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he　sham　of　passion　and　pain　they　would　perform　than　the　dead；　who　had　experienced　such　feelings；　and　thrown　them　off　at　last？
　　The　dead。　They　needed　entertainment　no　less　than　the　living；　and　they　were　a　sorely　neglected　market。
　　Not　that　this　pany　would　perform　for　money；　they　would　play　for　the　love　of　their　art；　Lichfield　had　made　that　clear　from　the　outset。　No　more　service　would　be　done　to　Apollo。
　　〃Now；〃　he　said；　〃which　road　shall　we　take；　north　or　south？〃
　　〃North；〃　said　Eddie。　〃My　mother's　buried　in　Glasgow；　she　died　before　I　ever　played　professionally。　I'd　like　her　to　see　me。〃
　　〃North　it　is；　then；〃　said　Lichfield。　〃Shall　we　go　and　find　ourselves　some　transport？〃　He　led　the　way　towards　the　motorway　restaurant；　its　neon　flickering　fitfully；　keeping　the　night　at　light's　length。　The　colours　were　theatrically　bright：　scarlet；　lime；　cobalt；　and　a　wash　of　white　that　splashed　out　of　the　windows　on　to　the　car　park　where　they　stood。　The　automatic　doors　hissed　as　a　traveller　emerged；　bearing　gifts　of　hamburgers　and　cake　to　the　child　in　the　back　of　his　car。
　　〃Surely　some　friendly　driver　will　find　a　niche　for　us；〃　said　Lichfield。
　　〃All　of　us？〃　said　Galloway。
　　〃A　truck　will　do；　beggars　can't　be　too　demanding；〃　said　Lichfield。　〃And　we　are　beggars　now：　subject　to　the　whim　of　our　patrons。〃
　　〃We　can　always　steal　a　car；〃　said　Tallulah。
　　〃No　need　for　theft；　except　in　extremity；〃　Lichfield　said。　〃Constantia　and　I　will　go　ahead　and　find　a　chauffeur。〃　He　took　his　wife's　hand。
　　〃Nobody　refuses　beauty；〃　he　said。
　　〃What　do　we　do　if　anyone　asks　us　what　we're　doing　here？〃　asked　Eddie　nervously。　He　wasn't　used　to　this　role；　he　needed　reassurance。
　　Lichfield　turned　towards　the　pany；　his　voice　booming　in　the　night：　〃What　do　you　do？〃　he　said；　〃Play　life；　of　course！　And　smile！〃
　　
　　
　　
　　　IN　THE　HILLS；　THE　CITIES
　　
　　
　　IT　WASN'T　UNTIL　the　first　week　of　the　Yugoslavian　trip　that　Mick　discovered　what　a　political　bigot　he'd　chosen　as　a　lover。　Certainly；　he'd　been　warned。　One　of　the　queens　at　the　Baths　had　told　him　Judd　was　to　the　Right　of　Attila　the　Hun；　but　the　man　had　been　one　of　Judd's　ex…affairs；　and　Mick　had　presumed　there　was　more　spite　than　perception　in　the　character　assassination。
　　If　only　he'd　listened。　Then　he　wouldn't　be　driving　along　an　interminable　road　in　a　Volkswagen　that　suddenly　seemed　the　size　of　a　coffin；　listening　to　Judd's　views　on　Soviet　expansionism。　Jesus；　he　was　so　boring。　He　didn't　converse；　he　lectured；　and　endlessly。　In　Italy　the　sermon　had　been　on　the　way　the　munists　had　exploited　the　peasant　vote。　Now；　in　Yugoslavia；　Judd　had　really　warmed　to　his　theme；　and　Mick　was　just　about　ready　to　take　a　hammer　to　his　self…opinionated　head。
　　It　wasn't　that　he　disagreed　with　everything　Judd　said。　Some　of　the　arguments　（the　ones　Mick　understood）　seemed　quite　sensible。　But　then；　what　did　he　know？　He　was　a　dance　teacher。　Judd　was　a　journalist；　a　professional　pundit。
　　He　felt；　like　most　journalists　Mick　had　encountered；　that　he　was　obliged　to　have　an　opinion　on　everything　under　the　sun。　Especially　politics；　that　was　the　best　trough　to　wallow　in。　You　could　get　your　snout；　eyes；　head　and　front　hooves　in　that　mess　of　muck　and　have　a　fine　old　time　splashing　around。　It　was　an　inexhaustible　subject　to　devour；　a　swill　with　a　little　of　everything　in　it；　because　everything；　according　to　Judd；　was　political。　The　arts　were　political。　Sex　was　political。　Religion；　merce；　gardening；　eating；　drinking　and　farting…all　political。
　　Jesus；　it　was　mind…blowingly　boring；　killingly；　love　deadeningly　boring。
　　Worse　still；　Judd　didn't　seem　to　notice　how　bored　Mick　had　bee；　or　if　he　noticed；　he　didn't　care。　He　just　rambled　on；　his　arguments　getting　windier　and　windier；　his　sentences　lengthening　with　every　mile　they　drove。
　　Judd；　Mick　had　decided；　was　a　selfish　bastard；　and　as　soon　as　their　honeymoon　was　over　he'd　part　with　the　guy。
　　
　　It　was　not　until　their　trip；　that　endless；　motiveless　caravan　through　the　graveyards　of　mid…European　culture；　that　Judd　realized　what　a　political　lightweight　he　had　in　Mick。　The　guy　showed　precious　little　interest　in　the　economics　or　the　politics　of　the　countries　they　passed　through。　He　registered　indifference　to　the　full　facts　behind　the　Italian　situation；　and　yawned；　yes；　yawned　when　he　tried　（and　failed）　to　debate　the　Russian　threat　to　world　peace。　He　had　to　face　the　bitter　truth：　Mick　was　a　queen；　there　was　no　other　word　for　him。　All　right；　perhaps　he　didn't　mince　or　wear　jewellery　to　excess；　but　he　was　a　queen　nevertheless；　happy　to　wallow　in　a　dream…world　of　early　Renaissance　frescoes　and　Yugoslavian　icons。　The　plexities；　the　contradictions；　even　the　agonies　that　made　those　cultures　blossom　and　wither　were　just　tiresome　to　him。　His　mind　was　no　deeper　than　his　looks；　he　was　a　well…groomed　nobody。
　　Some　honeymoon。
　　
　　The　road　south　from　Belgrade　to　Novi　Pazar　was；　by　Yugoslavian　standards；　a　good　one。　There　were　fewer　pot…holes　than　on　many　of　the　roads　they'd　travelled；　and　it　was　relatively　straight。　The　town　of　Novi　Pazar　lay　in　the　valley　of　the　River　Raska；　south　of　the　city　named　after　the　river。　It　wasn't　an　area　particularly　popular　with　the　tourists。　Despite　the　good　road　it　was　still　inaccessible；　and　lacked　sophisticated　amenities；　but　Mick　was　determined　to　see　the　monastery　at　Sopocani；　to　the　west　of　the　town　and　after　some　bitter　argument；　he'd　won。
　　The　journey　had　proved　uninspiring。　On　either　side　of　the　road　the　cultivated　fields　looked　parched　and　dusty。　The　summer　had　been　unusually　hot；　and　droughts　were　affecting　many　of　the　villages。　Crops　had　failed；　and　livestock　had　been　prematurely　slaughtered　to　prevent　them　dying　of　malnutrition。　There　was　a　defeated　look　about　the　few　faces　they　glimpsed　at　the　roadside。　Even　the　children　had　dour　expressions；　brows　as　heavy　as　the　stale　heat　that　hung　over　the　valley。
　　Now；　with　the　cards　on　the　table　after　a　row　at　Belgrade；　they　drove　in　silence　most　of　the　time；　but　the　straight　road；　like　most　straight　roads；　invited　dispute。　When　the　driving　was　easy；　the　mind　rooted　for　something　to　keep　it　engaged。　What　better　than　a　fight？
　　〃Why　the　hell　do　you　want　to　see　this　damn　monastery？〃　Judd　demanded。
　　It　was　an　unmistakable　invitation。
　　〃We've　e　all　this　way　。　。　。〃　Mick　tried　to　keep　the　tone　conversational。　He　wasn't　in　the　mood　for　an　argument。
　　〃More　fucking　Virgins；　is　it？〃　Keeping　his　voice　as　even　as　he　could；　Mick　picked　up　the　Guide　and　read　aloud　from　it。。。　〃there；　some　of　the　greatest　works　of　Serbian　painting　can　still　be　seen　and　enjoyed；　including　what　many　mentators　agree　to　be　the　enduring　masterpiece　of　the　Raska　school：　〃The　Dormition　of　the　Virgin。〃〃　Silence。
　　Then　Judd：　〃I'm　up　to　here　with　churches。〃
　　〃It's　a　masterpiece。〃
　　〃They're　all　masterpieces　according　to　that　bloody　book。〃　Mick　felt　his　control　slipping。
　　〃Two　and　a　half　hours　at　most…；　〃I　told　you；　I　don't　want　to　see　another　church；　the　smell　of　the　places　makes　me　sick。　Stale　incense；　old　sweat　and　lies。。。〃
　　〃It's　a　short　detour；　then　we　can　get　back　on　to　the　road　and　you　can　give　me　another　lecture　on　farming　subsidies　in　the　Sandzak。〃
　　〃I'm　just　trying　to　get　some　decent　conversation　going　instead　of　this　endless　tripe　about　Serbian　fucking　masterpieces…；　〃Stop　the　car！〃
　　〃What？〃
　　〃Stop　the　car！〃　Judd　pulled　the　Volkswagen　into　the　side　of　the　road。　Mick　got　out。
　　The　road　was　hot；　but　there　was　a　slight　breeze。　He　took　a　deep　breath；　and　wandered　into　the　middle　of　the　road。　Empty　of　traffic　and　of　pedestrians　in　both　directions。　In　every　direction；　empty。　The　hills　shimmered　in　the　heat　off　the　fields。　There　were　wild　poppies　growing　in　the　ditches。　Mick　crossed　the　road；　squatted　on　his　haunches　and　picked　one。
　　Behind　him　he　heard　the　VW's　door　slam。
　　〃What　did　you　stop　us　for？〃　Judd　said。　His　voice　was　edgy；　still　hoping　for　that　argument；　begging　for　it。
　　Mick　stood　up；　playing　with　the　poppy。　It　was　close　to　seeding；　late　in　the　season。　The　petals　fell　from　the　receptacle　as　soon　as　he　touched　them；　little　splashes　of　red　fluttering　down　on　to　the　grey　tarmac。
　　〃I　asked　you　a　question；〃　Judd　said　again。
　　Mick　looked　round。　Judd　was　standing　the　far　side　of　the　car；　his　brows　a　knitted　line　of　burgeoning　anger。　But　handsome；　oh　yes；　a　face　that　made　women　weep　with　frustration　that　he　was　gay。　A　heavy　black　moustache　（perfectly　trimmed）　and　eyes　you　could　watch　forever；　and　never　see　the　same　light　in　them　twice。　Why　in　God's　name；　thought　Mick；　does　a　man　as　fine　as　that　have　to　be　such　an　insensitive　little　shit？
　　Judd　returned　the　look　of　contemptuous　appraisal；　staring　at　the　pouting　pretty　boy　across　the　road。　It　made　him　want　to　puke；　seeing　the　little　act　Mick　was　performing　for　his　benefit。　It　might　just　have　been　plausible　in　a　sixteen…year…old　virgin。　In　a　twenty…five…year…old；　it　lacked　credibility。
　　Mick　dropped　the　flower；　and　untucked　his　T…shirt　from　his　jeans。　A　tight　stomach；　then　a　slim；　smooth　chest　were　revealed　as　he　pulled　it　off。　His　hair　was　ruffled　when　his　head　re…appeared；　and　his　face　wore　a　broad　grin。　Judd　looked　at　the　torso。　Neat；　not　too　muscular。　An　appen