The Geometry of Holding Hands

by Alexander McCall Smith

  On impulse, Jamie said, “Do you think the army might try to be a little bit more in touch with its feminine side?”

  Grace stared at him reproachfully. “Lots of women are in the army these days,” she said. “And why not?”

  Jamie nodded. “And a good thing too. I was thinking about the men. All that shouting and bellowing and walking about in that rather stiff way. Why? Why not walk normally?”

  “It’s called marching,” said Grace. “That’s what soldiers do.”

  Grace went upstairs and relieved Isabel, who was trying to settle an excited Charlie in his room. Half an hour later she came downstairs, to find Jamie pouring a glass of New Zealand white wine for Isabel. They had both made an effort with their outfits, and Grace complimented them. She liked Jamie’s blazer, she said. “A double-breasted jacket always suits a man. Unless he’s too stout. Which you’re not, of course.”

  Jamie thanked her and offered to pour her a glass of wine. Grace declined. “I’ve brought a book,” she said. “And if I have a glass of wine I’ll doze off in minutes. It always happens.”

  Jamie glanced at the book that Grace had brought in a see-through plastic bag. He could just make out the title: Beyond the Beyond. “Good?” he asked.

  “Better than that library book,” she answered, casting her eyes upstairs.

  “Did he not enjoy it?” asked Isabel.

  “No,” said Grace. “We got to the second page and he said, ‘Why does that boy want to wear a dress? He’s not a girl.’ ”

  Isabel smiled. “And so?”

  “He asked for something different,” said Grace. “He wanted that book about the dog who saves a train.”

  Jamie burst out laughing. “He might not be ready for the message just yet.”

  “Any boy would prefer to read about dogs who save trains,” said Grace. “It’s what boys like.”

  “Oh well,” said Jamie. He pointed to Grace’s bag. “Beyond the Beyond? Beyond as in…the other side?”

  They were used to Grace’s references to the other side. She was a regular attender at a spiritualist centre in the West End of Edinburgh and often told them about the seances and talks that took place there.

  She nodded in answer to Jamie’s question. “It’s an interesting book,” she said. “The author came to give a talk last week. He sold copies afterwards. That one’s signed.”

  “What’s it about?” asked Jamie.

  “I’m not very far into it,” Grace replied. “It’s really his life story, I suppose. About how he became a medium and about some of the people he helped.” She paused. “He knew when he was only seven or eight, you know. He lived up on one of the Hebrides—Mull, in fact. His father was the skipper of a fishing boat. He said that he predicted when his father would get a good catch and when the fish would be somewhere else altogether. And the weather. He had a premonition of a storm and warned his father not to go out.”

  “Perhaps he saw the weather report,” Isabel suggested. “Meteorologists can be quite fey.” She used the Scots word for one with clairvoyant powers.

  Grace frowned. “I know you don’t believe—”

  “Isabel’s only joking,” Jamie said quickly. And to Isabel he said, “Remember what Hamlet said: ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy…’ ”

  “Yes,” said Grace, slightly disapprovingly. “People should remember that.” She looked at her watch. “Hadn’t you better go? You said you were booked for eight.”

  “Yes, we are,” said Jamie. “I’ll call a cab.”

  The cab arrived within a few minutes and they set off. It was mid-summer, and at Edinburgh’s latitude there would be light until at least eleven. Even now, the slanting sun was still shining on the tops of the trees and the slate roofs of the crescent that led to Bruntsfield. They passed a group of teenagers on their way to the tennis courts at the bottom of the road. They passed a woman cajoling a reluctant West Highland terrier on its evening walk. They saw a man washing a car with a bucket of soapy water, his expression one of distaste at the task he was being obliged to perform.

  “That’s a very dirty car, that one,” said Jamie. “I walked past it the other day. It was covered in dust and bird droppings.”

  “I need to wash my car,” said Isabel. “I haven’t washed it for…oh goodness, a year…or two.”

  Jamie suddenly leaned over and kissed her. “You have better things to do,” he whispered. “I’ll wash your car. I promise you.”

  * * *

  —

  THE CASA TRIMALCHIO was in St. Mary Street, in the Old Town, a few doors down from the World’s End pub. It was an area of cobbled streets and old tenements, not far from the Palace of Holyroodhouse and the Scottish Parliament. Because of its position, it was popular with politicians, and the civil servants who advised them. It was also used by journalists covering the Parliament or working in the BBC studios not far away. It was not a place for a quiet dinner for those who didn’t want to be seen, although the proprietor, Lucca Bompiani, had a way of keeping political opponents from being seated in close proximity to one another. He also had a rule, enforced firmly but tactfully, to the effect that those who wished to discuss politics should do so in a way that could not be heard at any neighbouring table.

  The restaurant was not busy when Isabel and Jamie arrived, and they were shown to their table straightaway. They looked at the menu, an elaborate, hand-written list of Italian specialities. Jamie looked at the wine list, muttering about the prices.

  “Don’t,” said Isabel. “You told me not to worry. You yourself said that. You told me not to worry about money.”

  Jamie pointed to one of the wines on the list. Leaning forward, he explained his objection in a low voice. “I know for a fact what that costs in the supermarket. They have that exact wine—same vintage, the lot—in Morningside. It’s eleven pounds there. Eleven. And here? Fifty-six.”

  “It’s always more expensive in a restaurant,” said Isabel. “That’s a fact of life. They have to make a profit.”

  “But that’s a mark-up of over four hundred per cent,” said Jamie. “More, perhaps, given that they won’t have paid eleven pounds for it. More like seven, or even six.”

  “They have to pay their waiters,” said Isabel. “But let’s not quibble, Jamie.”

  Jamie lowered the wine list. “Sorry, you’re right. Let’s look at the menu itself.”

  The waiter appeared, notebook in hand, ready to take their order. He reeled off a list of specials that were not on the printed menu. Isabel asked about the monkfish and Jamie enquired about the Tuscan bean stew.

  “It’s very simple,” the waiter replied. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Beans are, well, beans. Of course, if that’s what you like…”

  They settled on a plate of antipasti each, to be followed by monkfish. Wine was ordered too, and a bottle of mineral water. Isabel looked across the table at Jamie. She reached out to take his hand.

  “This is so nice,” she said. “If this is what you like.”

  He glanced at the retreating figure of the waiter. “Very odd,” he said. “Waiters aren’t meant to warn you off things.”

  “He said a very Edinburgh thing,” said Isabel. “Remember the wonderful line from Jean Brodie? For those who like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like. Bone-deep disapproval disguised as tolerance.”

  “But Edinburgh’s only slightly disapproving,” said Jamie. “And anyway, it’s loosened up.”

  A new group of diners entered the restaurant—two men and two women. They were somewhere in their early forties and smartly dressed. The men both wore suits, although one was sporting an open-necked shirt; the other man had a striped tie. One of the women was in a black trouser suit, while the other had a green Indian print dress with what looked like a silk shawl. The woman in the
trouser suit had a double string of pearls around her neck. One of the men had large horn-rimmed spectacles of the sort that might be described as a fashion statement.

  As the new arrivals were shown to their table by Lucca himself, Jamie whispered to Isabel, “See him? The one in the specs? See him?”

  Isabel glanced across the restaurant. The man had looked vaguely familiar to her, but she had not been able to place him. “That’s…” She shook her head. “Who is he?”

  “He’s called Hugh Maclean,” said Jamie. “You see him on television. He has a column in the paper, and he runs that think tank—you know, the one that comes up with those predictions. The one that tells everybody else that they’re doing everything wrong.”

  “Which they often are,” said Isabel. “We ignore think tanks at our peril.”

  Jamie smiled. “It’s an odd expression, isn’t it? What do you imagine when somebody says think tank? Do you see them all sitting about in a tank of some sort—perhaps half submerged—thinking about things?”

  Isabel was enjoying this. “Not quite, but that’s a nice image. I think more of…well, I suppose I think of an ivory tower. A tall, ivory-coloured building with a room at the top, which is the think tank.”

  Jamie leaned forward. “And then every so often somebody emerges—some rather wild-looking type with untidy hair and professorial glasses—and announces what the think tank has thought. And it’s duly noted down, and then they move on to thinking about the next thing they have to think about.” He paused, and then, looking across the restaurant again, he added, “And that woman. The one with the pearls…”

  Isabel followed his gaze. “The pearls are on the wrong woman. The one in the dress should be wearing them.”

  “Possibly,” said Jamie. “But that’s not what I was going to say. I recognise her.”

  Isabel asked him who she was.

  “She’s a member of the Scottish Parliament. She’s in the Lib Dems, I think. She had a big run-in with the Catholic Church over that guardianship business. She and the Catholic archbishop had a spectacular bust-up on television. A real stushie.” Jamie used the Scots word to describe a brawl; like many Scots words, it was highly suggestive. A stramash in Scots was a chaotic argument or mix-up; a stushie was something that, although possibly verbal, could also involve an exchange of blows.

  Isabel recalled the debate. “I think I remember her now. She doesn’t mince her words.”

  “No,” said Jamie. “She sautés them and they come out pretty hot.”

  An antipasti trolley arrived at their table, and they busied themselves with making their selections. The waiter who had warned against the bean stew now expressed reservations about the asparagus. “It’s not in its first flush of youth,” he said. “The artichokes are nice, though. And this salami here, this one, is seriously good. I’d eat it myself.”

  They made their choices, and the waiter wheeled the trolley away.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” said Isabel. “Do you think he likes his job?”

  “Probably not,” said Jamie.

  The waiter was now talking to the political table. And at this point the door opened, and another party of diners arrived. This was a smaller group of just two men—one a man in his mid-fifties, slightly corpulent and with that sleek, well-groomed look of the financier; the other an earnest-looking younger man in a sharply tailored chalk-stripe suit.

  Jamie’s interest was immediately aroused. He reached across the table and tapped Isabel’s wrist.

  “Central casting’s being kind to us,” he whispered. “Everybody’s here, it seems.”

  Isabel followed his gaze across the room. “I’m hopelessly out of touch,” she said. “I don’t know who anybody is.”

  “Don’t stare,” said Jamie.

  “I’m not,” she protested. “You’re the one who’s staring.”

  Jamie put a finger to his lips. The two newcomers were waiting to be seated and were looking about the restaurant.

  “They can’t hear us,” said Isabel. “There’s too much noise from Hugh Maclean’s table.”

  Jamie spoke above a whisper, but still in subdued tones. “That’s Mark Throsby, the asset-stripper.”

  Isabel shot another glance across the restaurant. “The man who—”

  “Yes,” interjected Jamie. “The man who bought Macdonald Shipbuilding. And then threw it to the wolves—although he, actually, was the main wolf, as it turned out.”

  “Remind me,” said Isabel. “I saw it in the papers, but I didn’t really follow it.”

  Jamie took a bite of artichoke. “He bought Macdonald. He promised the workforce that everything would be all right. He accepted a big government grant to keep the yard going. Then he split the company up and sold its assets, including its own shipyard, which he sold to a property development company—owned by himself—and turned into expensive flats with a view of the Clyde.” He paused, glancing in Throsby’s direction. “Something like four hundred men lost their jobs.”

  Isabel looked down at her plate. That was the problem, she thought; that was why she felt uncomfortable about that fund of hers, managed for her by investment advisers who swore blind they would invest only in ethical companies. But how did one know who was ethical and who was not? The whole system seemed to be infected, top to bottom, with the suppurating corruption of greed.

  Lucca now detached himself from Hugh Maclean and made his way over to Throsby and his companion. He shook hands with them and then invited them to follow him to the table next to the Maclean table.

  Jamie watched. “He’s putting them right next to his sworn enemies,” he said under his breath. “Hugh Maclean spent a lot of time on television denouncing Throsby and all his works.”

  They watched as the two newcomers sat down. They did not appear to have noticed their nearby company, but Hugh Maclean had. He stared intensely at them, and then turned to his fellow diners and said something to them. They turned and looked in the direction of Throsby’s table. One of them, the woman in the Indian print dress, threw up her hands in a gesture of undisguised horror.

  What happened next took place quickly. As if conducted by an unseen hand, all of Hugh Maclean’s party rose to their feet, pushing their chairs back noisily. Then, their table napkins discarded on the table and the floor, they pointedly walked out. Hugh Maclean shouted something to Lucca, who seemed to be paralysed. The waiter, looking confused, opened the door for them to depart.

  There were four other tables occupied at the time. All of those seated at these tables saw what happened, and were reduced to silence. Lucca dithered for a few moments, and then strode over to Throsby and whispered something in his ear, patting him on the shoulder as he did so. Throsby nodded, and then, turning to his dining companion, shrugged.

  Lucca clapped his hands to signal to the waiters to attend to the diners. Isabel and Jamie’s waiter came to their table and grinned at them. “Our very first walk-out,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Not that I blame them.”

  “He’s not a popular man,” Jamie said.

  The waiter cast a glance in the direction of the two shunned diners. “That,” he said, “is probably his only friend.” He smiled wickedly. “You know all those stories about waiters spitting in the soup behind the scenes? You’ve heard those? Well, everything they say is true. We do, but only in the case of those who really deserve it.”

  Jamie smiled.

  “I can understand the temptation,” Isabel muttered. “But—”

  The waiter did not give her the time to finish her qualification. “Yes,” he said, “it’s very tempting, I can tell you. I won’t do it this time because…well, they haven’t ordered soup. Wise, perhaps. They might know the danger—people like that could know, I think. You go and mess up people’s lives and you think: Are they going to spit in my soup now? And the answer you might just come up w
ith is yes.”

  He threw a final glance over towards Throsby, and then professionalism reasserted itself. Changing the subject, he pointed to their plates. “Everything okay? Wise move not to have the asparagus, by the way.”

  Jamie nodded, and the waiter returned to the kitchen. Isabel sat back in her chair. She was thinking.

  “Are you all right?” asked Jamie.

  Isabel gave a cursory nod. “Yes, I’m fine. But I can’t say I approve of what we’ve just seen.”

  “It was hardly surprising,” said Jamie. “And frankly, that man deserves everything he gets.”

  Isabel ignored this. “Do you know, I’m doing a special issue of the Review on the ethics of food. I’ve got Julian to do a major piece for me.” Julian was Julian Bagnini, a friend of Isabel’s, who had written on the subject of food and its ethics.

  “And we have an article on commensality lined up,” Isabel continued. “It’s about the moral bond between those who eat together. But it also deals with the issue of when you can refuse to eat with somebody.”

  “Whenever you want, surely,” said Jamie. “I don’t have to have breakfast with somebody I don’t like.”

  “In the privacy of your own home,” said Isabel. “You can choose your company there. But you can’t choose it in public places—like restaurants.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because everyone is entitled to eat in public eating places.”

  Jamie was looking over to the Throsby table.

  “Even people like that?”

  Isabel inclined her head. “Even people like that.”

  Jamie thought about this. Isabel was right, he felt: you had no right to require your fellow diners to be acceptable to you. And yet Isabel’s position was susceptible to counter-arguments. He immediately thought of an extreme case: What if you found yourself in a restaurant full of members of the Ku Klux Klan enjoying an annual dinner? Would you feel obliged to stay and finish your meal? He did not think he would, and nor, he imagined, would Isabel.