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The Presence of Nobility
Some years ago I worked in an investment bank as a portfolio manager in the City and most days I would walk to work down from Highbury.
One day I did not go on foot because it was raining. The bus took forever and I felt irritated: it was so crowded on the bus.
The man on the seat beside me read a tabloid paper. I peered over his shoulder: a large garish picture of a man in a sequined tuxedo: a review of a spectacle: a magic show in Earl's Court.
He got up and left the paper on the seat. I picked it up. I stopped at the page three girl then moved back to the page with the show. The review was enthusiastic. Should I go? It was not really my thing. Earls Court Exhibition Centre: uncomfortable seats, crowds, plastic tat, queues.
But something intrigued me; I tore out the page.
At lunch I read the article again. It lay there while I ate my sandwiches. I stared at it. There was a number. I phoned: I bought a ticket.
A few weeks later the day of the show came.
Darkness and icy rain scarred me. Late trains, my misanthropy. Standing room only on the District line. I shivered and I pulled my coat tight round me. It made no difference.
Finally, Earl's Court. So many people, all going the same way. A babble of voices. Talking, always talking. What a species!
We crowded into the darkened hall. The show began; I winced at the dreadfulness of it all. It was painful to see: kitsch,tasteless, absurd. A fat moustachioed man in a tuxedo and a wax moustache commandeered two hefty women in pink sequinned swimsuits and top hats who opened boxes holding dwarves who, at a drum roll, transformed first into rabbits, then doves. There were facile card tricks of the sort your obese bearded uncle might have done, accompanied by low sexual jokes at the expense of audience members.
There was a hypnotism in which a man, transfixed, following instructions, first climbed on a stand then removed his trousers and placed them on his head. Seeing his worn underpants, some in the audience jeered, “give him new y-fronts!” Undeterred, the magician continued, “Shall we have a song?” He took one suggestion from the audience and the man was then crooned, to the accompaniment of piped music, “All You Need is Love”. The audience now cheered. The experience was unpleasant. I began to fidget.
In the course of my fidgeting I dropped the programme. I looked down to find it, then leant down to pick it up -an arm stretched out to my right to pick it up too...that arm was attached to a body, that body to a face; the face said, "here, let me get it."
That face belonged to someone I knew. It was Quentin Blank.
Quentin Blank had been a popular boy at my school: Captain of Rugby team, a prefect; from a good family: his father was a senior judge, his mother a pianist. Quentin was good looking too, with large, bold eyes, lending him an expression both piercing and kind. He was generous and witty and yet had an innocent quality: when around him others were less inclined to bawdiness or brutality.
Or did I just imagine that?
While Quentin had been popular at school I had kept myself to myself. A terrible shyness afflicted me in my teens, partly caused by an inflated sense of my own importance, partly because of an unfortunate birthmark down the side of my face, since largely removed, thank God. It was long, slender, ruby red and bulbous at the lower end, falling from beside my eye to my mouth. You can imagine the names I suffered. I did not have the psychological armoury to retort sharply to my tormentors; nor was I robust enough for stoicism.
One day the mockery became too much: some of the younger boys goading me, forming a ring around me, chanting a name (I still cannot bring myself to say what it was) over and over. I lunged with my clenched fists at the nearest: he stepped easily aside, nimbly tripping me with his foot. I sprawled to the ground to the sound of their laughter.
After that I hid, woesome, in the library.
But I did notice that the taunts ceased when Quentin was around, and was silently grateful to him for that.
Quentin went on to read Engineering at Peterhouse. He did brilliantly in his first year, winning a prize. He also did well at the Union. His sporting prowess was noted too- he rowed in the reserve boat team.
But then something must have happened for he disappeared completely. He grew his hair long and avoided the company of others. First he moved from college, then he disappeared altogether. His parents tried to find him: the papers carried the story.
There was speculation that he had fallen into a strange set at Cambridge: very right wing, champagne and erotic games; tea parties and amphetamines, mascara, SS uniforms, and rent boys, or dressed as nuns and ballerinas at the Christmas balls; risqué moonlit trysts in the quad.
But then, the theory went, things had gone awry: Quentin had met one of the dons at one of the parties. They had had an affair, but the affair had gone wrong. Someone had become too emotional, too attached to the other. The don was married; there were complications; there was a suicide attempt.
In this theory, Quentin was the fall guy; the Dons had closed ranks, he was sent down for "conduct unbecoming". And then everything went on as before, except for an eerie mood in the refectory and the rumours, of course.
I started: "Quentin Blank?" I said.
"Let's get out of here," said Quentin.
He led the way: we went to a pub. "Dreadful, wasn't it?" said Quentin. We went for supper and spoke about this and that. Quentin had travelled widely. I was flattered by the interest he took in my life, asking me all sorts of questions.
We agreed to keep in touch and from then on Quentin would visit me. He never made appointments, but turned up out of the blue at my workplace for lunches or at the close of day for an impromptu drink. I was grateful for that. His manner was considerate and he would ask, “how was your day?” with his peculiar lilt, and watch my face as I responded,in a manner that was unusually considerate, sympathetic. Quentin remained exotic to me. And I noticed that the girls at the reception desk always regarded me curiously when I came down to meet him in the lobby and would try to chat to me when I returned. His charisma reflected onto me.
For a while Quentin did not appear: a season passed. Then, one lunchtime, however, I got a call from reception. It was him. I was pleased to see him: I invited him to lunch. But I could sense that something was wrong. He seemed agitated, nervous. He asked me if he could borrow some money. "How much do you need?" "£1,500," said Quentin.
I was not badly off, but it was still a substantial sum. "What is it for, may I ask?" "It is better if you don't know", he said. We carried on with our meal. Quentin had always been somewhat discreet: I really didn't know what he did for a living, for instance. I believed it was something to do with property (was he a humble landlord, perhaps?) but with Quentin one always felt gingerish in asking. It was something about him, something private that prevented that.
So,odd though it now seems, I did not think much about what the money was to be used for. Our lunch was a hurried one that day, I had other considerations; there had been a stock crash a week before and, although we "held together" we were still going through the accounts checking for the precise nature of the damage. And, I suppose, in retrospect, given the tremendous sums involved, Quentin's request seemed like "pigeon feed": I gave him the cash without thinking too much. And I did not see him for a while.
I came across a story in "The Telegraph" that weekend. It said, "Don Murdered. Police are investigating the circumstances leading up to the death of a senior Cambridge academic who was brutally slain in his home last weekend. Police are appealing for witnesses to come forward."
The tabloids were more candid: the don had been found on his knees in his study, copies of Nature and New Scientist strewn around him. Naked, but for a tutu, his face a mess of smudged lipstick and mascara, arms bound at the wrist with curtain cord. Round his neck was a length of pink gauze- used to choke him. Hi buttocks carried the marks of a lash. Blood stained the Persian rug.
There was evidence of drugs: amyl nitrates.
A week later I received a postcard from Paraguay. "Thanks for the money. Q."
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Read to Astoria Writers Group, December 2021
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