She lowered the paper, unsure whether she wanted to read about the government minister’s embarrassment. He was probably not as inept as his enemies painted him. He would be doing his best, no doubt, and had made miscalculations, or not read something thoroughly enough, or simply forgotten what it was he was meant to do. Anybody could be in his position—even the braying pack of his opponents.
As she put the paper aside and took a first sip of her latte, she saw a man enter the deli and walk towards her table. She looked up, trying to place the vaguely familiar face. He was a man in his late sixties, she thought; a man of distinguished bearing, well dressed in a tweed jacket and a neatly knotted tie. The tie signified an institutional association—a medical school, or a medical college, perhaps—as woven into it there were slanted bands of tiny staffs of Asclepius. Men liked those tribal badges, she thought; women did not. Her eyes returned to his face, which was a Scottish face, she concluded, as the weather had made its mark. There were indoor faces and there were outdoor faces. This was the latter, she decided—the face of a rural doctor who liked hill-walking, some general practitioner from one of those small towns in the Borders, where there were long memories and obscure traditions. She tried again to remember where she had seen him. At a lecture at the museum or the Scottish National Gallery? At somebody’s dinner party?
“Isabel Dalhousie?”
She nodded and smiled.
“Do you mind?” He gestured to the vacant chair on the other side of Isabel’s table.
“Not at all,” she said. “I’ll have to get back to work in a few minutes, though—I’m staff, you see.”
He lowered himself onto the chair. “I know that,” he said. “But I also know that you’re really a philosopher, not a…a delicatessen person.”
“I’m a bit of both,” said Isabel. She liked this man’s voice—and his appearance too. He had one of those faces that if pressed to describe in one word one would say was distinguished. And his voice was what Grace would describe as educated—an embarrassingly old-fashioned way of describing a manner of speaking in which articulation was stressed and verbs, nouns and adjectives were used grammatically. But nobody used the term educated voice these days because it was redolent of elitism. Talk the way you want to, was today’s message, and it doesn’t matter if nobody can understand half of what you say, as long as the sounds you make are authentic.
She waited for him to pick up the social cues and introduce himself, which he did. “I’m Iain Melrose. We haven’t actually met.”
Melrose…She had been right about the Borders. The Border town of Melrose, about an hour outside Edinburgh, was exactly the sort of place for somebody like this, especially if he happened to be called Melrose. And that was not at all unusual: there were plenty of people whose ancestors had suffered from a lack of imagination in choosing their surnames and had made a geographical choice. She had recently received a paper for publication in the Review from a Professor Michel Paris, of the University of Paris, written with his co-author, Professor Valerie Lyon—of the University of Lyon. And now that she came to think of it, Jamie had recently spoken of a flautist in one of his ensembles, a Jenny Dublin, from Dublin.
“I thought we had,” she said. “I thought I recognised you. We’ve seen one another, haven’t we?”
He smiled, and she saw that he had a small gold crown on one of his teeth. That was unusual, at least in Scotland. Having a gold tooth was a status symbol in some places; there were plenty of modern alternatives that could mimic a natural tooth—a gold tooth was jewellery. In Iain Melrose, she thought, this is wrong.
“We have indeed seen one another,” he said. “Last night. I was having dinner…”
“Trimalchio’s feast?”
He laughed at the reference. “The Satyricon…Did you see Fellini’s take on that?”
“I did. A long time ago.”
He looked wistful. “When films could still be works of art. Before pyrotechnics took over. Before the violence and the swearing.”
She knew that he was right to express such regrets: good films, quiet and perceptive films, still existed but were largely drowned out by blockbusters made for an undiscriminating audience; and yet such observations, valid though they were, now sounded like a nostalgic yearning for something that had long since disappeared. Isabel could watch Casablanca or Louis Malle time and time again, or Pasolini, or Fellini, but Eddie, or Cat for that matter, would watch none of these. Eddie had once wandered unwittingly into a showing of classic Iranian films at the Filmhouse, an art cinema on Lothian Road, and, being unwilling to disturb an entire row of fellow cinema-goers, had endured three hours of anguish. She had laughed at his descriptions, but reminded herself that she had not had to sit through a lengthy period of Iranian cinema and might have felt a bit of what he felt.
She looked at Iain Melrose and felt a momentary unease. Was there something in this encounter that she was misreading? He had seen her at dinner and had somehow worked out who she was, and had now turned up at the deli. It suddenly crossed her mind that he was trying to pick her up. But that, she quickly decided, was highly unlikely. Men who flirted with women they did not know did not wear ties like that and were not called Iain Melrose and—
“Please forgive the intrusion,” he said. “Somebody in the restaurant told me who you were after you and your husband had left. I asked, you see, because I witnessed what happened.”
Isabel sighed. “That display? That virtue-signalling performance by that table?”
Iain nodded. “Yes. It was appalling. I must confess I have no time for that particular man—not that I know him personally, but I followed that row over in Glasgow. One could hardly miss it.”
“I didn’t exactly approve either.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. But I suppose that sort of thing happens all the time. Irresponsible capitalism. Money doesn’t stay in a hole, of course, but surely we can do better than that.”
Isabel said that she thought we could. She saw that Eddie was looking at her from behind the counter. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m going to have to get back to work shortly. My young colleague over there is giving me looks.”
Iain took the hint. “I should come to the point. I witnessed the walk-out, but then I also saw what you did. I heard you too. I heard what you said to that man.” He paused, and with a finger traced a pattern on the table-top—an invisible doodle. “I was tremendously impressed.”
Isabel was not sure what to say. Compliments made her feel uncomfortable, as she felt that she did not really deserve them.
“I don’t want to embarrass you,” Iain continued. “But what you did was exactly the right thing to do. And I found myself thinking: That’s a brave person.”
Isabel laughed. “It wasn’t very much. I just felt a bit sorry for the man.”
His expression was serious. “But it was the right thing, Isabel…if I may. It really was. Nobody cares about things these days. Nobody bothers to do the right thing. You did. You did it for all to see. You did the right thing.”
“Well, you shouldn’t shame another person like that. Not in those circumstances.”
“I completely agree. And that was why I wanted to speak to you. I phoned up somebody who knows a bit about you…”
Her feeling of unease returned. Nobody likes to hear that somebody is calling others to make enquiries.
He might have sensed her unease. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said hurriedly. “I’m not nosy, but I like to know who’s who, and we do, in fact, have several mutual friends. The Gordons, for example. And Guy Peploe at the Scottish Gallery. I believe you know Guy.”
She felt reassured. A person with a hidden agenda does not invoke shared acquaintanceship.
“I found out that you were often to be found working here,” he continued, “and I came along on spec.”
“May I ask why?”
He leaned forward to make his request. “Because I need to appoint an executor.”
Isabel could not conceal her surprise. “Of your will? That sort of executor?”
He grinned—rather sheepishly, she thought. “Yes. Of my will.”
Isabel was tempted to laugh. This was ridiculous: a perfect stranger—even if they did have friends in common—was asking her to agree to an office of trust.
“I’m flattered,” she said. “But really, we don’t know one another, and executors are usually people you know quite well. Or lawyers. They’re not…well, people like me.”
He brushed aside her objections. “I need somebody I can be sure is utterly upright. And who fits into that category these days?”
Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Lots of people, I’d have thought.”
He looked at her askance. “Do you really think that? I think it’s hard these days to find people who care about morality.”
She replied that one had to be careful not to assume too readily that we lived in amoral times. Every generation, Isabel said, harboured that illusion.
He looked thoughtful. “Perhaps,” he said. There was hesitation in his voice: he pointed out that there were good times and there were bad times—and the judgements as to where the boundaries were could be objectively justified. “The period between 1933 and 1945 was not a good time in Germany,” he said. “And that’s not a subjective judgement. Or Pol Pot’s time in Cambodia. Or the Rwandan genocide. Or Japan after the invasion of Manchuria.” He looked at her challengingly. “If you were Japanese in the 1930s, you might be forgiven for saying that you lived in amoral times.”
Isabel was not so sure. “Such a person might, of course, argue to the contrary. Ideas of morality and fanatical loyalty to the Emperor were all tied up with one another.”
“But the Japanese still behaved immorally.”
“I’m not sure one can condemn a whole people. The Japanese government was not the same thing as the Japanese people.”
“But when a people tolerates crimes committed in its name?”
“Yes—the ones who allowed it, who did nothing, may have something to answer for. But it’s not always easy for them.” She paused. “If I had lived in Germany in 1940, I’m not sure that I would have the courage to resist tyranny. You could end up in a concentration camp.”
He took time to consider this, and then he continued, “So what do you think of our own times?”
Isabel shrugged. “We’re feeling our way.”
Iain looked thoughtful. “And the state of the virtues?” he said. “Have you read Gertrude Himmelfarb, by any chance?”
“The American historian?”
“Yes. Her. She wrote about the loss of the virtues. How our moral focus has shifted.”
Isabel knew the book. Eddie caught her eye once more. “I really have to get back to work,” she said.
“I only read her recently,” Iain said. “But what she said chimed with me. She feels we are focusing on some pretty small things in our moral debate and have lost sight of the virtues. We’re obsessed with avoiding offence to others, but we spend absolutely no time on recommending the virtues.” He paused. “I think she’s right, you know.”
It was a big subject, and Isabel once again could not help but glance at her watch.
He prepared to rise to his feet. “Yes, I’m imposing on you. I shouldn’t keep you. But if you’re wondering why I’ve approached you, it’s because of what I saw you do. And then, everything people have told me about you backs up my judgement. I’ve heard that you really do weigh things up morally. A number of people have said that of you.”
“I take an interest in moral questions,” said Isabel. “That’s what I do as a philosopher. But that doesn’t make me some sort of paragon—an observer, perhaps, but not a paragon.”
“Good enough for me,” said Iain. “And may I just say this: Please don’t reject my request out of hand.”
There was a note in his voice that told Isabel this was a serious cry for help. And try as she might to play down any virtue on her part, she could never turn down a serious moral request emanating from within the circle of her moral concern. And this man, stranger though he might be, was within that circle: he was seated on the chair in front of her and that was, by any standards, within the sphere of her moral concern.
“All right,” she said, rising from the table. “I have to get back to work, but you may come and see me about this, if you’d like to.”
He looked relieved. “I shall. And it’s good of you to offer.”
They made arrangements. He would come to the house the following afternoon at three. She had a dental appointment at one-thirty, but she should be back in time. “I’ll have to watch the time a bit,” she said. “I have rather a lot of work on my plate at the moment. But half an hour or so should be fine.”
“That,” he said, “will be more than enough for something that demands only a binary response—yes or no.”
Iain left, and Isabel returned to the counter. Eddie nodded towards the street. “What did he want?” he asked.
“He wants me to be the executor of his will,” said Isabel. “He asked me out of the blue.”
“You don’t know him?”
Isabel shook her head. “No. We’d never met.”
“Executor?” asked Eddie. “Is that the same as executioner?”
Isabel laughed. “No, not quite.”
“It would be odd,” said Eddie, “to ask somebody in your will to chop off another person’s head.”
“Odd,” agreed Isabel. “And illegal.”
“Nobody deserves to have their head chopped off,” said Eddie.
Isabel was quick to agree. “I detest capital punishment,” she said.
“So do I,” said Eddie. “It’s so unkind.”
“Yes. It offends the principle of mercy.” She reached for a pair of disposable gloves: she had to slice ham and then she would need to marinate more artichoke hearts, as they had almost run out.
“You know where Cat’s gone?” Eddie remarked.
“Into town,” said Isabel. “That’s all she said to me.”
“She told me it was George Street,” said Eddie. “And I bet I know why she wanted to go down there.”
Isabel waited for him to expand.
“There’s Hamilton and Inches on George Street,” Eddie said. “You know that grand jewellery place? That’s where she went.”
Isabel asked him why he thought that.
“Because she was going to be meeting Leo on George Street,” Eddie said. “I heard her talking to him on the phone. She said, ‘I’ll meet you there.’ Then she said, ‘I hope it’ll be ready.’ ”
“What would be ready?”
Eddie smirked. “The engagement ring.”
Isabel drew in her breath. “How do you know that?”
“Because I can tell,” said Eddie. “I can tell when chemistry’s going really well. Cat’s mad about Leo—I can tell you that, Isabel.”
Isabel concentrated on slicing the Serrano ham. She picked up a fragment and popped it into her mouth. She knew that this was a bad idea, as the strong, salty taste would simply make her want more. That was the problem with anything salty: you craved more, and it took willpower to resist.
“May I have a piece?” asked Eddie.
Isabel cut a slice and skewered it before passing it to him.
Eddie took the offering and nibbled at it before putting the rest into his mouth. “I could live on ham,” he said. “Just ham. Breakfast, lunch, dinner.”
“You’d get scurvy,” said Isabel. “That was why sailors had to suck on lemons. If they stuck to the salt beef available, then they’d be vitamin C–deficient.”
Eddie nodded. “We’re all deficient in vitamin D in Scotland. Did you know that
, Isabel? We’re so far north that we don’t get enough sunlight.”
Isabel said she took a supplement in the winter months.
A woman came into the delicatessen, followed by two girls in their late teens. The teenagers were showing one another something on their phones and sniggering. One of them looked at Eddie and whispered something to her friend, whose sotto voce reply set them off in giggles. Isabel sighed. If there was one stage of life through which one might be relieved to have passed, then the teenage years must be that stage.
Eddie blushed. “Stupid,” he muttered.
Isabel reached out and touched his arm gently, in a gesture of solidarity. “Ignore them,” she said under her breath.
“The tall one’s called Rosie Mclaurin,” said Eddie. “She lives near us in Craigmillar. She’s already been pregnant. She has a job selling popcorn at the cinema.”
“Oh, I see,” Isabel said.
“She got pregnant in the cinema,” Eddie continued. “It was in a Star Wars film.”
The woman was now at the counter. She cast a disapproving glance at the girls, who moved off to examine something on the shelves. Isabel approached the woman. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
The woman consulted a scrap of paper on which she had pencilled a list. She wanted smoked almonds, ninety per cent cocoa chocolate, and an Orcadian cheese that she had previously bought there and that she wanted to try again. “You had very little of it,” she said. “But it went down very well with my husband. He’s from the Orkneys, you see.”
Isabel knew the cheese. Once again, they had very little, but she could give the woman what they had. “We have hardly any of this cheese,” she said, “because the woman who makes it has only one cow.”
This brought laughter.
The Geometry of Holding Hands Page 5
