Chapter Seventy-Four
In fact, it was later that night, when Gangakanta stood in a smoking room, not smoking, willing, without success, his demise to come soon, that Bartoff entered, nodded curtly in greeting, and sat down to light his cigar. No one else was present, and Gangakanta, not being one for chat, started to withdraw, when Bartoff stopped him with:
“Are you having a pleasant stay, monsieur?”
Gangakanta reluctantly halted his departure and replied, “Pardon, monsieur?”
“I asked if you were having a pleasant holiday.”
“Oh. No, monsieur, I’m afraid I am not.”
“That’s too bad.” He sucked on his cigar, then held it out. “Would you like a puff?”
“No thank you, monsieur.” All he could picture was Bartoff naked with Mifkin; and while the physical act disgusted him, as did any physical act of love between any combination of genders, he could not help envying the flagrancy with which Bartoff was conducting his affair, with not a thought for the opinions of others.
“You don’t indulge, hm?”
“Never, monsieur.”
“A pity.” Bartoff took a deep draught himself.
Gangakanta didn’t know why, but he volunteered: “I meditate.”
“Mm? Indeed? Well, that sounds most peaceful. I’ve never tried it myself, mind you, but I imagine it would be.”
“Oh, it is, it is. It steadies one’s storm-slung thoughts, you might say, and imposes a measure of self-control on what might otherwise be a basket of seething snakes.”
“And self-control is, I can see, a keystone in your edifice—would you agree?”
“I dare say it must needs be, if I am to enjoy a purposeful life.”
Bartoff blew some ash off his beard, and continued: “I submit, sir, that your vaunted self-control is deserving of nothing but scathing mockery.”
Gangakanta was less sure than ever that any of this conversation was real. “Oh? And why would you say that, sir?”
“Because, sir,” Bartoff went on, relaxing in his chair, “your self-control is demonstrably a sham.”
Gangakanta’s jaw shuddered. “A sham, sir?”
“A miserable façade poorly composed to cloak your true self.”
Gangakanta could not stop his leg from shaking. Spraying droplets of spit escaped his mouth as he spoke: “And what is my ‘true self’, pray tell, sir?”
Bartoff shrugged. “A fellow sodomite, of course.”
Gangakanta stammered random sounds.
“Of course, you have no reply. Unless you wish to waste your breath and my audience with some tepid lie. And you wouldn’t insult either of our intelligences with so hollow a show, would you, Sri Gangakanta?”
Spouting some mild protestations of indecency, to which neither of them paid attention, Gangakanta excused himself from the room and ran back to his suite to meditate himself back to some semblance of calm.