LITMIR.BIZ

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could not help seeing myself as Dr Johnson’s Rasselas, whose ‘chief amusement was to picture to himself that world which he had never seen; to place himself in various conditions: to be entangled in imaginary difficulties, and to be engaged in wild adventures…’

      For eleven years I had lived with an actress; a lady calling herself Diana Coventry, real name Doreen Stephens. Not particularly successful on the boards or even in TV commercials, but a pleasant woman, given to all those highs and lows with which the legendary leading actresses are assailed. In the dark, Diana might have been Vivien Leigh.

      Doreen was as interested in the male sexual organ as I in the female. We never tired of looking as well as doing. There are men I know, men heterosexual to a fault, who admit to disliking the look and aroma of a woman’s genitals. I am not one of them.

      I have a memory from early boyhood. I was in a cinema in Manila. A documentary was showing which employed a method of stop-motion photography on plants. From a bud of a flower, the sepals curled back and the whole flower slowly opened. Its interior revealed intricate details, while the petals, brightly coloured, unfurled, lined with marks to guide the bees to the honey at the heart of the blossom.

      It was beautiful. For the first time in my life, I experienced an erection, entirely spontaneously. I was puzzled by the tiny disturbance in my shorts. From then on, I associated a flower-like beauty with the female organ.

      Unfortunately, Doreen’s and my years together were to end rather unexpectedly. I have always regretted our parting and, looking back, wonder if she has not later regretted it too.

      Doreen secured a role in a soap. She played Viv Baker, a woman who ran a clothes shop in the West End. It upset our comfortable arrangements. She became the part. And when Viv Baker was required to indulge in amorous activities with the local crooked landlord, played by Larry Wingate, my Diana became more interested in Wingate than in me. Before I knew what was what, a note was on the fridge door, pinned there by a magnetic model of a London double-decker bus, saying Adios! (in so few words); and Diana was away to the suburb of Wimbledon with Wingate.

      And so I was free to stew in my own juice. I have been rather at a loss ever since. Rather too prone to attend the racecourse.

      It must have been nostalgia that prompted me at that point to pick up the phone, dial international, and try to speak to Doreen again.

      A choked voice said, ‘Yes, who is it?’

      ‘Doreen, is that you?’

      ‘This is Diana Coventry here. What do you want? I’m about to put the phone down.’

      ‘Hang on, Doreen. It’s me, your lost love, remember? I’m in Crete. I was just ringing to see how you were.’

      ‘I’m utterly miserable, if you must know. Not that it’s any of your business.’

      ‘Are you missing me?’

      ‘What makes you think that? I’ve just heard that poor Jav has died.’ Jav was her brother. I had admired him. Jav was all that I was not: a man with good causes ever close to his heart, perennially adopting African tribes or giving starving Albanians holidays on the Costa Brava, or smuggling imbecile babies out of Romania into Finland. His eccentric ways had not endeared him to his semi-famous sister. When I had last had word of them, they were quarrelling bitterly. He was trying to borrow money from Doreen – all right, Diana – to fly pregnant leopards from the war zone in East Timor to a zoo in Australia. Darwin, if I remember right.

      ‘I’m sorry. What did he die of?’

      ‘I was just having a good weep when you interrupted me.’

      ‘How did he die?’

      ‘Alone. He had taken up the cause of some aborigines near Alice Springs. Just think, a brother of mine to go and die in Australia.’

      ‘I don’t suppose he could help it.’

      ‘But Australia… How degrading!’ Sob. Sob.

      ‘It sounds romantic to me.’ I was trying to cheer her up – always my role where women were concerned. ‘Just imagine the abbo funeral. Didgeridoos wailing across the burning outback, dancing, fire, wallabies roasting on a spit, liquor consumed, screams, mass fornication… An ideal way of being sent off – better than a bloody church service…’

      ‘Oh, you’re so cruel, you wretch!’

      Her phone clicked off. I remembered she was a bit on the religious side. I could but chuckle.

      I had been contemplating writing a novel about my life with Diana Coventry when the better idea of Saint Anna came along. Well, I thought it was better. I sent an outline of the story to my agent, old Welling-Jones. True, there was the annoyance of this idea intruding itself upon a lazy Cretan package holiday, but one is fortunate when an idea arrives at all, no matter how inconveniently.

      Kathi was sitting by the stern of the yacht when Archie Langstreet returned, wearing a new pair of blue velvet slacks and a white T-shirt without inscription. She had her evening glass of vodka and lime by her right hip. Every now and again she glanced at a portable TV set, by her naked feet, where two men and a woman were clinging to the face of a mountain in a howling gale.

      She greeted Langstreet warmly and switched off the set. He kissed her cheek.

      ‘Have you eaten, darling?’ she asked.

      ‘No, no. Where’s Cliff?’

      ‘Where do you think?’

      ‘I don’t know. Where is he?’

      ‘You ought to eat something. He’s with his Scandish blonde, isn’t he?’

      Langstreet grunted. ‘Kathi, I’ve made an amazing find. A crude painting of the infant Jesus being suckled, not by the Virgin Mary, but by his aunt. I came across it in a chapel up in the hills. Eight centuries old. Part of the Christian legend the Christians appear to have forgotten.’

      She laughed, switching off the television set. ‘A bit of blasphemy? A schism within the holy ranks?’

      ‘I’m given to understand that it’s a neglected part of holy legend. Certainly the family who owned the chapel believed in Anna and reverenced her.’

      ‘Oh, there can’t be a jot of truth in it, surely. It’s like Max Ernst’s famous painting of the BVM giving young Jesus a good walloping!’

      He sat down on the deck beside her, being careful to place a newspaper underneath him to protect the white of his canvas trousers.

      ‘The story can be authenticated. That I mean to do. You must take this seriously, Kathi, my dear. If it is true, it is very touching. It seems that, according to my guide, the Virgin Mary’s milk ran dry, so auntie took over.’

      She sat there frowning, drawing her knees up to her chest.

      ‘Does the guide believe this to be true?’

      ‘He doesn’t know much about it. He claims there is only one other such painting in the world – apparently in Bulgaria or Romania.’

      Kathi chuckled. ‘Can you see her tits?’

      ‘One breast protrudes. It’s very modest.’

      Laughing, she said, ‘Pity you didn’t come across a painting of the Virgin Mary showing her tits!’

      He wagged a finger at her. ‘That would never be permitted. It’s no laughing matter. You’re being indecent. I must speak to a local priest and find out more about the subject. The painting is clearly something of a rarity, and should be preserved. There it is, rotting in a stone shack in an olive grove.’

      She remained silent for a while, or else was listening to the lap of water against the sides of the boat.

      ‘It’s an ikon, is it?’

      ‘No. An ikon would most likely have been stolen long ago. It’s a wall painting or a fresco.’

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