Francis Bacon in Your Blood (23 page)

The eel broth arrives. Chef and waiters group round our table. A motherly figure, perhaps the owner, joins us. A bowl of slippery-looking green is slid under George's nose. George stubs out his cigarette, mindful that he is at the centre of attention. He dips his spoon into the broth and hesitates, raises it to his mouth and hesitates, then manfully swallows it down. A small ripple of applause rewards him. A second, then a third, spoonful follows. George looks up. A faint colour has crept into his cheeks. I think it might be embarrassment. Once the staff have gone back about their business, I try to change the subject.

‘I wonder why Francis had to leave,' I say.

‘Oh, 'e's alwus upter sumfink,' says George, enigmatically. ‘'E's alwus seein' people.'

‘Well,' I say, ‘it's very nice to see you again, George.'

‘Yeah,' says George. He seems to have perked up considerably. ‘Fing is, I terribly like seein' you. 'Ere, do you want an 'ave a drink in a really special club? I mean it's full of really orful people, real villains. But I spose', he adds, with a cunning look, ‘you college boys git all fright about going to them sort of places.'

‘I'm not fright, I mean frightened,' I say airily. ‘If you say it's special.'

‘Lot of me old friends go there,' George says. ‘Wenneycan.'

‘What d'you mean, when they can?'

‘When they're ahter prison.'

We clamber into a taxi and I soon lose any sense of where we're headed. I'm dulled by too much drink over too many days,
although my appetite is unimpaired. I wonder how Francis does it, so much booze and so many rich restaurant meals, day in, day out. I may have dozed off in the taxi, because the next thing I know is that George is presenting his member's card to a large commissionaire in a gold-braided black uniform.

‘'Ere,' he says, ‘'e's gotta ava tie.'

‘You gotta ava tie,' George repeats rather reproachfully.

The commissionaire wraps a gaudy Hawaii-style number round my polo-neck.

‘Our quaint old English customs,' I quip.

We move into a dimly lit space with candles winking at various spots round the room.

A girl in a Bunny-like outfit takes us to our table.

‘We'll 'ave gins and tonics,' George says grandly.

He looks round the dark space.

‘They're all 'ere and an' all tonight,' he announces.

The girl brings the drinks.

‘Same again,' says George.

The drinks slowly pile up on the table, some drunk, others still fizzing softly away.

A cabaret begins.

‘Them's reely orful,' says George admiringly, nodding in a vague direction across the room to a party that's just arrived. ‘Them's slit froats.'

I peer across the room to a group of men in very white shirts and very dark suits.

‘Them's the Twins,' George says with quiet pride.

I take this information in and tell myself I should be concerned. I have heard what the Krays do and never imagined I would be in the same room with them. At the same time, the drink has dulled any real sense of panic.

A new girl has come on. She is pretty and does a dance routine where she keeps changing dresses before going over to an imaginary window, which she rubs vigorously with her hand to look for someone outside.

‘That's my girl,' George says, following my gaze. ‘That's my girl. Just in case you fink there's sumfink funny goin' on wiv Francis and me. Ain't nuffink funny.' He gives an assertive snort and stubs out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray.

‘I never thought there was anything funny,' I assure him. ‘Perfectly alright.'

The table has filled up with glasses. I'm conscious that some outrage might erupt from a neighbouring table. A throat cut or a head blasted away with a shotgun. I know I need to leave but I can't, a bit like a recurrent nightmare I have where I get stuck in cement-like mud. But here it isn't the mud clinging to my boots, it's George.

‘You wanna come back with me?' George asks out of the blue.

‘Don't be ridiculous, George,' I say stoutly. ‘You know there isn't anything funny.'

The Bunny lookalike offers to clear the table, but George sends her away. We fumble among the empty glasses to find one that is full.

‘I'm on this big job tomorrow,' George announces suddenly. ‘Knocking off a load of TVs. But of course you college boys don't 'ave the balls for that kine of fing.'

I'm drunk and I'm exhausted. I know that. I also know that we shouldn't be having this conversation. But I'm susceptible to people telling me I don't have the balls for things.

‘Oh I've got the balls, George,' I drawl, taking a long pull at a glass that turns out to be empty. ‘Don't you worry about that.'

‘Alright then. You're on,' says George. His manner has become almost businesslike. ‘We do the job together. Fifty–fifty on the TV sets. I'll meet you tomorrow morning at twelve noon, punctual mind, outside the Dominion on the Tottenham Court Road.'

‘OK,' I say decisively. ‘See you there. Now I'm going to going, I mean I'm going to go.'

‘Yeah,' says George, with a snort. ‘If yer can.'

I get unsteadily to my feet and weave through the tables. Will one of the Krays trip me up or shoot me in the head? I wonder vaguely, pulling my jacket collar up protectively.

In the gloom I brush against a muscular shoulder, apologize profusely and am acknowledged by a grunt. The lights in the foyer blaze at the other end, beckoning me on.

Only another few steps, dodging this table and that, and I emerge into the brightness of freedom.

Loftily I bid the commissionaire goodnight.

‘Wait a minute,' he says, and a big red hand goes for my throat. This is it, I realize in panic, I should be carrying a knife.

‘'Ere,' he says, ripping off the tie. ‘Them's my ties.'

‘His ties, his silly bloody old ties,' I say to myself as I stumble out into the welcome dark of the street. ‘His silly bloody old ties.'

Next morning I wake up feeling distinctly hung over and queasy. David has gone off to do some research or other on Persian history at the exotic-sounding School of Oriental and African Studies where he can use the library, so I'm free to douse myself with strong coffee and work out a plan. I've said I'll meet George to do a job, so I'll meet George. That much is clear, and pretty bloody stupid. I haven't got myself into a fix like this since my short-lived revolutionary activities. From Mao to the Krays in three easy steps, I think to myself bitterly, you must need your bloody head examined. I get myself together with all the enthusiasm of a man mounting the scaffold, then make sure I arrive at Tottenham Court Road tube in good time. There are several other people waiting outside the Dominion, whom I scrutinize carefully. Are some of them here to do a job with us? There are four American tourists whom I discount immediately. The others are a mix of timid provincials, I think, and blasé Londoners. Miss Beston's words about George come back to me. ‘I'm not surprised George always gets caught on a job,' she said. ‘He can never even find his house keys.' While waiting for my partner in crime I treat myself to a few headlines in the popular press: ‘Art Critic Caught in TV
Haul' or ‘Cambridge Grad in TV Grab'. All very catchy. Gusts of gritty wind keep coming up from the tube and getting into my eyes. I got this far, but now I'm beginning to weep. What the hell am I doing here? It's 12.20 and the tension of waiting is almost worse than the idea of being caught smashing shop windows and looting. There's no George on the horizon. All the people who were here have been replaced now by other little groups, all of them about as apt to do a job nicking TVs as me. And George. Where's George? Punctual mind! He can't be serious. Perhaps he's still looking for his keys or passed out with drink. The hands of the clock meet at 12.30 and start slowly crawling up the other side. I'm not going to stand here all day, I start harrumphing to myself. Got better things to do. Far, far better things. And startling the couple next to me with a loudly snorted ‘Who doesn't have balls now?', I move on, away, God knows where, but with my head held high in the still gritty, strangely healing wind.

I must have drunk more in one week in London than in an average month in Paris, and now the drink has returned as in a Faustian pact to claim the man. I have been matching Francis and George glass for glass, sometimes over twelve hours or more. One binge with Francis went from champagne at the Ritz to a dinner in Soho with several vintages through several clubs on champagne to a late-night supper at Annabel's accompanied by more champagne and claret. So we got through a dozen bottles between the two of us, and I'm probably lucky it was just wine, with only a little of the Armagnac that was being lavishly pressed on us by the Soho restaurant manager with a view to pushing up his tip. I like to think I can hold my drink but it's caught up with me, and from having felt vaguely woozy I am now definitely off-colour. How would Francis cope with the problem, I wonder, as I often do when I'm trying to resolve a situation, but I already know the answer: crack open yet another bottle to wash your liverishness away. I can actually picture Francis, pink with health and chuckling, filling my glass once more to the brim. My
gorge rises, and I almost vow, like John, never to touch the stuff again.

The only remedy I can think of, as I lie inertly on David's sofa, would be to sweat out some of the alcohol in a Turkish bath. I know of a hotel that has one where you can sit in various hot rooms for as long as you like for a few quid, so I force myself up and get myself over there. I'm aware that this establishment is known not only for its health benefits but as a relatively respectable pickup place for homosexuals; however, I tell myself that if I've managed to come through so many queer bars and clubs unscathed there shouldn't a problem of that order. Once I've paid my entry fee I'm provided with a towel and a red-and-white-chequered loincloth. In the gents changing room, several middle-aged men are sitting around discussing a deal where, one of them says, ‘everyone will clean up'. I notice they are all completely naked so, ever mindful of etiquette, I decide to take my loincloth with me, like a large hanky, and put it on only if others do. Among the suits, there are several military uniforms hanging round the changing room, including a Guardsman's scarlet tunic with its accompanying bearskin rearing up on a brass hook. I make my way gingerly through a couple of tiled rooms with stone slabs to sit on and a few deckchairs. In one of them a red-faced man is fast asleep with his loincloth on his head and his mouth open. I creep past him towards the steam room, thinking almost sensuously of all the poisons that are about to gush out of my pores. The steam presses up so tightly against the glass door of the Turkish bath itself that it's impossible to see inside. Knowing there must be numerous other naked men already in there somewhere, I sidle uneasily into the room's hot vaporous embrace. The steam is so thick, swirling up into my face, that I can't make out the size of the space or any shapes or forms at all. I move cautiously forward feeling for the stone slab that I suppose must be there to sit on somewhere and gingerly settle down on what feels like a tiled bench. Then to my horror I become aware that something hard is poking into my buttock. I
freeze with embarrassment despite the heat, then edge discreetly away, sweating as I try to control a panic attack. Not a sound can be heard from within the hot white cottonwool that envelops us all, whoever and wherever we might turn out to be. Then the door opens again and the steam parts for an instant to reveal a large, pink, prosthetic limb stretched out next to me. The hangover I came in with evaporates as I clutch my loincloth and dash for the ice-cold plunge.

8

A Death Foreshadowed

Francis has been coming more often to Paris over the past few months. I know it's to do with a big exhibition here, and they've offered him a choice between the Musée National d'Art Moderne and the Grand Palais. He says that the Grand Palais's big, high galleries would suit his work best, but of course it's also considerably more prestigious. Picasso had a huge retrospective at the Grand Palais a couple of years ago, and Francis is very aware that he will be the only other living artist to have been invited to exhibit there. Paris is still very much the absolute centre of the art world for him, and he's said to me several times that he considers a success here to be the greatest accolade he could ever receive. I'm proud and excited, as several of his other close friends are. Sonia keeps popping up here, too, and I think she's played a role in the whole thing because of her friendship with Leiris and other Paris bigwigs.

I've been to three lunches with museum directors and curators while Francis has been over. They've been a welcome break from an otherwise pretty lacklustre round of writing for art magazines and newspapers, though I'm pleased that the
New York Times
has recently shown interest in some ideas for articles I've submitted. I've also managed to get
Le Monde
to take a short preview of Francis's show, which has been timed to coincide with his sixty-second birthday. Stupidly I go out of
my way to show Sonia a cutting of the article, thinking she'll be impressed because it's in
Le Monde
and I've written it directly in French. ‘Not very
big
, is it?' she says with a sniff. Even so, I feel I must be making some headway because I was introduced to the feared, famously vituperative art historian Douglas Cooper at an exhibition opening here the other day. He was standing there, with an alarmingly choleric complexion and dressed in a loud tweed suit, surrounded by what I took to be acolytes. I know that he and Francis knew each other well and fell out spectacularly at some point. Cooper was pleasant enough while we chatted but the moment I moved on I heard him calling me the ‘impertinent Peppiatt' because of an essay I had written about Nicolas de Staël. So even if Sonia still dismisses everything I do, some people do actually read my art criticism, if only to disparage it. I feel sure that Cooper would think that anyone who dared write about art apart from himself was impertinent.