
"Hullo, Charles. I'm coming up to meet you in the Lancia, hope you're not busy?"
I smiled at his arrogant, friendly tone, and replied "Actually, old man, me and the wife thought we'd have sex in about an hour's time." My wife feigned shock.
"I'll be over in an hour and three minutes, then."
He put the phone down, and I grinned at my wife. It was that sort of friendship.
He arrived early that evening, with a big case of rum and ice in the boot of his car. His handshake was warm and unselfconscious, like his smile: both things I liked in him. We laughed at nearly everything the other said, being naturally pleased to see each other, and I took him around to the swimming-pool where he deposited aforementioned booze in the outdoor minibar's fridge.
"Good lord, man! It's been months!"
"God, yes ..." As we talked I glanced for a second at the swimming pool, thinking a little sentimentally of the shining race of boys running down the river past our garden. The artificial lighting immediately looked a little ridiculous to me: I laughed then, and told Freddie what I was thinking, something I always used to do.
Freddie turned and said, "I'd like to drive hooks through their throats, and they'd kick like trouts on a line."
His voice was thick and harsh, and when I looked at him his gaze was flat and his eyes grotesque in the shimmering light. I changed the topic and we moved on to sports cars.
The evening went well. But I never really wanted to see him again, after that strange moment. It wasn't a joke, of that I am sure: it was a piece of insanity in which something like desire and hatred mingled. Worse, I realised that it was the only time I looked into those opaque eyes when something real answered.
Freddie, I have heard, bought a vinyard near my property in Bordeaux. Whether it was a coincidence or a reconciliatory gesture I am sure I will never know. But when I think of the lustre in his eyes flashing like the white bodies, my heart sickens: and I pass my hands over my eyes, as if to protect them from a sudden heat.
