Shambling back up the hill, the white face I’d just seen floated before me. The skin beneath the make-up had been uneven, pitted below the zygomas, blotchy on the chin. How would she know the Glibertine? For that matter, how did Ronnie know she’d be there? Was I the only non-member of a Darlinghurst sect? Surely Glib, who, despite his dishevelment, I had pegged as a snob, wasn’t a card carrying member of Club Ugly.
You will understand, if I don’t disclose the Glibertine’s address. I’ve already revealed more than is prudent and I don’t want him to be leered at through windows or hounded by those who would judge him degenerate.
In keeping with the serendipity of the evening, the door opened just as my knuckles were about to strike the dark green paintwork. The Glibertine stood in the centre of the room and with the merest tip of his head acknowledged my arrival.
Welcome, my boy. It’s good of you to come.
I looked behind the door to find who had opened it but only saw an elephant’s leg, sprouting two canes, a golf umbrella and an ancient cricket bat.
Recovering myself, I advanced to him, hand extended. He waited for me to reach him fixing me with a look of indulgent bemusement. He was in black tie. The studs of his starched shirt appeared to be gold, his silk black bow was hand tied and his shoes buffed to a gloss.
Close your mouth, dear boy, you’ll start to dribble. He took my hand in his own, warm, dry and firm
Um, hello.
Yes, indeed. Hello. How apt and economical. Would you care for a drink? I’m having Manzanilla, I find Armagnac too much these days. I have most things.
He didn’t wait for an answer and walked behind a drinks trolley. I looked around the room. Book shelves from floor to ceiling on two sides. Lucite lamps on black side tables at either end of a five seater sofa, dark rugs on a herringbone parquet floor, large paintings, one landscape the other abstract, each side of the main central window below which was a desk, illuminated from the left by a modern floor reading lamp.
As he brought our drinks he motioned me to the sofa. He sat opposite me in one of a pair of exquisite chairs which appeared to be from the 1920s, with elegant curved wooden arms and a heavy square bases which fell evenly to the floor.
I thanked him again and sipped my drink, the sherry instantly drying what little moisture I had left in my mouth.
Where have you been?
I’ve been at dinner.
No, where have you been of late. Nobody has seen you. We all thought you were sick. And what are you wearing? And this place… it’s beautiful. What about the girl – she knew you and where you lived.
This place is my home. As for my dress, I’ve been to dinner. And I am quite well, thank you. I just haven’t been to the local for a while. You’ll have to be more specific about the girl.
I had nothing to say in reply. My mind was racing. The Glibertine - the man who wore pyjamas to the pub, the filthy hair, the yellow fingers, the confidant of hookers and the homeless. What had happened to him?
He sat back in his chair, saying nothing, and waited for me to recover my composure. His eyes never left my face as he reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a tarnished silver cigarette case. The opened case was extended to me.
From it I liberated one, from among ten, of the most expertly rolled spliffs I had ever seen.
Keep it coming Oh Glib One. You're killing me.
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