The Other Side of Silence

“I dislike a man who’s not precise about what he wants to drink,” said Maugham. “You can’t rely on a fellow who’s vague about his favorite tipple. If he’s not precise about something he’s going to drink then it’s clear he’s not going to be precise about anything.”

We sat down and Maugham offered me a cigarette from the box on the table. I shook my head and lit one of my own, which drew yet more of his approval, only now he spoke German-albeit with a slight stammer, the way he spoke English-probably just to show that he could do it, but given it was probably a while since he’d done it, I was still impressed.

“I also like a man who prefers to smoke his own cigarettes rather than mine. Smoking is something you have to take seriously. It’s not a matter for experiment. I myself could no more smoke another brand of cigarette than I could take up marathon running. Tell me, Herr Wolf, do you like being the concierge at the Grand Hotel?”

“Like?” I grinned. “That’s a luxury I simply can’t afford, Herr Maugham. It’s a job, that’s all. After the war, jobs in Germany weren’t so easy to come by. The hours are regular and the hotel’s a nice place. But the only reason I’m doing it is for the money. The day they stop paying me is the day I check out.”

“I agree. I have no time for a man who says he’s not interested in money. It means he has no self-respect. I myself only write for money these days. Certainly not for the pleasure of it.” A tear appeared in his eye. “No, that went out of it a long time ago. Mostly I write because I’ve always done it. Because I can’t think what the hell else to do. Unfortunately, I have never been able to persuade myself that anything else mattered. I’m eighty-two years old, Herr Wolf. Writing has become a habit, a discipline, and, to some extent, a compulsion, but I certainly wouldn’t give what I write to anyone for free.”

“Are you working on anything at the moment, sir?”

“A book of essays, which is to say, nothing at all of any consequence. Essays are like politicians. They want to change things and I’m not much interested in any change at my age.”

A large and lumpish man with bad psoriasis and wearing a garishly colored shirt appeared and went straight to the drinks tray, where he mixed himself a drink as if too impatient to wait for the butler to fix one for him.

“This is my friend Alan,” said Maugham, reverting to English. “Alan, do come and say hello to a friend of Robin’s. Walter Wolf. He’s German and we’re hoping he’s going to play a couple of rubbers with us after dinner.”

The lumpish man came and shook hands just as Robin Maugham reappeared and announced that dinner was ready.

“Thank God,” said Maugham.

“Ronnie Neame rang when you were in the bath,” the lumpish man told Maugham. “It seems that MGM are going to make Painted Veil but want a different title. They want to call it The Seventh Sin.”

“Ugh.” Maugham grimaced. “That’s a fucking awful title.”

“It’s the seventh commandment,” said Robin.

“I don’t care if it’s in the Treaty of Versailles. No one’s shocked by adultery these days. Not since the war. Adultery’s common. After Auschwitz, adultery’s a minor misdemeanor. You mark my words: The film will make a loss.”

We went into dinner.

Robin Maugham had not exaggerated; his uncle kept an excellent table. Dinner was eggs in aspic jelly, chicken Maryland, tiny wild strawberries, avocado ice cream-which I didn’t care for-all washed down with an excellent Puligny and then an even better Sauternes. Afterward, Maugham lit a pipe, fixed a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles onto his nose, and led the way to the card table, where I partnered Robin and we played and lost two rubbers. The old man was a bridge demon.

“You’re not a bad player, Herr Wolf. If I might give you a tip it’s this: Never take a card out of your hand before your partner has declared. It preempts his play. Don’t overreach for a card until it’s your turn to play.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

When we’d finished playing cards Maugham sat next to me on the sofa with his legs tucked underneath him, revealing silk socks and sock suspenders, and asked me all sorts of personal questions.

“Are you married?”

“Three times. I’ve not had the best of luck with women, sir. The ones I married least of all. They’re odd creatures who don’t know what they want right up until the moment they decide on exactly what they do want, and when you don’t give it to them right away, they’re apt to get sore with you. The rest of the time, with the rest of the women I’ve known, it was my fault. My most recent wife left me because she didn’t love me anymore. At least that’s what she told me when she walked out with most of my money. But I think she was trying to let me down gently.”

Maugham smiled. “You’re bitter. I like that. Tra la la. Would you like another drink?”

“No, sir. I’ve had enough.”

We talked a while longer until, at exactly eleven o’clock, W. Somerset Maugham declared that it was his bedtime.