‘Yes, but they’re all long dead. Ackermann is still alive, isn’t he?’
‘He teaches in Cambridge,’ said Gore. ‘Just like Morgan did back in the day.’
‘Not any more,’ said Maurice. ‘He left. Before they could dismiss him.’
‘Oh, I hadn’t heard. Driven out, no doubt, by the forces of the politically correct and the righteously indignant. Poor Erich.’
‘He lives in Berlin now.’
‘Back where his story began.’
‘Poor Erich?’ repeated Dash, leaning forward on the table. ‘Gore, did you just say, Poor Erich? Haven’t you kept up with the news? Don’t you know what he did?’
‘I’ve read a few things,’ replied Gore dismissively. ‘Some columns in the papers, and I glanced at a typically fatuous essay that Wolfe wrote for the New York Review of Books. And as far as I can tell, half the world’s novelists have chimed in with their opinions, which has provided each one with their intended few minutes of publicity. How competitive everyone is in expressing their outrage! As far as I can tell, Bellow is the only one who’s said anything sensible on the subject.’
‘Why, what did he say?’ asked Maurice. ‘I haven’t heard.’
‘That he didn’t give a flying fuck what Ackermann did when he was a boy. All he was interested in was the man’s books.’
‘So much for solidarity,’ said Dash, disgusted.
‘Solidarity among whom?’ asked Gore. ‘Jews? Jewish writers? Old men? With whom is he supposed to share this unanimity of spirit? The fact is that we all have skeletons in our closets, histories of which we would prefer the world to remain ignorant. You should know some of the things that I did as a boy. Or that Howard did. And I daresay you were no saint either, Dash.’
‘No, but I never sent a family of Jews to the gas chambers.’
‘But it’s a matter of perspective, surely,’ said Gore calmly, picking at his food again. In debate, his appetite had returned. ‘Had you, Howard or I been nineteen years old and living in Herr Hitler’s Germany, where the boys gathered to march their marches and salute their salutes, filing through the streets in their handsome Hugo Boss uniforms, their hair reeking of pomade beneath striking caps, their bodies crackling like wet firewood under the weight of their exploding hormones, wouldn’t we have signed up for the Hitlerjugend too, before graduating to the Wehrmacht? I was born in West Point, for heaven’s sake. I was a military brat. It’s all just a circumstance of birth, isn’t it? Ackermann was doing his duty by his country. Should we criticize him for that? Why, even young Maurice here might have betrayed his friends had he been alive at that time.’
‘I don’t believe I would have,’ said Maurice, shaking his head.
‘It’s easy to say when the question is a hypothetical one. There are people who will sacrifice anyone and anything to get ahead, after all. They’re rather easy to spot if you know the signs to watch out for.’ An uncomfortable silence ensued, during which Gore looked rather pleased with himself, Howard appeared amused, Dash seemed outraged and Maurice looked entirely out of his depth. ‘Of course, I’m talking about Ackermann,’ added Gore eventually. ‘Not you, dear boy. I’m sure you’re a fellow of great integrity.’
‘And have any of Ackermann’s friends stepped up to defend his reputation?’ asked Howard.
‘No one would have the gall,’ said Dash.
‘What was it Woodrow Wilson said?’ asked Gore. ‘That loyalty means nothing unless it has at its heart the absolute principle of self-sacrifice? Something along those lines?’
‘And you think other writers should sacrifice themselves for the likes of Erich Ackermann?’ asked Dash. ‘Would you?’
‘Probably not. But then I barely know the man.’
‘Well, then.’
A silence descended on the table, a mutual understanding that, were they to pursue this topic, the evening could end in an argument that no one had the stomach for. Howard opened another bottle of wine, poured a fresh drink for everyone, and the clinking of their glasses determined the end of that particular conversation.
‘Can I ask how long you two have been together?’ asked Howard when the silence became uncomfortable, looking back and forth between Dash and Maurice.
‘Well, it’s difficult to put an exact—’ began Dash.
‘We’re not together,’ said Maurice, speaking over him. ‘We’re friends, certainly. But that’s all.’
‘You’re not lovers?’ asked Gore.
‘We’re friends,’ repeated Maurice.
‘But you’ve been lovers? In the past, I mean?’
‘These are such personal questions.’
‘Are they? I don’t see why. You’re not a child and we’re not gathered together at the annual convention of Stick-up-your-ass Puritans. There’s nothing so peculiar about being lovers, is there? What say you, Dash?’
‘As Maurice says,’ replied Dash quietly, looking crestfallen, almost as if he might cry. ‘We’re friends. Very good friends. We care enormously for each other.’
‘It doesn’t matter a damn to Howard or me, you understand,’ said Gore. ‘So there’s no particular reason for secrecy. But if you want to keep the nature of your relationship ambiguous, feel free. Although I can’t help but think it’s a little ridiculous. It’s 1990, after all.’
‘From a purely logistical point of view,’ said Howard, ‘we need to know whether you require separate rooms tonight. Naturally, Gore and I assumed that you’d be two gentlemen sharing.’
‘If you only have one prepared,’ said Dash, ‘then please don’t put yourself to any trouble on our behalf. I’m happy to share if—’
‘Separate rooms, please,’ said Maurice, looking at Howard. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep Dash awake with my snoring.’
‘But you don’t snore,’ said Dash.
‘Ah,’ said Gore with a smile, winking at Dash, who blushed scarlet then looked up at his host, biting his lower lip.
‘I’ll let Cassiopeia know,’ said Gore, ringing a bell and passing some instructions in Italian to the maid who appeared on the terrace above them. ‘Anyway, whatever your arrangement is, I’m sure it’s a very sensible one. Howard and I have always maintained separate rooms and we find it a very satisfying way to live. Dash, will you have some more wine?’
‘No thank you, Gore,’ said Dash.
‘You look upset. Has someone said something to distress you?’
‘No, I’m just tired, that’s all.’
Gore softened a little. Dash was a fool and, worse, a mediocrity in his chosen profession, but there was no reason for him to be so ill-used by a child he’d taken under his wing. He had known boys like Maurice all his life. When he was young and starting to make his way in books, they’d come crawling out of the woodwork, attaching themselves to him, and then, once they made a name for themselves, dropping him without a second thought. At first, their Machiavellian ways had proved hurtful. Then, for some time, it had simply been annoying. But soon enough he mastered the rules of the game and used the boys purely for sex, giving them nothing in return, throwing them out before they had an opportunity to ask for favours. If only Dash could be so shrewd. Time to cheer him up a little, thought Gore.