On the Edge

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Adam arrived at Brooke’s San Francisco mansion wearing the flame-coloured Nehru jacket Yves had brought back for him from Paris. Most people couldn’t get away with a Nehru jacket, but Adam, in whose veins the lava of India and the phlegm of England combined with an intoxicating hiss, wore his new clothes with indiscreet self-assurance. Adam was on fire with the truth about the future of the human race and it was not a fire he intended to keep to himself.

‘I’m wearing my heart on your sleeve,’ he whispered to Yves in the taxi.

‘And your soul?’ said Yves.

‘Always and everywhere,’ replied Adam. ‘You know I won’t settle for less.’ His eyes clouded with tears. ‘My Shams,’ he murmured.

‘My Rumi,’ answered Yves vaguely.

Adam liked people to have ‘a point’. Either they must be brilliant and spiritually evolved like himself, or embarrassingly rich like Brooke. Simple goodness touched him also, at a distance.

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