Composing himself again, Maugham sipped his martini, ate the olive, and then sighed. “Look, Walter, I don’t expect you to understand this in the slightest, but for men like me and Robin and Alan, silence about who and what we are is not a choice so much as a matter of constant vigilance. In fact, it’s nothing short of an obsession. We inhabit a dog-eat-dog world of extortion and blackmail the way some people live with religion or politics. Blackmail infects us to the extent that we’re not merely its victims but, just as often, its perpetrators. Lovers spurned become our most painful tormentors. Boys we fondly kept in toys and treats and money—always lots of money—turn around and bite the hand that once fed them so generously in the name of their own freedom. Letters we’ve written are the tools of our own torture and potential downfall. It would be easy for me to condemn my nephew’s actions out of hand, but I’m not going to. As you yourself no doubt remember, I myself blackmailed you to come and help me out with this business. So, you see, I’m just as rotten and unscrupulous as Robin is.”

“I think you’re making excuses for him,” I said.

“Of course I am. Robin is my nephew, and in spite of his manifest failings I’m very fond of him. I’ll always be making excuses for him. He is the only member of my family I like. No, that’s not quite true—I have a niece, Kate, my brother’s daughter, of whom I am rather fond. But Robin is a weak man. And needs me. ‘Need’ is a more important word than ‘love,’ Walter. Especially at my time of life. Although perhaps it always was. It’s good to be needed. Perhaps one day you’ll realize that.”

TWENTY-TWO