My relationship with Rex was one long, amusing conversation, with a romantic tone and s****l undertones. I felt like his pupil, in everything. He was like those tutors of classical times, those pederastic pedagogues, like the one in Petronius; only, unlike that boy, I did not allow "liberties" to get presents out of him. When he wanted to give me a watch, I was offended and refused, remarking, "It's not my birthday."
I discovered gradually that he had another, hidden, life. He took me one day to an Arab cafe in dockland. Sailors of all nationalities were there, and a bunch of painted, twittering pansies ready to amuse them. There were a few women, too, not very attractive, I thought. Four of the pansies, screaming, "Rex! Rex darling! where have you been all this time?" surrounded us when
