me. Have you heard the latest on the Codds?"
Before Hamid could say he hadn't, Robin began his tale, twinkles embellishing his face as he came to the juiciest bits.
"Seems old Ashton and Musica were fighting a lot last year, and Ashton, bless him, told her off. Said he wanted an 'open marriage.' That's one of these arrangements where the husband and wife live together, Hamid, but get their sex in other people's beds. I got to hand it to Ashtonâhe's seventy-three. Musica, I think, is sixty-eight. They don't look like much now, but he's got a name, famous in Ireland, you know, though I think his poems all stink. And Musica isn't all that dried upâthere's still a little juice in that bag of bones. Anyway, they spread the word among the younger setâbargaining fame for youth, or something like that. God forbid, of course, that anyone on the Mountain would hear. Someone told me they approached the Manchesters, though I find that hard to believe. No takers, finally, so the 'open marriage' idea faded away. But old Ashton, who's got a few quivers left in him, decided what they really needed was a good old-fashioned partouze . Seems they've actually approached some hustlers in the Socco, but nothing's happened yet because Ashton's too stingy to come to terms. But who knows what the future will bring? Ashton told me once that he's written five pornographic plays, all stashed away in some Swiss bank vault, to be released only after his death. Can't bear the shame now, poor manâafraid his friends in Dublin will turn their backs. Meanwhile Musica bides her time, planning to cut loose as soon as she gets her mitts on all his hoarded pounds."
Just the thought of those two old people making love with a hustler and a prostitute made Hamid shiver as he smiled.
"Makes you lose your appetite, doesn't it?" Robin said.
"Now that you've told me I don't think I can look them in the face."
"Never could myself."
They both began to laugh.
"By the way, is Barclay really upset about the note?"
"Doubt it. Man's a stone wall. Couldn't care less. But he's telling everyone what happened because he loves being in a scandal, and of course everyone listens and bows and scrapes. Wouldn't be surprised if he wrote the damn thing himself. Reminds me of an incident that'll show you how cold he is. Do you remember that weird case when David Klein was attacked by his houseboy in bed?"
"Yes. He was knifed by Achmed Ben Riffi. His penis was half cut off, and then Dr. Radcliffe sewed it back."
Hamid prepared himself for a good story, full of superbly imitated accents, expansive gestures, and pauses to build up the suspense.
"Yeah, the good doctor's greatest feat. Anyway, the instant after Klein was stabbed, he reached onto his bedside table and picked up the phone. He was in shock, of course, so his mind wasn't functioning too well. Instead of calling the doctor or the police he rang up Barclay at his home. Typical. They all think Barclay can solve everything here. Anyway, David rings him up and Peter answers the phone. 'Oh, Peter,' David whines, 'the most awful, the most frightful thing has just happened to my cock. I think my Achmed has cut it off.' 'Sorry, David,' Peter says, 'but I can't talk now. I'm bidding for a slam.' Then he hangs up. Klein, you understand, was bleeding to death. Thank God he found Radcliffe at home. It must have been the only night he wasn't with pretty Miss Gates."
"Oh, Robin." Hamid was laughing away. "You know more stories than Zvegintzov, and certainly more than me."
"Actually I don't get around all that much. I'm not invited anymore into the great houses on the hill. But because of the column they still keep in touch. They come to me all the time and tell me terrible things. The malicious ones always bring the best. Like Krankerâhe's full of dirt. I don't like him, so I try not to use his stuff. But every once in a while he gives me something good, and then I can't resist."
"Any new personalities you
Before Hamid could say he hadn't, Robin began his tale, twinkles embellishing his face as he came to the juiciest bits.
"Seems old Ashton and Musica were fighting a lot last year, and Ashton, bless him, told her off. Said he wanted an 'open marriage.' That's one of these arrangements where the husband and wife live together, Hamid, but get their sex in other people's beds. I got to hand it to Ashtonâhe's seventy-three. Musica, I think, is sixty-eight. They don't look like much now, but he's got a name, famous in Ireland, you know, though I think his poems all stink. And Musica isn't all that dried upâthere's still a little juice in that bag of bones. Anyway, they spread the word among the younger setâbargaining fame for youth, or something like that. God forbid, of course, that anyone on the Mountain would hear. Someone told me they approached the Manchesters, though I find that hard to believe. No takers, finally, so the 'open marriage' idea faded away. But old Ashton, who's got a few quivers left in him, decided what they really needed was a good old-fashioned partouze . Seems they've actually approached some hustlers in the Socco, but nothing's happened yet because Ashton's too stingy to come to terms. But who knows what the future will bring? Ashton told me once that he's written five pornographic plays, all stashed away in some Swiss bank vault, to be released only after his death. Can't bear the shame now, poor manâafraid his friends in Dublin will turn their backs. Meanwhile Musica bides her time, planning to cut loose as soon as she gets her mitts on all his hoarded pounds."
Just the thought of those two old people making love with a hustler and a prostitute made Hamid shiver as he smiled.
"Makes you lose your appetite, doesn't it?" Robin said.
"Now that you've told me I don't think I can look them in the face."
"Never could myself."
They both began to laugh.
"By the way, is Barclay really upset about the note?"
"Doubt it. Man's a stone wall. Couldn't care less. But he's telling everyone what happened because he loves being in a scandal, and of course everyone listens and bows and scrapes. Wouldn't be surprised if he wrote the damn thing himself. Reminds me of an incident that'll show you how cold he is. Do you remember that weird case when David Klein was attacked by his houseboy in bed?"
"Yes. He was knifed by Achmed Ben Riffi. His penis was half cut off, and then Dr. Radcliffe sewed it back."
Hamid prepared himself for a good story, full of superbly imitated accents, expansive gestures, and pauses to build up the suspense.
"Yeah, the good doctor's greatest feat. Anyway, the instant after Klein was stabbed, he reached onto his bedside table and picked up the phone. He was in shock, of course, so his mind wasn't functioning too well. Instead of calling the doctor or the police he rang up Barclay at his home. Typical. They all think Barclay can solve everything here. Anyway, David rings him up and Peter answers the phone. 'Oh, Peter,' David whines, 'the most awful, the most frightful thing has just happened to my cock. I think my Achmed has cut it off.' 'Sorry, David,' Peter says, 'but I can't talk now. I'm bidding for a slam.' Then he hangs up. Klein, you understand, was bleeding to death. Thank God he found Radcliffe at home. It must have been the only night he wasn't with pretty Miss Gates."
"Oh, Robin." Hamid was laughing away. "You know more stories than Zvegintzov, and certainly more than me."
"Actually I don't get around all that much. I'm not invited anymore into the great houses on the hill. But because of the column they still keep in touch. They come to me all the time and tell me terrible things. The malicious ones always bring the best. Like Krankerâhe's full of dirt. I don't like him, so I try not to use his stuff. But every once in a while he gives me something good, and then I can't resist."
"Any new personalities you
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