Matthew did not blink. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll take that too.’
Peter knew about Matthew’s more-than-comfortable financial situation; Big Lou had told him, discreetly of course. ‘If you’re sure . . .’
‘I am,’ said Matthew. ‘I’ve never been surer in my life.’
With his purchases cosseted in bubble wrap, Matthew left the Thrie Estaits and walked briskly back up the road. Inside the gallery, she looked at him reproachfully, but he noticed that she was struggling not to smile. ‘You’re very bad,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Well, I have,’ said Matthew. ‘And here you are. Here’s your replacement. As good as the last one, I’m told.’
She took the package and unwrapped it. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect that. But thank you.’
Matthew blushed. His heart was racing now, but he felt a curious elation. ‘And I bought you an extra little present to make up for my clumsiness,’ he said. ‘Here.’
He thrust the parcelled-up Meissen figure into her hands and waited for her to unwrap it.
‘But you can’t!’ she protested. ‘You really can’t. The vase was one thing, this is . . .’
‘Please,’ said Matthew. ‘Please just unwrap it. Go on.’
She removed the bubble wrap carefully. When the figure was half-exposed, she stopped, and looked up at Matthew. ‘I really can’t accept this,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind, but I can’t.’
Matthew held up his hands. ‘But why not? Why?’
She looked down at the figure and removed the last of the wrapping. ‘Because I know what this cost,’ she said quietly. ‘And I can’t accept a present like this from somebody I don’t even know.’
Matthew looked down at the floor in sheer, bitter frustration. It was such a familiar experience for him; every time he tried to get close to somebody, it ended this way – with a rebuff. He knew that buying this present was an extravagant gesture, an unusual thing to do, but he thought that perhaps this one time it would work. But now he could see her recoiling, embarrassed, eager to end their brief acquaintance.
He thought quickly. He would be decisive; he had nothing to lose.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I wanted to get you something.’ He paused. He would speak. ‘You see, the moment I saw you, the very first moment, I . . . well, I fell for you. I know it sounds corny, and I’m sorry if that embarrasses you, but there it is. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Nothing.’
She cradled the Meissen figure. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ But then she looked up at him. ‘You’ve been very honest,’ she said. ‘You really have. So I should be honest too. When I saw you, I felt I rather liked you. But . . . But we don’t even know each other’s names.’
‘I’m Matthew,’ Matthew blurted out.
‘And I’m Elspeth,’ she said. ‘Elspeth Harmony.’
Matthew reached out to take the Meissen figure from her. ‘Let’s put this down somewhere,’ he said. Then he asked: ‘What do you do, Elspeth?’
‘I’m a teacher,’ she said. ‘At the Rudolf Steiner School.’
Matthew thought of Bertie. ‘There’s a little boy called Bertie,’ he began. ‘He lives near here. In Scotland Street.’
‘One of mine!’ said Miss Harmony.
70. Domenica enters Antonia’s Flat
Domenica Macdonald was aware that something was happening downstairs. One of the great glories of 44 Scotland Street, she had always felt, was the fact that noise did not travel – with the exception of Bertie’s saxophone practice – and that, as a result, one heard little of the neighbours’ private lives. This was thanks to Edinburgh architecture, and the generosity of construction methods which prevailed during the building of the great Georgian and Victorian sweeps of Edinburgh. In Scotland Street, the walls were a good two feet thick, of which solid stone formed the greatest part.
Used to this as she was, Domenica was always astonished to see the sheer flimsiness of walls in other places, particularly in postwar British construction, with its mean proportions (oppressive, low ceilings) and its weak structures (paper-thin walls). She had noticed how different things were on the Continent, where even very modest houses in countries such as France or Germany seemed so much more solid. But that was part of a larger problem – the problem of the meanness and cheapness which had crept into British life. And there was an impermanence too, which reached its height in the building of that great and silly edifice, the Millennium Dome, a ‘muckle great tent’, as Angus Lordie had described it. ‘That could have been a cathedral or a great museum,’ said Angus, ‘but don’t expect anything as morally serious as that these days. Smoke and mirrors. Big tents.’
Edinburgh at least could be grateful that it was, to a very large extent, made of stone, and that this gave a degree of privacy to domestic life. But in a tenement, if there was noise on the common stair, that could carry. As in the cave of Dionysius in Syracuse, a whisper at the bottom of the stair might be heard with some clarity at the top. And similarly, each door that gave onto the landing might be an ear as to what was said directly outside, with the result that remarks about neighbours had to be limited to the charitable or the complimentary until one was inside one’s own flat; at that point, true opinions might be voiced – might be shouted even, if that helped – without any danger that the object of the opinion might hear.
Domenica had heard none of the discussion that preceded the dreadful discovery below that the wrong baby had been picked up at the council emergency nursery. Nor had she heard the cries of alarm that accompanied the actual discovery. But what she had heard that day was a great banging of doors and hurried footfall on the stairs as the Pollock family headed off to the nursery in search of the missing Ulysses. This had caused her to look out of the window and to see Irene, Stuart and Bertie piling into a waiting taxi and racing off in the direction of Drummond Place. Where, she wondered, was the baby?
Then, a couple of hours later, she had heard them talking on the stairs as they returned. She had cautiously opened her door and peered down from the landing to see that all was well. What she saw was Irene holding Ulysses as she waited for Stuart to open the door. Bertie was there too, and he seemed cheerful enough, so she had gone back into the flat, reassured that all was well.
What she heard next was more slamming of doors. When she looked out of the window this time, she saw the entire Pollock family, including what she thought was Ulysses, again getting into a taxi and again racing off up the road at some speed. This time, it was not much more than an hour before she heard the door at the bottom of the stair close with a bang and the sound of Irene’s voice drifting upwards.
Domenica could not help but hear, even had she not been standing close to her front door, which was held open very slightly.
‘Humiliation!’ said Irene. ‘Sheer, utter humiliation! How dare she say that we should have checked the baby first to see that it was the right one! Isn’t that her job? Isn’t she meant to make sure that she’s handing over a boy rather than a girl? It’s easy enough, for heaven’s sake!’
Stuart muttered something which Domenica did not quite catch. But she did catch Irene’s reply.
‘Nonsense! Complete nonsense! Your trouble, Stuart, is that you’re a bureaucrat and you’re too willing to forgive the crass ineptitude of your fellow bureaucrats. What if Ulysses had been given to somebody else . . . ?’
The door slammed, and the conversation was cut off. Domenica smiled. It sounded as if there had been some sort of mix-up over babies. But she was not sure how this could have occurred, and it had obviously been sorted out in the end. Her curiosity satisfied, she was about to close her door when she noticed that Antonia’s door on the other side of the landing was open. For a moment, she thought that her neighbour had perhaps been doing exactly what she was doing – listening to the conversation below, and she felt a flush of shame. It was a most ignoble thing to do,
to listen in to the conversation of others, but there were occasions when it was, quite frankly, irresistible. And if we can’t be ignoble from time to time, then we are simply failing to be human.
For a moment or two, Domenica hesitated. There were no sounds coming from Antonia’s flat, so the builders were probably not there. But if they were not there, then who, if anybody, was? Had Antonia perhaps left the door open by mistake when she went out on some errand? If that were the case, then it was Domenica’s duty, she felt, to check up that all was well and then close the door for her.
Domenica crossed the landing and pushed Antonia’s door wide open. ‘Antonia?’ she called out.
There was silence, apart from the ticking of a clock somewhere inside the flat. She went in, peering through the hall and into the kitchen beyond. There was no sign of anybody.
‘Antonia?’
Again there was only silence. Then, quite suddenly – so suddenly, in fact, that Domenica emitted a gasp – a man appeared from a door off the hall. It was Markus, the builder.
‘You gave me a fright,’ Domenica said.
Markus looked at her. He was frowning.
‘Where’s Antonia?’ she asked. There was something about his manner which worried her. It was something strange, almost threatening.
‘Where is she?’ Domenica repeated.
Markus said nothing as he moved behind Domenica and closed the front door.
71. Green Ginger Wine
Anthropologists, of course, are no strangers to danger. Although relations between them and their hosts are usually warm, developing in some cases into lifelong friendships, there are still circumstances in which the distance which the anthropologist must maintain reminds the host of the fact that the anthropologist does not, in fact, belong.
This may not matter if one is studying a group of people not known for their violent propensities, but it may matter a great deal if one is, for instance, taking an interest in organisation and command structures within the Shining Path in Peru. Or looking at gift-exchange patterns among narcotraficantes in Colombia: here, at any moment, misunderstandings may occur, with awkward consequences for the anthropologist. Indeed, awareness of this problem prompted the American Anthropological Association to publish a report entitled ‘Surviving Fieldwork’, which revealed that anthropology is one of the most dangerous professions in the world, with risks ranging from military attack (2 per cent) to suspicion of spying (13 per cent) and being bitten by animals (17 per cent).
Domenica had experienced her fair share of these dangers in the course of her career, and had discovered that physical peril had a curiously calming effect on her. While some of us may panic, or at least feel intense fear, Domenica found that danger merely focused her mind on the exigencies of the moment and on the question of how best to deal with them. Now, trapped in Antonia’s flat – or so it appeared, once Markus had closed the front door and was standing, solidly, between the door and her – Domenica quickly began to consider why it was that she should feel threatened.
The closing of the door may have been a perfectly natural thing for Markus to do; a builder working within a house would not normally leave the front door open. And, of course, the Poles would not be affected by the paranoia and distrust which have affected those countries where it is considered unwise for a man to be in a room with a woman unless the door is left open. That ghastly custom, insulting to all concerned, would not yet have reached the less politically correct shores of Poland, thank heavens, and long may they be preserved from such inanity, thought Domenica.
She found her voice. ‘Now, Markus,’ she said. ‘I know that you don’t speak English, and I, alas, do not speak Polish. But my question is a simple one: Antonia?’ As she pronounced her neighbour’s name, Domenica made a gesture which, she thought, would unambiguously convey the sense of what she was trying to say – a sort of tentative pointing gesture, ending in a whirl of a hand to signify its interrogative nature.
Markus looked at her in puzzlement. ‘Brick?’
Domenica sighed. ‘Brick! Brick! I’m sorry, we’ve really said everything there is to be said about bricks. Antonia? Antonia?’
Markus shook his head sorrowfully and muttered something under his breath. For a moment, Domenica felt real alarm – not for herself, now, but for Antonia. Had something happened? She took a few steps forward so that she was standing right before him. She repeated her sign. Surely he could understand that, at least.
As she gestured, Domenica found herself remembering one of the most curious books in her library, Jean and Thomas Sebeok’s Monastic Sign Language. She had come across this book years ago in Atticus Books in Toronto and had been astonished that anybody should have made a detailed study of such a subject. But there it was, complete with page after page of photographs of Cistercian monks, bound by their rule of silence, making expressive signs to one another to convey sometimes quite complex messages. She had toyed with buying it, but had been put off by its price of one hundred and forty Canadian dollars. This had been a bad decision: we always regret impulsive purchases not made, and no sooner had she returned to Scotland than she thought how much pleasure she would have obtained from the book.
Years later, finding herself again in Toronto for an anthropological conference, Domenica had returned to Atticus Books and innocently asked: ‘Do you by any chance have a book on monastic sign language?’
The proprietor of the bookshop concealed his delight. ‘As it happens,’ he said . . .
But now, standing before Markus, she found herself desperately trying to recall the Cistercian sign for where is, a simple enough phrase and presumably a commonly used sign – but not one she could remember. Instead, she remembered the sign for cat, which involved the twisting of an imaginary moustache on both sides of the upper lip with the tips of the thumbs and forefingers.
That was no good, of course, but the need now passed, as Markus appeared to have grasped the gist of her inquiry and was smiling and nodding his head. ‘Antonia,’ he said enthusiastically, and pointed downstairs. Then he tapped his watch and held up five fingers. That, thought Domenica, signified five minutes, or possibly five hours. Among some North American Indians, it might even have meant five moons. Five minutes, she decided, was the most likely meaning.
It was not even that. A few moments after communication had been established between Domenica and Markus, the front door of the flat was pushed open and Antonia appeared, carrying a bulging shopping bag. She gave a start of surprise at seeing Domenica in the flat, and then she cast a glance in the direction of Markus. But that was all it was – a glance. It was not a lingering look of the sort that Domenica had seen her give him before: this was a dismissive glance.
‘I wish he would get on with his work rather than standing about,’ she muttered to Domenica. ‘Polish builders are meant to be hardworking.’
This remark, taken together with the glance, was enough to inform Domenica immediately that the affair between Antonia and Markus was over. She was not surprised, of course, as she had wondered how long a relationship which must, by linguistic necessity, have been uncommunicative, could last. The answer was now apparent: a week or so.
She looked at Antonia, who had placed the shopping bag on the floor and was beginning to unbutton her coat.
‘You clearly need a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Or something stronger. How about . . . a glass of Crabbie’s Green Ginger Wine? Come to my flat.’
Crabbie’s Green Ginger Wine, those wonderful evocative words, balm to the troubled Edinburgh soul, metaphorical oil upon metaphorically troubled waters! And redolent of everything quintessentially Edinburgh: slightly sharp, slightly disapproving, slightly superior.
‘Tea, please,’ said Antonia.
72. The Blue Spode Teacup
Domenica ushered Antonia into her flat and closed the door behind her. ‘You’ll forgive me if I have a glass of Crabbie’s,’ she said. ‘I shall make tea for you. Earl Grey?’
‘Oh, anything will do,’
said Antonia. She looked up at her neighbour. ‘This is very kind of you.’
‘Not at all,’ said Domenica. ‘I sense that . . . Well, I might as well be frank. Things are fraught next door, I take it?’
Antonia looked down at her shoes. ‘A bit.’ There was a short silence, and then she added: ‘Very fraught, actually.’
‘Markus?’
Antonia sighed. ‘Yes. I must confess that I have been having a little fling with him.’
‘I could tell that,’ said Domenica, adding, hastily, ‘not that it’s any business of mine. But one notices.’
‘I don’t care if anybody knows,’ said Antonia. ‘But it’s over now, and it’s not very easy having one’s ex working in the house. You’ll understand that, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Domenica. ‘I had a boyfriend once in the field, years ago. He was a young man from Princeton, a heart-breaker – unintentionally, of course. When it didn’t work out, we found that we still had three months of one another’s company in the field. We were in New Guinea and we could hardly get away from one another. Sharing a tiny hut which the local tribe had thoughtfully built for visiting anthropologists. It was very trying for both of us, I think.’
Antonia nodded. ‘It must have been. It’s not quite that bad for me, but I still feel a bit raw over the whole thing.’
Domenica poured the boiling water into the teapot. ‘I take it that it was a comprehension problem. After all, he seems to have only one word of English. I suppose one can put a lot of expression into one word, but the whole thing can’t have been easy.’
‘Oh, we communicated quite well,’ said Antonia. ‘It’s amazing how much one can say without actually saying anything.’
‘Cistercian monks . . .’ began Domenica, but the look on Antonia’s face made her trail off.
‘He’s married,’ said Antonia abruptly. ‘He showed me a picture of his wife and children.’
The World According to Bertie Page 25
