Dorian (22 page)

—Why?

—Because you’re gonna fucking kill us, that’s why.

—You’re going to die anyway, Baz, but your spiritual convictions will ensure that there’s always a soupçon of Bazness around in the atmosphere to make everyone else sneeze.

—You’re a cruel bastard, Dorian.

—Cruel maybe, but I’m very much alive, Baz – you know that better than most.

Next they were at the lights beside Harrods. It was curious how so many important exchanges between these men transpired in the shadow of this opulent mart, which now loomed out of the darkness, its lineaments picked out with glow globes. One possible explanation was that the god of Dorian and Baz and Wotton’s world was a somnolent deity, who, like the Ferret, slumbered while his creations revolved in ever diminishing circles, tangling themselves up in still tighter conga lines of buggery. In the dark confines of the little car, Dorian’s hand, like a pale tarantula, had crept into Baz’s crotch. What’s this about, Dorian? he said, capturing it with his own.

—This is about sex, Baz – you remember that? Or have the two serpents of AIDS and faith twined themselves around your cock and turned it into a useless caduceus? The lights changed, the car pulled away, the hand remained. Dorian piloted with the other. You should let me look after you, Baz, he said.

—Whaddya mean? Baz was incredulous.

—I have the money, I have the time. I’m only so nasty to you because I feel guilty about what happened in New York. It’s that, and Henry’s influence as well – y’know what
he’s
like.

—He’s bitter because he’s hurting and he’s lived a lie. I think there’s a good man buried inside Henry somewhere.

—And you believe you can dig him up before Henry himself is buried?

— No, I don’t, it’s up to Henry.

—And it’s up to me to apologise for the way I behaved in New York.

—No, Dorian, I was as much to blame as you; my arrogance, my envy, all my character defects were in full play – I was a using addict.

—So… Dorian employed the rocking of the car to draw still closer…
will
you let me look after you?

—I dunno, Dorian… I’ve been kept by rich people for too much of my life.

—You’re an artist – I’m a patron. What you do can be astonishing, but it’s hardly likely to support you – especially if you’re ill. Perhaps I’m the last man in London who’s honourable enough to lose money backing art.

—Yeah, maybe… Dorian?

—What?

—Can I ask you something?

—Ask me anything.

Baz shooed the tarantula away; this was serious. You remember that night at the Mineshaft in ’83?

—How could I forget it! Dorian chuckled. It was pretty much my first landfall on the wilder shores of love.

—Y’know, Dorian, people in Manhattan… people on the scene… they say you killed a guy that night. Did you?

They’d stopped at the lights by the junction of Gloucester Road. Dorian flicked the indicator, then turned to face Baz before answering. Do I look like a murderer, Baz?

Of course he didn’t look like anything of the sort; he looked innocent to the point of virginal. He seemed to Baz like some cricketing wizard of the First XI, psychically swaddled in creamy flannels, with the golden sunlight of a perpetual adolescent afternoon playing about his roseate lips.

Any part of anyone is only so strong. If the correct pressure is applied in the right places, even the toughest character will crumple up like an aluminium can. We should try to remember what poor Baz had been through, shouldn’t we? We should try to maintain a certain sympathy for him as he buckles.

Baz thought to himself, why resist when the love you have yearned for for so long is at last reciprocated? He cupped Dorian’s beautiful young face in his ugly old hands, and he kissed those lips. Oh, so sweet, so very sweet. The taste and the feel of him – Baz ate and drank and even tried to
inhale
as much of the Adonis as he could. The lights changed, the cars behind began hooting, and this attracted the attention of some late-night skulkers on the pavement outside the Kentucky Fried Chicken takeaway, who began to shout, Fucking queers! and, Bum boys! One bold fellow made a little dash forward and smote the wing of the MG with his own greasy one. How suitable. It was only on hearing this oleaginous impact that the lovers broke from their clinch. Dorian grabbed the wheel, and laughing like a loon he wrenched the car across three lanes of oncoming traffic and off to the north.

Hardly anyone ever got to see Dorian Gray’s mews house, and if they did they invariably arrived alone – save for the owner – and at night. Dorian was not, exactly, a homebody. Those who did happen to be invited back for a nightcap, and to have their body toyed with as if it were an anatomical model, found a domicile with all the posed artificiality of a small but expensive hotel, or the stage-set for an antiquated play. The furniture was of mahogany and leather, the standard lamps were of brass. Mirrors were bevelled, invitations were propped on the mantelpiece. There was the occasional piece of chinoiserie. The prevailing colours were russets, maroons and browns. The floor coverings were Persian kilims
on top of
carpet, which, as is invariably the case, imparted an overstuffed atmosphere – and this despite the fact that the whole of the ground floor was one single room. Fustiness was of the order of things and revival was the style, without there being any real indication of what it was that was to be revived.

Until those farceurs – Dorian and his guest – entered stage centre, or rather, Dorian tumbled backwards down a couple of stairs, because Baz was attached like a lamprey to the front of his face. They fetched up by the mantelpiece, Baz still sucking and chomping and flailing, while Dorian remained sufficiently pliant to give the impression of compliance.

Coming up for air and seeing his own contorted face in the mirror acted on Baz like a cold douche. He straightened up and rubbed his face with his hands. Have you got a cigarette? he asked and, on receiving one, lit up and inhaled big drags of bromide. He looked about him at the little house full of Little England, and his nostrils flared with the scent of rat. Dorian, he began, Henry told me about a girl on the Côte d’Azur… there was one, wasn’t there?

—Isn’t there always? Baz’s host was, preposterously, pouring himself a small glass of sherry from a decanter on a sideboard.

—Henry… er… implied that you gave her the virus – apparently she died of pneumonia.

—That’s absurd. It would merely be a coincidence, even if I had in fact – rather than Henry’s fancy – done the deed with her.

—But you’re positive, right?

—Absolutely certain. Sherry?

—No, no. Baz waved him off and threw himself down in an armchair. You know I don’t drink any more – why d’you go on about it?

—Sorry.

—And you know full well what I mean by positive. C’mon, Dorian, get real.

—Ha ha. That’s rich, Baz, priceless. Get real – it should be the Gray family motto. Yes, I know what you mean, and look, believe me, I feel for you and Henry and Alan, I do. All the more, I sometimes think, because I don’t have the virus myself. What do they call it – survivor guilt?

—B-but how…? How was it possible? Baz got up and began to pace. You had sex with Herman, you shared the works with us all… and yet you –

—Look, Baz, what is this? It just happened that way. It’s almost as if you
want
me to be ill.

—No no, of course not, that would be disgusting! Baz had fetched up back by Dorian, and simply because he knew he could he cupped a cheek and rubbed the side of that perfect nose with his thumb. I’m sorry, he said, sorry for accusing you – it’s only that there have been so many rumours over the years.

—Baz, has it ever occurred to you that most of them are a function of jealousy? After all, given the opportunity, you can feel pretty possessive about me…

—Yes, yes, I s’pose that’s true. I’m sorry. And feeling the need to be still more shriven, Baz sought again the lips of his confessor. They took off each other’s jackets and unbuttoned their shirts. Baz would have gone further, but Dorian reached for a wooden box on the mantelpiece. I’m going to have a hit, he said.

—What? Baz was appalled, incredulous.

—I’m going to have a hit, a speedball, and then I’m going to give you a blowjob like you’ve never had before; watch me.

—Oh Jesus, oh no, Dorian… I can’t cope with this… I’ve been clean for years, I don’t need this… I don’t want this…

Dorian withdrew a glistening thing of smoked glass and steel from the box. Look at this, he said, it’s an antique works, it’s so finely calibrated that your blood pressure alone will flush the thing – beautiful, isn’t it.

—Oh God, oh no, grant me the courage… Baz muttered.

—And I’ve got pure stuff, amps, pure coke, pure smack, just the thing.

—I’ve been clean for five years, Dorian! Baz wailed. Why would I want to fuck that up now?

—You’ve also been alone for five years, Baz, with no one to care for you. He continued methodically cracking the amps and filling the syringe. If you want to go straight back into rehab, you can – I’ll pay for it – but let’s have one night together of complete abandon. We can start being good again tomorrow, can’t we?

—Dorian, if I shot that lot up I wouldn’t be abandoned, I’d be stone dead.

But it was too late. Baz had remained within this danger zone for far too long; and now he’d countenanced the idea of drugs again, which meant that he’d as good as used them already. The points had been switched for the Baz express; nothing short of a derailment could have stopped him now.

—How much would suit? said his persecutor. Half, perhaps? As deftly as the Wotton of old, Dorian flipped off his shirt, save for one sleeve which he employed like a tourniquet. He plunged the needle into his main line. The lengthening red column quivered between them and sweat beaded along his lip as Dorian pushed the plunger in. Baz was transfixed by the fix. Here, said Dorian, giving him the hypodermic; then he undressed Baz completely, right down to his boxers. He took the phial full of the antidote to life and using his own Old Etonian tie as a tourniquet, Dorian shot Baz up. As t’were a flea / That’s sucked on you and now sucks on me… he cooed, and looked Baz full in the eyes. Baz saw neither excitation nor revulsion, merely the cold passion of a voyeur and a lambent flicker of triumph.

—Jesus… oh… Jesus. That’s strong. Baz gagged.

—I told you, it’s pure, purer than baby Jesus.

—Oh… fuck. I think I’m gonna puke.

Half staggering, half running, Dorian guided Baz across the room and in through a bathroom door masquerading as a lacquered screen. Still-effervescent mineral water gushed from Baz’s mouth. That’s OK, Baz… that’s OK… Dorian billed. It’ll be all right… you’re stoned, yeah?

—Righteously.

—It’s good, yeah? he soothed.

—Oh yes…
so
good.

—And this – this is good, too?

—Ye-es.

A zipper was hauled down. The curve of Dorian’s back was like the spine of some antediluvian creature, browsing in the sexual swamp. His haunches quivered as he bowed down, rose, bowed down, as if abasing himself before a phallic idol, an idol which panted and groaned and eventually cried out under the pressure of such adulation.
Nyum-nyum
. Dorian licked his lips. Still saltier than most men, Baz.

—Don’t you
worry
, Dorian?

—Worry?

—About the virus?

—I think if I was going to get it, I would’ve done by now. Maybe I’m immune.

—I’m so stoned. I’d forgotten how when you’re stoned you can lie on a toilet floor with complete equa – equa –

—Cool?

—Yeah, thass right… cool.

Dorian sprang to his feet. He seemed wholly unaffected by the fix, as imperturbably
cool
as ever. He padded back across the room and retrieved his shirt. Baz followed him and began to dress as well. But you still want to see it, right? Dorian said, shucking on his jacket.

—It?

—
Cathode Narcissus
.

—Yeah, of course I wanna see it. Of course. Where’re these boxes?

—Upstairs – come on. The two men mounted the open staircase, and ascended through the painted heavens like villeins playing angels in a medieval mystery play. At the top of the flight, there was a single steel door pierced with more keyholes than Baz had seen since he was resident on Avenue B. With a woozy pang he thought of the three she-males and recalled their instinctive suspicion of Dorian. All of them were dead now; there was no more dressing up to be done – except in shrouds.

Dorian got out a hefty bunch of keys and began to deal with the locks. Why all the hardware? Baz asked, but Dorian merely replied, You’ll see. The door swung open soundlessly, and Baz was confronted with the antithesis of the fusty repro downstairs. Here, all was empty and minimal, grey and white in the light of a full moon, which floated in the dead centre of a rectangular skylight, as if it were a line drawing in a geometry textbook. From somewhere a brassy tenor choked out the crescendo of the aria ‘Nessun dorma’. Dorian turned up a dimmer switch, and recessed pinprick lights illuminated the starkness. The only furniture in the room were the nine monitors that displayed
Cathode Narcissus
, ranged in a precise crescent atop waist-high steel plinths, and an Eames chair which faced them in prime viewing position. One of the monitors was switched on and playing a tape of a concert in Hyde Park. On a giant stage Pavarotti mopped his sperm whale’s forehead with a metre square of white handkerchief, while salaaming to the ecstatic crowd. The camera wavered away from this to take in Princess Diana sitting in the enclosure allotted for the blood-line.

—It’s here! Baz cried out, swaying in the doorway. This is perfect, Dorian; it’s like an exhibition space purpose-designed for
Narcissus
.

—That’s exactly what it is, Dorian replied as he picked up a remote control and negated Princess Diana’s image. I had it built when I moved in. You see, Baz, I was lying at Henry’s when I was so dismissive about your work. Far from my not caring about it,
Narcissus
means more to me than life itself… He paused for emphasis. Baz, a most marvellous thing has happened.