‘Not in the least,’ he said. ‘It’s 1988, after all. I don’t care about things like that. My best friend in Harrogate, Henry Rowe, was gay. I wrote one of my earliest stories about him, in fact. These labels mean nothing to me.’
‘I see,’ I said, uncertain what he meant by this. Was he suggesting that he did not discriminate between his friends on the basis of their sexuality or that he himself was prepared to have intimate relations with people of either gender? ‘And was your friend in love with you, do you think? It’s possible, of course. You are very beautiful.’
He blushed a little but ignored the question. ‘Did you ever try?’ he asked me. ‘With a girl, I mean? Actually, I shouldn’t have asked, should I? It’s none of my business.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘And no, I never did. It wasn’t something that would have worked at all. Perhaps you feel the same way about boys?’
He shrugged, and I knew that I was pushing too hard; I should pull back if I was not to frighten him away. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever given much thought to, if I’m honest,’ he said. ‘I want to live a life that’s open to anything. The only thing I know for sure in that regard is that I want to be a father someday.’
‘Really?’ I asked, surprised by this revelation. ‘That’s a curious desire in one so young.’
‘It’s something I’ve always wanted,’ he told me. ‘I think I’d be a good father. And speaking of my stories,’ he added then, sounding a little embarrassed to be bringing the subject up, but it was inevitable that we’d have to discuss them at some point. I’d read two or three more since our arrival in Copenhagen and, to my disappointment, had felt the same way towards them as I had towards ‘The Mirror’. Well written, certainly, but dull. ‘They’re amateur, I know, but—’
‘No,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘“Amateur” would be the wrong word. But they are clearly the work of someone who has yet to discover his voice. If you were to read some of the stories that I wrote at your age, you’d wonder why I ever bothered trying for a literary career.’ I paused, demanding honesty of myself. Already there was a degree of deceit in our relationship but on this subject, on the subject of writing, I felt honour bound to be truthful. ‘The fact is, you have skill, Maurice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I can tell that you think about every word before committing it to the page and I’m impressed by your use of language. But it’s the stories themselves, you see. The subject matter. Therein lies the problem.’
‘You mean they’re boring?’
‘That would be too harsh,’ I replied. ‘But at times, they feel like stories I’ve read before. As if I can picture the books on your shelves. The ghosts of the writers you admire seem to slip into the cracks between the scenes. It takes a great deal of talent to write as well as you do but, ultimately, if your story is not engaging, if the reader doesn’t feel that it’s entirely yours, then it simply won’t work.’
He looked down at the table and nodded. I could see that he was crestfallen but what I had said was the truth and he needed to hear it; I owed him that much at least.
‘You’re right, of course,’ he said finally. ‘I’m not very good at thinking up plots, that’s the problem. I feel like all the stories in the universe have already been told.’
‘But that’s just not true,’ I insisted. ‘There’s an infinite supply for anyone with an imagination.’
‘Sometimes I think I would be better as a musician. The type who writes the words but lets someone else come up with the melody. Perhaps I’m simply tone deaf.’
‘You’re too young to write off your weaknesses as failures,’ I said. ‘The more you read, the more you write, the more the ideas will appear. They’ll fall like confetti around your head and your only difficulty will be deciding which ones to catch and which to let fall to the floor.’
‘And you,’ he asked, looking up again. ‘How do you do it? Your stories are always so original.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted. ‘The truth is that I just make them up as I go along.’
‘Really?’ he asked, laughing. ‘Can it be that simple?’
‘It can be,’ I said. ‘Look, here we are in Copenhagen. There are stories everywhere. Think of that castle. Think of the people visiting it. Think of us, two relative strangers sitting here talking to each other. Your writing is exceptional and will only get stronger over time. So it’s your stories that you need to focus on. When you find one, when you hear one, make it your own and then the world will come to you. That’s the best advice I can give you. Even in that hotel of yours in Berlin. All those people coming to and fro. Who are they? Where have they been? Where are they going? What secrets are they hiding?’
‘Most of them are just rich people on holiday,’ he said.
‘No,’ I insisted. ‘Everyone has secrets. There’s something in all our pasts that we wouldn’t want to be revealed. Look around the foyer the next time you’re there and ask yourself, What would each of these people prefer that I didn’t know about them? And that’s where you’ll find your story. A hotel can be a fascinating place. Hundreds of people gathered together in one building, yet each one desperate to maintain their privacy.’
‘There are worse jobs for an aspiring writer, that’s true,’ he said. ‘But I get so tired, and I’m not writing as much as I should. I’m desperate to move away from short stories and begin a novel. I just need to find the subject.’
‘Love,’ I said. ‘Love is always the subject.’
‘Not for you,’ he replied.
‘But what is loneliness,’ I pointed out, ‘other than the lack of love? I wonder …’ I added after a brief pause, uncertain whether it was too early to raise a subject that I’d been considering ever since our first night together in Copenhagen. There were moments when I thought it a wonderful idea and others when I thought I could only humiliate myself by asking. ‘I’ve mentioned that I have quite a number of trips to make over the coming months,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘And the thing is, Maurice, I find all this travelling quite exhausting and hate the idea of dining with strangers every night. Also, hotels and trains can be difficult for me to negotiate at times. And then there’s the issue of laundry and keeping track of refundable expenses, and so on. It occurred to me that over the time ahead I could very well benefit from having a companion of some description. An assistant, if you will. Someone to do the work that you’ve been doing for me over these last few days.’
‘I see,’ he replied, and I could see that he was excited by the turn the conversation was taking.
‘Is that something you might consider?’ I asked.
‘I’d like nothing more!’
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘between each trip you could return to Berlin, but if we were to say a six-month period of employment, then I could give you a stipend that would offer you some financial security for the entire time. You could leave the Savoy or, if you preferred, stay there and find better accommodation. That would be for you to decide.’