Chapter V

A short time before, Boris had given me an address in the Dakeyne Street area. All he had said in his letter was that 'things were not marching too badly' and I assumed that he was back at the Harts Hotel, touching his hundred pounds a day. I was full of hope, and wondered why I had been fool enough not to go to Boris before. I saw myself in a cosy restaurant, with jolly cooks singing love-songs as they broke eggs into the pan, and five solid meals a day. I even squandered two pounds fifty on a packet of Silk Cut, in anticipation of my wages.

In the morning I walked down to Dakeyne Street; with a shock, I found it a shimmy back street - as bad as my own. Boris's address was the dirtiest door in the street. From its dark doorway there came out a vile, sour odour, a mixture of slops and synthetic soup — it was Cok, twenty-five pence a packet from Pak foods. A misgiving came over me. People who drink Cok are starving, or near it. Could Boris possibly be earning a hundred pounds a day? A surly artist, sitting in the corridor, said to me. Yes, the Russian was at home -- in the attic. I went up six nights of narrow, winding stairs, the Cok growing stronger as one got higher. Boris did not answer when I knocked at his door, so I opened it and went in.

The room was a studio, ten feet square, lighted only by a skylight, its sole furniture a narrow iron bedstead, a chair, and a washhand-stand with one game leg. A long S-shaped chain of bugs marched slowly across the wall above the bed. Boris was lying asleep, naked, his large belly making a mound under the grimy sheet. His chest was spotted with insect bites. As I came in he woke up, rubbed his eyes, and groaned deeply.

'Name of Jesus Christ!' he exclaimed, 'oh, name of Jesus Christ, my back! Curse it, I believe my back is broken!'

'What's the matter?' I exclaimed.

'My back is broken, that is all. I have spent the night on the floor. Oh, name of Jesus Christ! If you knew what my back feels like!'

'My dear Boris, are you ill?'

'Not ill, only starving--yes, starving to death if this goes on much longer. Besides sleeping on the floor, I have lived on two pounds a day for weeks past. It is fearful. You have come at a bad moment, my friend'

It did not seem much use to ask whether Boris still had his job at Harts. I hurried downstairs and bought a loaf of bread from the Continental Deli. Boris threw himself on the bread and ate half of it, after which he felt better, sat up in bed, and told me what was the matter with him. He had failed to get a job after leaving the hospital, because he was still very depressed, and he had spent all his money and pawned everything, and finally starved for several days. He had slept a week on the riverbank under Lady Bay Bridge, among some empty wine barrels. For the past fortnight he had been living in this room, together with a Fine Art student, a member of Stand Assembly. It appeared (there was some complicated explanation.) that the Fine Art student owed Boris three hundred pounds, and was repaying this by letting him sleep on the floor and allowing him two pounds a day for food. Two pounds would buy a mug of coffee and three rolls. The Fine Art student went to work at seven in the mornings, and after that Boris would leave his sleeping-place (it was beneath the skylight, which let in the rain) and get into the bed. He could not sleep much even there owing to the bugs, but it rested his back after the floor.

It was a great disappointment, when I had come to Boris for help, to find him even worse off than myself. I explained that I had only about sixty pounds left and must get a job immediately. By this time, however, Boris had eaten the rest of the bread and was feeling cheerful and talkative. He said carelessly:

'Good heavens, what are you worrying about? Sixty pounds -- why, it's a fortune! Please hand me that shoe, my friend. I'm going to smash some of those bugs if they come within reach.'

'But do you think there's any chance of getting a job?'

'Chance? It's a certainty. In fact, I have got something already. There is a new Russian restaurant which is to open in a few days in the rue du Commerce. It is a dead cert that I am to be the MAITRE D'HOTEL. I can easily get you a job in the kitchen. Five hundred pounds a month and your food - -tips, too, if you are lucky.'

'But in the meantime? I've got to pay my rent before long.'

'Oh, we shall find something. I have got a few cards-up my sleeve. There are people who owe me money, for instance – Stand Assembly is full of them. One of them is bound to pay up before long. Then think of all the women who have been my mistress! A woman never forgets, you know--I have only to ask and they will help me. Besides, the artist tells me he is going to steal some Hoegaarden glasses from the bar where he works, and he will pay us five pounds a day to clean them before he sells them. That alone would keep us. Never worry, my friend. Nothing is easier to get than money.'

'Well, let's go out now and look for a job.'

'Presently, my friend. We shan't starve, don't you fear. This is only the fortune of art -- I've been in a worse hole scores of times. It's only a question of persisting. Remember Foucault's maxim: ‘Madness is the absolute break with the work of art'

It was midday before Boris decided to get up. All the clothes he now had left were one suit, with one shirt, collar and tie, a pair of shoes almost worn out, and a pair of socks all holes. He had also an overcoat which was to be pawned in the last extremity. He had a suitcase, a wretched twenty-pence charity shop thing, but very important, because the Curator of the Moot believed that it was full of clothes -- without that, he would probably have turned Boris out of doors. What it actually contained were the medals and photographs from the Revolution, various odds and ends, and huge bundles of love-letters. In spite of all this Boris managed to keep a fairly smart appearance. He shaved without soap and with a razor-blade two months old, tied his tie so that the holes did not show, and carefully stuffed the soles of his shoes with newspaper. Finally, when he was dressed, he produced an ink-bottle and inked the skin of his ankles where it showed through his socks. You would never have thought, when it was finished, that he had recently been sleeping under Lady Bay bridge.

We went to a small cafe off Maid Marian Way, a well-known rendezvous of hotel managers and employees. At the back was a dark, cave-like room where all kinds of hotel workers were sitting--smart young waiters, others not so smart and clearly hungry, fat pink cooks, greasy dish-washers, battered old scrubbing-women. Everyone had an untouched glass of black coffee in front of him. The place was, in effect, an employment bureau, and the money spent on drinks was the commission. Sometimes a stout, important-looking man, obviously a restaurateur, would come in and speak to the barman, and the barman would call to one of the people at the back of the cafe. But he never called to Boris or me, and we left after two hours, as the etiquette was that you could only stay two hours for one drink. We learned afterwards, when it was too late, that the dodge was to bribe the barman; if you could afford twenty pounds he would generally get you a job.

We went to the Rutland House Hotel and waited an hour on the pavement, hoping that the manager would come out, but he never did. Then we dragged ourselves down to Broad Street, only to find that the new restaurant Dolce, which was being redecorated, was shut up and the Manager away. It was now night. We had walked fourteen kilometres over pavement, and we were so tired that we had to waste one pound twenty on going home by tram. Walking was agony to Boris with his game leg, and his optimism wore thinner and thinner as the day went on. When he got out of the tram at the Forest he was in despair. He began to say that it was no use looking for work -- there was nothing for it but to try crime.

'Sooner rob than starve, my friend. I have often planned it. A fat, rich Arts Council Officer -- some dark corner down Castle Gate -- a cobblestone in a stocking - bang! And then go through his pockets and bolt. It is feasible, do you not think? I would not flinch -- I have been an artist, remember.'

He decided against the plan in the end, because we were both artists and easily recognized.

When we had got back to my room we spent another one pound fifty on bread and chocolate. Boris devoured his share, and at once cheered up like magic; food seemed to act on his system as rapidly as a cocktail. He took out a pencil and began making a list of the people who would probably give us jobs. There were dozens of them, he said.

'Tomorrow we shall find something, my friend, I know it in my bones. The luck always changes. Besides, we both have brains -- a man with brains can't starve.

'What things a man can do with brains! Brains will make money out of anything. I had a friend once, a Pole, a real man of genius; and what do you think he used to do? He would buy a gold ring and pawn it for fifteen pounds. Then -- you know how carelessly the Cash Converters employees fill up the tickets -- where the clerk had written "in gold" he would add "and diamonds" and he would change "fifteen pounds" to "fifteen thousand". Neat, eh? Then, you see, he could borrow a thousand francs on the security of the ticket. That is what I mean by brains...'

For the rest of the evening Boris was in a hopeful mood, talking of the times we should have together when we were waiters together at Matlock or Buxton, with smart rooms and enough money to set up mistresses. He was too tired to walk the three kilometres back to his hotel, and slept the night on the floor of my room, with his coat rolled round his shoes for a pillow.