Read Online The collected stories by Paul Theroux - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Theroux
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hoots. 'Is it part of a set?'
ALGEBRA
I said, 'Just the one,' and filled it with the claret I had brought out for the shepherd's pie.
I was relieved when Sir Charles said he had to go, because that was my signal to open the Krug, which went down a treat. Then Sir Charles and Virginia shared a taxi back to Hampstead and Tanya (making a crack about Ronald) said she had never enjoyed herself more. Hearing what Tanya had said, Mr Momma put his arm around me. He smelled strenuously of his dancing.
'No,' I said, and led him to the door. 'Let's not spoil it.'
I slept alone, but I was not alone. The evening had been a great success. Both Sir Charles and Virginia sent me notes, thanking me for having them. They were brief notes, but I replied saying that the pleasure had been all mine.
Afterward, I wondered why they had agreed to come. I decided that their very position had something to do with it. They were so grand that most people thought that they must be very busy, so no one dared to invite them. And people believed that they were beyond praise. But my flattery, my offer of a meal, my discount wines had done the trick.
I had worked hard to make the evening festive, and Mr Momma had been an unexpected success. And what had I asked of them? Nothing - nothing but for them to be there.
I had told them I was a writer. Because I had said this no one talked about it: I was one of them. Anyway, a good host is preoccupied with managing his party. His graciousness is silence when it is not encouragement. He isn't supposed to say much, only to keep the dishes coming and the glasses filled. So, in the end, they did not know much about me. They talked to each other.
The proof that Miss Byward meant what she said about enjoying herself was her invitation to me several weeks later for drinks at her very tiny flat in Hampstead. It was not until I saw her flat that I fully understood how she could have seen something to admire in mine. She was clearly an untidy person, but I was grateful when she introduced me as 'Michael Insole, the writer.' There were six others there, all writers whose names I instantly recognized, but because of the seating arrangements, I had no choice but to talk to Wibbert the poet. He told me a very entertaining story about giving a poetry reading in Birmingham, and he finished by saying, 'The pay's appalling. They always apologize when they hand it over.'
WORLD S END
Henry Wibbert was a tall balding youth with the trace of a regional accent, and bitten fingernails, something I had always hated until I met him. His socks had slipped into his shoes and I could see his white ankles. His poet's love of failure was written all over him, and when I told him I did not write poetry he seemed to take this as a criticism - as if I were acting superior - and I wanted to tell him that, in fact, I had never written anything at all.
'I do the odd spot of reviewing,' he said, somewhat defensively. And then, 'I can always go back to teaching yobboes if I find myself really hard up.' He twisted his finger into his mouth and chewed. Tm sure your earnings have you in the supertax bracket.'
Tar from it,' I said. 'I find it very hard to manage.'
At once, he was friendlier. We had found common ground as struggling writers.
'It's hand to mouth with me,' he said.
I said, 'I was having this very conversation with Sir Charles Moonman just the other night.'
'He hasn't got my worries,' said Wibbert, though when I had said Sir Charles's name Wibbert looked closely at me, the way a person peers from a high window to an interesting spectacle below.
'You'd be surprised.'
'If it was a struggle for that pompous overpraised old bastard?' he said. 'Yes, I'd be very surprised.'
'Have you ever met him?'
Wibbert shook his head.
'Why don't you come over some evening? You might change your mind.'
Wibbert said, 'He'd probably hate me.'
'Absolutely not,' I said.
'How can you be so sure?'
'Because I'm sure he's read your poetry, and if
ALGEBRA
I said, 'Just the one,' and filled it with the claret I had brought out for the shepherd's pie.
I was relieved when Sir Charles said he had to go, because that was my signal to open the Krug, which went down a treat. Then Sir Charles and Virginia shared a taxi back to Hampstead and Tanya (making a crack about Ronald) said she had never enjoyed herself more. Hearing what Tanya had said, Mr Momma put his arm around me. He smelled strenuously of his dancing.
'No,' I said, and led him to the door. 'Let's not spoil it.'
I slept alone, but I was not alone. The evening had been a great success. Both Sir Charles and Virginia sent me notes, thanking me for having them. They were brief notes, but I replied saying that the pleasure had been all mine.
Afterward, I wondered why they had agreed to come. I decided that their very position had something to do with it. They were so grand that most people thought that they must be very busy, so no one dared to invite them. And people believed that they were beyond praise. But my flattery, my offer of a meal, my discount wines had done the trick.
I had worked hard to make the evening festive, and Mr Momma had been an unexpected success. And what had I asked of them? Nothing - nothing but for them to be there.
I had told them I was a writer. Because I had said this no one talked about it: I was one of them. Anyway, a good host is preoccupied with managing his party. His graciousness is silence when it is not encouragement. He isn't supposed to say much, only to keep the dishes coming and the glasses filled. So, in the end, they did not know much about me. They talked to each other.
The proof that Miss Byward meant what she said about enjoying herself was her invitation to me several weeks later for drinks at her very tiny flat in Hampstead. It was not until I saw her flat that I fully understood how she could have seen something to admire in mine. She was clearly an untidy person, but I was grateful when she introduced me as 'Michael Insole, the writer.' There were six others there, all writers whose names I instantly recognized, but because of the seating arrangements, I had no choice but to talk to Wibbert the poet. He told me a very entertaining story about giving a poetry reading in Birmingham, and he finished by saying, 'The pay's appalling. They always apologize when they hand it over.'
WORLD S END
Henry Wibbert was a tall balding youth with the trace of a regional accent, and bitten fingernails, something I had always hated until I met him. His socks had slipped into his shoes and I could see his white ankles. His poet's love of failure was written all over him, and when I told him I did not write poetry he seemed to take this as a criticism - as if I were acting superior - and I wanted to tell him that, in fact, I had never written anything at all.
'I do the odd spot of reviewing,' he said, somewhat defensively. And then, 'I can always go back to teaching yobboes if I find myself really hard up.' He twisted his finger into his mouth and chewed. Tm sure your earnings have you in the supertax bracket.'
Tar from it,' I said. 'I find it very hard to manage.'
At once, he was friendlier. We had found common ground as struggling writers.
'It's hand to mouth with me,' he said.
I said, 'I was having this very conversation with Sir Charles Moonman just the other night.'
'He hasn't got my worries,' said Wibbert, though when I had said Sir Charles's name Wibbert looked closely at me, the way a person peers from a high window to an interesting spectacle below.
'You'd be surprised.'
'If it was a struggle for that pompous overpraised old bastard?' he said. 'Yes, I'd be very surprised.'
'Have you ever met him?'
Wibbert shook his head.
'Why don't you come over some evening? You might change your mind.'
Wibbert said, 'He'd probably hate me.'
'Absolutely not,' I said.
'How can you be so sure?'
'Because I'm sure he's read your poetry, and if
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