CHAPTER XX : ANOUILH’S BECKET.
The Aldwych is at the West End slightly off the trodden path of Piccadilly Circus. That is the reason I asked Diana to be at the station by seven thirty. She was always punctual and when I arrived on time she was already there. We kissed as if after many years’ separation. You look so lovely, my darling, and what a nice dress, I told her. You must have a vast wardrobe. Yes, she said, I have quite a lot of clothes. I must be well dressed for work. But don’t imagine that they are expensive. I have a knack of choosing nice clothes that are cheap. She smiled. Well, at least, nice according to my taste. And mine, I added. Down we went to the trains and on to Piccadilly. There, we changed to the Bakerloo Line for Charing Cross and after a five minute walk we arrived at the Aldwych. Another venerable London theatre that opened its doors in 1905, it is large but not vast and richly decorated. People had already started congregating and there was quite a hubbub at the theatre’s entrance. There was still quarter of an hour to go and we found our seats and began reading the program. The play is a re-enactment of the conflicts between King Henry II and Thomas Becket when these two former friends and companions in debauchery become enemies after Becket was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury. After his appointment he begins to defend the Church’s interests which did not correspond with the interests of the Crown and in a fit of temper Henry orders his murder. On stage Eric Porter impersonated Becket and Christopher Plummer was Henry II. The rest of the cast was from the crème de la crème of English actors. The play was superb as most of Anouilh’s plays are, and so was the acting. There were four acts and so we visited the bar three times for a cup of champagne. It was a hassle every time but a pleasant one to mingle with the English upper classes who were interested in theatre and to listen to their loud and mostly enthusiastic comments. As for the champagne, it gave us that special kick to enjoy it more. The play was long and as it was approaching twelve when it ended, when the clapping finally died down, we left in a hurry to catch the last train.
From the station we walked hurriedly to the Chanterelle and entered it slightly embarrassed for being so late. Very few tables were occupied at this hour but the waiter knew us by now, guided us to a table and took our ready order, the Beaujolais, of course, an indispensable item of it. The food arrived promptly and the wine bottle opened and served. We began eating and drinking immediately because we saw we would soon be the only two slightly embarrassed customers remaining. Between mouthfuls and sips of wine we talked about the play. Diana was surprised at the nudity in it. Not much of it but enough to make you wonder if it was necessary. I suppose, I said, it served to emphasize the coarseness and vulgarity with which the nobles treated the poor. I mean in that scene in the field where they find the peasant girl and they call her and then Henry lifts up with his cane the rag of a dress she was wearing revealing that she wore nothing underneath was a gesture of lasciviousness, insolence and disrespect towards the girl. It revealed the attitude of the nobles at the time and the abject poverty of the peasantry. He was the King; she was just a piece of flesh. But what a gorgeous piece of flesh though, wasn’t she? Yes, said Diana. She was an Aldwych theatre peasant girl. I doubt the real ones at the time with their rags, dirt and bad nutrition were anything like her. And to think that eight centuries later the world has still not eliminated injustice and the violation of women is quite sad, isn’t it? I said, at least in the West women like Germaine Greer are talking and writing. Yes, yes, said Diana with a laugh, we shall need another eight centuries for a further little step forward, that is, assuming the world still exists, which is not something I would bet my money on.
We left without coffee or sweet and even then were the last to leave. Not that we could have managed to put them away with all that wine in our belly and our pent up need for each other. The day of my departure was approaching and our lovemaking was becoming more emotional. More expressive as well. The need to say it, the need to hear it. What else, that that we loved, that we needed, that we could barely conceive not seeing each other for two months. And the kissing, deep and soulful, more emotional than arousing. A perfect occasion for our prolonged coitus reservatus. It went on and on this marathon lovemaking. With changes of postures, of initiatives now taken by one, now taken by the other, preferred positions, preferred caresses, caresses of hands and tongues and body parts and body motions. Diana almost seemed set to let me know what I would be missing. Did she not realize that I already knew? That the greatest, the most colossal loss would be a slight, beautiful, adolescent-looking young woman? A woman, who for no obviously apparent grounds subdued my will to hers, made me tolerate the unacceptable and made me believe that she loved me, which I usually did completely but occasionally questioned. We slept very late and very little that night. I woke up when Diana opened the door to go to the toilet wrapped in my bathrobe. It was already eight and both my body and my mind ached, one due to the exercise and lack of sleep, the other for the impending loss. Temporary it might be but it loomed unbearable. She returned saw I was awake, smiled, wished me good morning my lover, hopefully, my husband-to-be, took off her robe and as I reached for a condom with a smile and aching limbs, she said, don’t bother. She lay on my body, wrong way up, and we licked, sucked and kissed to complete the series of orgasms she went through last night and the one I did not have after that long-winded chattering and prattling, endlessly variable and endless coitus reservatus.
It was an effort getting up, going to the bathroom, washing my face, washing my teeth, drinking my two glasses of water and going to the window to check the day. Outside was cloudless and bright, as if London was urging me to stay. It promised to be a lovely summer with sunshine and Diana but there was no way out of it, on Wednesday it was goodbye, Annie’s marriage had priority. Sunny days make one feel lighthearted and gay. We dressed with a lot of chatter and laughs, hugging and kissing. We had breakfast at the small shop next to Gloucester Road station. Because of the fine weather two of the small tables were moved out on the pavement and we had our breakfast a la Francaise. Then on we went, holding hands, to Kensington Gardens. We passed the little bookshop with the sweet little shopkeeper but the weather was too good to spend time indoors searching for books. And I was too tired, in any case. At the Gardens I asked Diana that we sit on the lawn for a while and with my head on her lap I dozed off for a few minutes, five, ten, I am not sure how long, and then woke up with a start and told her I’m sorry. She laughed. It’s quite all right; you were my baby for a few minutes. I caressed your hair and felt very tender. She laughed. I must be less demanding, my love, she said. It seems men are more eager for intercourse but they spend their strength quickly. Women have greater stamina. Yes, my darling, I agreed, if women are like you, yes. But I doubt that they are. You are unique. Do you mean I’m a sexpot, she said laughing again. Yes, the most amazing sexpot in the world. We got up, kissed and continued our walk. She looked down at her dress. My dress is ruined, she said, mummy will have to take it to the cleaners. I must look like rag doll. Hardly, I reassured her that she did not at all look like a rag doll but simply a doll.