LITMIR.BIZ

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to dance, no matter the circumstances, was Pan’s Person. An employer called Charles, who didn’t always pay reliably, was Cheque-bounce Charlie. A Wigan pub, the Swan and Railway, could be the Cygne et Chemin de Fer, the Duck and Tram, the Albatross and Cyclepath. An acquaintance who was born without feet, on an occasion of infidelity became ‘Foot-Free and Fancy Loose’. Only composers were allowed their real names – their first names, usually used thus, while listening to their music: ‘Maurice, you fucker …’ with a shake of the head and a smile of delight, at some particularly beautiful turn of musical phrase. When I told him about the church that Satie set up in Paris – the Metropolitan Church of Christ Conductor – he was just so happy. ‘Eric,’ he said, with such fondness in his voice. ‘Oh, Eric, you bastard.’ That Debussy changed his name from Achille-Claude Debussy to Claude-Achille Debussy was a source of perpetual and unresolved fascination.

      Mostly that night we are listening to Chopin.

      ‘I hate them,’ Robert says. ‘Arseholes. They know nothing.’

      ‘Who?’ we enquire.

      ‘Those arseholes.’

      ‘What arseholes?’ we say, concerned.

      ‘Critics.’

      ‘Who? Where?’ We think he must be referring to something in the paper, or recent. Certainly neither Truncheon nor I have said a word against Chopin. We don’t want Robert thinking we are against Chopin.

      It becomes apparent that nobody has called Chopin second rate for some years, when somebody, it wasn’t apparent who, did.

      It comes up that I have never knowingly heard Puccini’s opera La Bohème. Robert is appalled by this state of affairs, and cannot let it continue. He rumbles about in a pile of cassettes, throwing unwanted ones aside till he finds it, and puts it on. We are to listen to it. It is essential. We refill our glasses and subside, swoonily.

      ‘The thing is,’ he says, lounging back in a zigzag of skinny torso and crossed legs on the sofa – ‘there is no orgasm. Listen – all build up, and build up – but no orgasm.’

      Soon enough Rodolfo – it’s José Carreras singing – is catching hold of Mimi’s hand on the floor, because they have dropped the key in the dark, and telling her in his heartbreaking bravura romantic tenor that it doesn’t matter because they have the moon, and he’s a poet, he writes, he lives! I am blown away like Cher in Moonstruck: the singing, the beauty, the emotion – I’m lying on my back on the horrid new carpet in a state of considerable ecstatic delight – the piling up of the music, oh my God, this is SO BEAUTIFUL—

      ‘No orgasm!’ Robert cries. ‘See? The bastard’s doing it again!’

      ‘SHUT UP,’ shout Truncheon and I. We’re busy being blown away. Mimi is responding, telling Rodolfo who she is: ‘Mi chiamano Mimi, ma il mio nome è Lucia’ – they call me Mimi, but my name is Lucia – how she embroiders roses and lilies in her little white room under the rooftops, where she lives alone and the first kiss of April is hers, how sweet is the scent of a flower—

      And then just when she is reaching the peak of this gorgeous spiralling climactic moment, Robert shouts, ‘There! Did you hear it?’

      ‘WHAT!?’ we snap, wrenched from our reveries.

      ‘Talk about no orgasms,’ Truncheon says. ‘You keep pulling out.’ But Robert is up again and over to the stereo, rewinding the tape, fag between his teeth. Replay. Mimi – Barbara Hendricks – takes up her magnificent song again, in mid-bar, heading for, whatever he says about orgasms, some kind of climax—

      ‘Wait …’ he says. ‘It’s coming …’

      ‘Foglia a foglia la spio!’ she sings. ‘Cosi gentile il profumo d’un fior—’

      ‘THERE!’ he shouts.

      ‘What?’ Truncheon and I cry. ‘For God’s sake, man.’

      ‘Oh fuck sake,’ he grumbles. ‘You’ve no fucking idea …’ Rewind, again. ‘Pay attention,’ he says. ‘Sit up.’ He presses play. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘now – listen – OK – OK – NOW!’

      What? We are genuinely uncomprehending, and bewildered. What is he hearing that we are not hearing? What is he so desperate to share?

      ‘Dear God,’ he says. ‘Fuckin’ hellfire. I don’t know. Fuckin’ southern philistines … What you just heard three times is no less than the finest use of the triangle in Western Civilisation.’

      We listen again. It was impossible to determine, if you didn’t know what you were looking for. Once you knew it was there, it was sublime.

      Towards dawn Robert declares that we must all go to Barn Elms Reservoirs, not far away, by the river. I have a brief Bruce Springsteen moment – though to be honest there was little chance of anybody’s body being tan and wet down at that reservoir in the middle of the night …

      I was at that time a biker, riding a Harley Davidson 1200 Sportster, its left foot-peg welded into place with a metal plate by a rural blacksmith after an unfortunate incident on an Italian backroad earlier in the year. Robert normally would not go near it – he didn’t drive, would hire a moped on a Greek holiday if he had to, but thought the taxi the only civilised form of transport. Motorbikes were to him alien beasts, totally incomprehensible. Nevertheless – I think because he realises he’ll get to put his arms round my waist – he decides he will ride pillion. I have a spare helmet with me, which he puts on, but he won’t change from what he is wearing, so when we are pulled over by the police on Shepherd’s Bush Roundabout ten minutes later (in convoy with Truncheon in his Morris Clubman) Robert is barefoot in a pink towelling dressing gown given to him by Dustin Hoffman as cast and crew gift at the end of the West End run of Peter Hall’s production of The Merchant of Venice, with something to that effect embroidered on the back. It is an unlikely set of biker’s colours.

      The police car circles up behind us, makes itself known, and pulls us over.

      Where are we going? they wonder.

      ‘Barn Elms,’ I say.

      Why?

      I am at a loss. Well – I know why I am going. Because Robert wanted to go. But that probably isn’t the answer they want.

      Behind me, Robert is struggling with the visor. ‘It’s the migration season,’ he says, from the depths of the helmet.

      The officer looks unconvinced.

      ‘We’re hopin’ to see a black-tailed godwit.’

      I assume Robert is joking and bite my lip. But the copper accepts the explanation.

      ‘Oh, all right,’ he says. ‘Take it easy’, and waves us on.

      Robert isn’t joking. He does want to see a black-tailed godwit. That is in fact the purpose of the expedition. When we get down there to the broad damp common, bordered with thick undergrowth, wet and fragrant, and after a degree of ornithological patience no black-tailed godwit is forthcoming, he decides instead to educate us in the ways of rugby league, so we run up and down alongside the reservoir, throwing the crash helmets backwards to each other as the mist rises.

      In the end, after a greasy spoon breakfast, we go back, and go to bed – well, Robert goes to bed, Lisette goes to work, and Truncheon and I fall asleep on the sofa. That afternoon when we wake, Robert wants to know if it is true about the legendary penis.

      ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

      He is bemused. ‘What do you mean?’ he asks. ‘You must know.’

      He is quite bewildered – amazed – by the news that Truncheon and I shared a sofa without any sexual goings-on. It seems impossible to him.

      Why? we ask. People often don’t engage in sexual goings-on.

      ‘It’s such a waste!’ he cries, in

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