Chapter 14 Green Onions
GREEN ONIONS
MICK
Michael was right. David Hockney’s drawings–or etchings as Michael called them–were a lot more interesting than most of the art at the Tate Gallery.
Don’t get me wrong, the grand paintings in the grand gallery were impressive.
Undoubtedly, the skill and dedication taken to create them was immense, but they didn’t inspire any emotion in me.
They were painted by dead rich blokes hundreds of years ago for Kings and Cardinals.
After the hundredth painting, I felt bored and stupid.
The modern art–the abstract stuff affected me a lot more because it wasn’t telling me what to see. It let me look and decide what I saw and what I felt.
David Hockney’s sketches were even more different. They weren’t abstract–it was obvious what they were portraying–but they were so different to the old-fashioned paintings.
At first glance, they looked a bit rubbish. When you got close to them–which you have to because they were tiny–the meaning of them hit you in the face. The lines and shapes were technically simple, but they were far from rubbish. They were fascinating.
The first drawing–etching–I saw took my breath away. It was so fucking raw and real. Two men lying in bed, both looking thoroughly fucked, and there was no question about it. I could imagine the smell of sex in their room and feel the heat from their bodies.
Michael explained that each drawing illustrated a poem by this dead Egyptian poet who was also queer. I wanted to read those poems, to hear the words that inspired such genuine, intimate pictures.
Emotions poured out of them, straight into your soul.
With just a few marks, the artist created a complex story that you understood with your whole heart.
The fact that a lot of them were about men loving and being with other men had a thrilling effect.
But even the ones that weren’t anything to do with queer blokes, still gushed with feeling.
I could have spent hours in that room looking at those pictures, but the girl at the desk clearly wanted to get away.
“Wow!” I said when we stepped onto the street.
“You liked them, then?” Michael was grinning like the cat that got the cream, and I swelled with pride. I’d been anxious about going to another art gallery with Michael because I didn’t want to come off as stupid. I cared what Michael thought about me.
Since the gig at the Palais, I’d spent a lot of time thinking about why that was.
Why my heart skipped every time the phone rang and it was his voice at the other end.
Why I made any excuse to touch him. Why I was desperate to get him into bed again.
Ever since Tommy and Eric did their secret couple psychic talking thing, I’d thought of little else.
I still hadn’t made sense of my feelings. I liked Michael; he was clever, interesting, and funny. I’d always liked him, since we met over a year ago. Our night together changed things, though–made me see him in a different light.
I liked Michael. More than liked him. And I wanted him to more-than-like me back.
Strolling away from the small gallery, we fell into step next to each other.
“Liked them? Michael, they were fucking amazing. I didn’t know art could look like that.”
“Art can look like whatever you want it to. Or whatever the artist wants it to.”
“Yeah, I suppose it can. I never thought about it. I was crap at art at school. I couldn’t draw, couldn’t sculpt, and couldn’t paint.
In second year, the art teacher told me not to bother coming to class anymore.
I don’t know if he meant it, but I took him at his word and spent the one hour a week kicking a football around the playground. ”
Michael laughed.
“It’s true. There was no point in art. It wasn’t practical, and it wasn’t interesting.
I didn’t see what the fuss was all about anyway.
It seemed to me that there were much prettier things to look at in the real world than four-hundred year old paintings.
And I was right, wasn’t I? This Hockney bloke, he agrees with me.
I can tell. He cares about making you feel something, not just showing you how good he is at painting fruit that looks like fruit. ”
“That’s such a very ‘Mick’ way of putting it, dear, but yes, I think you’re spot on.” His words made me feel all tingly inside.
“Where are we going?”
“The India Club. I told you I was going to take you out for dinner.”
“You said you’d take me out if I didn’t enjoy the gallery.”
“No, no. I told you I’d take you out however you felt. It’s good to experience new things, and as you’ve never had Indian food before. This will be a new experience.”
“Alright.” I went quiet for a minute. “I’m a bit nervous.”
“What about?”
“Well, the spice, for one thing. Indian food is really spicy, isn’t it? Will I be able to handle it? The spiciest thing I eat is horseradish sauce on my roast beef.”
“You’ll be fine. Not all Indian food is spicy. That’s a common mistake. There’s plenty of stuff without chillies–that’s what makes it spicy–in it. Plus, I know the menu, and I’ll make sure I order something mild for you.”
“Okay, thank you. But–”
“Yes?”
“What if I make a prat of myself?” What if I make a prat of myself in front of you?
“What?”
“Well, I’ve never been to an Indian restaurant. What if I say something stupid, or I’m rude by accident? Or I use the wrong fork or something?”
“Stop making problems that might not happen! You’ll be fine. It’s a nice, casual place, not formal at all. And the staff are all friendly. They just want to share food from their culture, and they’ll be made up that you’re giving it a go.”
Feeling a bit better, I looked around us as we walked. We were in quite a nice bit of London, and I tried not to feel too self-conscious. We passed the Savoy hotel, one of the swankiest hotels in town, and I distracted myself by telling Michael an interesting piece of trivia.
“Did you know that the road in front of the Savoy is the only road in England where you are legally required to drive on the right side of the road, not the left?” I pointed to the road in question, which came off the main road of the Strand.
Proving my point, taxis and fancy cars were driving up on the right side and coming back towards us on the left.
“No, I did not know that.” Michael sounded delighted by my fact, and I preened.
“Why is that, I wonder.”
“You’ll laugh when I tell you.”
“Go on.”
“It’s because the entrance is on the right. And they didn’t want all the posh hotel guests to have to get out on the left and cross the road to get there.” I laughed.
“No, you’re joking? They made a law for that?”
“Yep. Fucking English Government. They’ll make a whole bloody law to prevent twenty seconds of inconvenience to upper class twats, but they won’t change an outdated law about what grown adults do in the privacy of their own bedrooms.”
Michael sighed and nodded. We didn’t dwell on the subject–what was the point? We chatted for the rest of the walk about things we saw and places we’d been. It was nice, comfortable, familiar.
“Here it is.”
For the second time today, Michael stopped us outside a building that looked like it couldn’t possibly be our destination.
A small sign screwed to the wall confirmed it as The India Club.
Michael held the door open for me, making my heart flutter, and led us up a dark mahogany staircase carpeted in a deep red.
The first floor had a concierge desk, and a young Indian man with short curly hair and trim beard greeted us. Michael told him we were here for dinner, and he led us up another flight of stairs into the restaurant.
The room was very simple; a few pictures hung on the plain yellow walls, including one of Ghandi, but that was it. Families and groups of men sat at formica tables and plastic chairs–no fancier than the ones in Jackie’s cafe–sharing gossip and exotic food.
One thing that didn’t shock me was we were the only two white blokes in there. A few people looked our way when we walked in, but nobody pointed and laughed or told us to fuck off, so that was good.
Our waiter, who looked about my age, wore a long white linen jacket over dark loose trousers.
A handsome smile shone on his deep copper face and thick, jet black hair styled into an elegant side-parting.
A thick moustache sat above his plump lips.
He was gorgeous–there was no doubt about it–and yet my body didn’t react.
It had nothing to do with him being Indian–my dick had always been very modern in that sense and responded to all manner of men, regardless of race or creed.
It had been happening a lot, seeing a good-looking bloke and not undressing him in my mind.
Experimentally, I looked at Michael. My heartbeat sped up and goosebumps appeared on my skin, even though it was a warm night.
He smiled, and I hardened in my trousers.
Yep, he was the only man for me, and my stupid dick agreed.
“Good Evening, Sirs,” the waiter said with a thick Indian accent. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes, please. I’ll have a gin and tonic,” said Michael.
“Same for me, please, mate,” I said and Michael smiled.
The waiter brought our drinks to us, complete with slices of lemon. My mouth felt dry all of a sudden, so I was grateful and took a sip. Michael sighed.
“Oh, they do make a good gin and tonic here.” He licked his lips, and my semi became a full on erection.
“Are you alright?”
“Hm? Me? Yes. I’m fine.”
He huffed a small laugh. “Good. You seem a bit peculiar.”
“You know me. I am peculiar.”
He laughed again. “Do you want to look at the menu? Or would you like me to order for both of us?”
“Oh, yeah, you order. I’d have no idea what to choose.”
The waiter came back and took our order, complimenting Michael on his choice. Trying to relax and not fidget, I held onto my drink, so my hands would have something to do.
Delicious aromas distracted me as a plate of unfamiliar food was placed in front of me. The dish was piled high with rice on one side, and a thick, light brown curry on the other. It looked incredible.
“It’s butter chicken–not spicy at all,” Michael told me, and I smiled at his thoughtfulness. With my fork, I stabbed one of the pieces of chicken covered in rich, golden sauce and popped it into my mouth.
Groaning out loud as the flavours hit my tongue, I covered my mouth and tried to choke back the sound. I felt my cheeks heat, either from the curry or embarrassment. Michael giggled as a blush spread on his face.
Swallowing the food, I blurted out, “Oh my good lord, this is sublime!”
Michael giggled again, “I’m glad you like it. Perhaps, you could be a little more subtle in your enjoyment? You’re going to get us arrested for indecent behaviour.”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“It’s fine. I’m really glad you like it. Just like it a bit less pornographically,” he whispered. My face was on fire now, and the curry was not spicy. I loved that I affected him as much as he did me.
With difficulty, I kept the moaning to a minimum.
The food was so good it was hard to stay quiet.
Even the rice was tasty. I hadn’t had rice many times in my life, but when I had, it was a congealed mush.
This was totally different; the grains were firm but not crunchy, and it made for an appealing texture.
Flavoursome too, rather than being a bland carbohydrate to accompany your meal.
After we’d finished, Michael paid the bill, and we walked out into the cool night air.
“Um, would you like to, um, do you want to come back to mine? For a night cap?”
I did. I really did. I wanted to go back to his for far more than another drink.
“I can’t.”
His face fell, and even though I hated disappointing him, it was reassuring to see.
“I would if I could. I’d like to, but I can’t.” It sounded like an excuse, but I tried to make it sincere, because it was. “Me mam made me promise I’d come home tonight and be up for nine o’clock Mass tomorrow. Otherwise I’d love to, honest.”
“That’s alright, another time.”
“Yes. Another time very soon. Please.” I looked around to get my bearings. “The station is this way.” I pointed my thumb over my shoulder.
“And my bus stop is this way.” He pointed in the opposite direction.
“Thanks for coming to the gallery with me, Mick. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
He held out his hand, and I wanted to shove it away and hug him, but it wasn’t appropriate for grown men to hug on the street, so I took his hand and savoured the sensation of his skin against mine.
“I did. I had a wonderful night. I wish it wasn’t over.
” I’d said all I could, and I hoped he understood me.
Turning on my heel, I walked towards the London Underground.
Fighting for as long as I could, I eventually looked back over my shoulder.
He was striding in the other direction, and it took every ounce of strength I had not to spin around and run after him.