From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [226]
“Ah, you see? Homosexuality breeds freedom, and it is freedom that makes art. But, alas, with the coming of freedom the topheavy society always collapses. Falls into dust. Is gone. Destroyed. Utterly.” Hal laughed merrily.
“What art have you ever produced?” Prew said.
“Who, me? Nothing much. I wrote a novel once, on the life of a bisexual. Nobody would ever publish it. However, everywhere I took it everyone in the office was most anxious to read it. I did not get it back from one publisher for seven months. But I am unimportant. Look at the Greeks, if you dont believe me. Look at the Romans. Look at the Holy Mother Church during the Renaissance.”
“Balls,” Tommy said.
“I’ve read a little about them things,” Prew said. “I’d like to see your novel sometime.”
“Someday I’ll let you see it,” Hal said. “Well, here we are.”
He led them around a not old banyan tree, the gnarled above ground roots making them stumble in the darkness, the pencil-thin branch roots not grown into the earth yet and dangling free from the branches slapping them repeatedly in the face.
“Isnt that a truly lovely thing to have in one’s yard?” Hal said. “Watch your step now.”
They were at the side of a two storey frame house painted white, at the foot of an outside staircase, uncovered and with open stairs supported by white four by fours, all of it painted white.
“We must continue this discussion after we have a drink,” Hal whispered to Prew as they all stood on the little landing looking across into the dark bulk of the banyan, while he unlocked the door.
He led them into a little entry hall.
“Just make yourselves at home, you dears. I’m going to get my clothes off. You can take yours off too, if you want,” he laughed, and disappeared into a doorway.
“Aint this place somethin?” Maggio said to Prew. “How would you like to have a place like this here? Hunh? How would you? Just imagine it, livin in a place like this. Jesus!”
The two of them stood just inside the little entryway, looking around at the neatness and the order and the niceness of the apartment.
“I cant,” Prew said. “I cant imagine it.”
“Now you see why I come down here,” Maggio said. “Partly. In them goddam concrete barracks a guy forgets there is such places in this world.”
Tommy, standing behind them, growing impatient, shoved past and went across and sat in one of the big chrome and real leather modern chairs. It broke the spell.
“I got to piss,” Maggio said, “and by god I want a drink. The crapper’s in here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Prew watched him go through the door where Hal had gone, and then saw beyond into the tiny hall with the bathroom on the left and the bedroom at the end. He turned back to look around the living room.
To the left as you came in the door was a raised place one step up with a wrought iron railing where there was a dinette table and a door that led into the kitchen. Across the room was an enormous bay with small glass panes from floor to ceiling clear around its curve, with drapes half drawn across it, and in the middle set back against the wall a cabinet radio and record-player with two record stands of twelve-inch albums flanking it. On the right wall was a big bookcase that was full, and a well-desk. Prew walked around the room looking at the things, trying hard to think of something to say to Tommy.
“Have you ever had any of your writing published?” he asked finally.
“Of course,” Tommy said stiffly. “I had a story in Collier’s just a few weeks back.”
“What kind of a story was it?” Prew was looking at the records, all classical, symphonies and concertos.
“A love story,” Tommy said.
Prew looked up at him and Tommy giggled in his deep bass voice.
“Story of an aspiring young actress and a rich young Broadway producer. He married her and made her a star.”
“I can’t read them kind of stories,” Prew said. He looked back