Alexander Mccall Smith - Isabel Dalhousie 06

by The Lost Art of Gratitude

  “So if I composed something that sounded like Mozart, would it count for as much as the real thing?”

  Isabel smiled. “It would to me,” she said.

  He averted his gaze in momentary embarrassment, but soon turned round again and smiled at her. “Thanks,” he said.

  Jamie returned to the stove and Isabel crossed over to the kitchen window. She stared out into the garden. A clump of valerian stood along the wall, a curious, light purple plant, a faithful returnee whom she had never had to encourage. It brought sleep, she knew, like the poppy. Baldrian, she thought; Baldrian in German. A German visitor, a professor of philosophy from Frankfurt, had seen it in her garden and called it Baldrian. She had asked why, and he had replied that it was named after a Norse god called Baldur—“so good and so true that the light shone forth from him.” There were people like that, not just gods—but only a tiny handful. How many in Scotland? Ten? Twenty?

  Her thoughts returned to the picture and to Guy’s call. Things were not what they seemed to be; sometimes that mattered, while other times it mattered not at all. It was not important that the picture of Bonnie Prince Charlie was not what she had hoped it would be; the prince himself was probably not what so many people had hoped he would be. He was a military failure, he was proud and seemingly rather vain—as the later Stuarts tended to be. Minty was palpably not what she claimed to be; nor was George Finesk; nor Jock Dundas. She should not have taken any of these people at face value; she had been naive. But this conclusion, she realised, pointed unambiguously in the direction of cynicism, and she would not be a cynic. It was better to be naive—much better.

  The salmon steaks cooked, Jamie served the potatoes and put the salad bowl on the table. “Very delicious,” remarked Isabel. She was looking away as she spoke and Jamie could tell that her mind was elsewhere. He assumed that all philosophers were like that—not only his philosopher.

  “I think we should invite Cat and Bruno back for dinner,” she said. “How about next week?” She did not want to do this, but she knew that she had to make an effort. Ill feeling, in whatever quarter it existed, was like a slow and insidious poison, a weedkiller that strangled the life about it. She would make an effort with Bruno, no matter how hard it might be.

  He shook his head. “It might be too late,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He delivered the news in even tones. “Because I don’t think they’re still together.”

  Isabel had half expected this. Cat was incorrigible; she was ashamed of her, but she was also pleased. How quickly, she thought, have my good intentions been replaced by delight in the end of Cat’s romance. She was human, made up of a will to do good, but also with human failings. It was the end of Bruno, but she resisted any hint of triumphalism, or evident relief, restricting herself to asking Jamie how he had formed this impression.

  “Eddie said something,” Jamie replied.

  Isabel felt her pleasure fading rapidly. Eddie was not always to be relied upon.

  “Eddie went to a show on the Meadows,” Jamie went on. “It was some sort of sample of what was coming up at the Fringe—the usual thing, actors, jugglers, musicians. And Bruno was doing a tightrope walk.”

  Isabel could see it. There would be colour and music and the very faint hint of marijuana smoke mingled with cheap perfume.

  Jamie continued with his explanation. “Bruno’s wire was not very high—about twelve feet or so, Eddie said. But he was doing all sorts of tricks on it—he rode a unicycle across and skipped—you know what these characters do.”

  Isabel imagined Bruno padding across the wire in his elevator shoes. No, he would take those off and don a pair of soft kid slippers. Did they make elevator slippers? she wondered.

  Jamie was watching her. “Are you trying not to laugh?”

  She could reply—quite honestly—that she was not. But she sensed that laughter was there, not far away, and that this would spoil all her moral effort, her determination to like Bruno.

  “Anyway, he was walking along the wire, and Cat and Eddie were watching from down below. Cat suddenly called out to him and waved—Eddie said that he thought she was really proud of seeing him up there being admired by everybody.”

  “I suppose so,” said Isabel. But she thought: I wouldn’t be.

  “He looked round, apparently, and then fell off. She had distracted him.”

  Isabel gasped.

  “He wasn’t hurt, apparently, or not badly,” Jamie went on. “He twisted an ankle a bit, but picked himself up and went over to Cat.”

  “And?”

  “And he yelled at her,” said Jamie. “Ranted and raved in front of everybody. Then apparently he stormed off. Eddie said that Cat was in tears and nothing’s been seen of Bruno since then. No apology. Nothing.”

  Isabel sat in silence. It was a painful discovery to make, but one very much better made before she married him.

  “The end of Bruno,” she muttered.

  “Yes,” said Jamie. He pointed to the salmon steaks on their plates. “Don’t let the salmon get cold.”

  She lifted her knife and fork. Cat had made numerous mistakes, and seemed destined to make more. One day she would stop—she would have to—and take stock of the men she had chosen. Every one of them had been unsuitable, in one way or another, apart from Jamie, that is. But then Jamie had been unsuitable for Cat—principally because he was so suitable for virtually anybody else. Poor Cat: Could she not see the problem?

  They exchanged glances. “Let’s be honest,” said Jamie. “It would have been a disaster. Those elevator shoes.”

  Isabel was thinking more of his temper, but she agreed that the elevator shoes were a problem too. And the tightrope walking. And the stunts. And Oil.

  “You’re right,” she said.

  They finished their meal. Then Jamie said, “I composed something today. The words are by somebody else; the music by me. Would you like to hear it?”

  Isabel said that she would. She would make coffee and bring it through to the music room. He could go through and get ready.

  She ground the coffee, alone in the kitchen, savouring the smell of the grounds. She thought of Italy, and of the little coffee bar in Siena where she had stood at the high tables and drunk coffee with her friends. That was many years ago, and she was a different person now, and they were scattered to the four corners, as so many of us are. Were they happy? she wondered. For she wanted for them only that—happiness and wisdom, if their hearts were open to these two things, these principal things, that were the foundation of the good. I have been so fortunate, she thought, and Cat so unfortunate. She was grateful for that—for her own good fortune, that is, she was grateful. And she hoped that things would change for Cat, but she feared that they would not. We are condemned to repeat our failures, she thought, and some do so all their lives, to the very end, elderly children who have never learned.

  She took the coffee through and put the cups down on the small table beside the piano. Jamie, seated at the keyboard, had his fingers on a chord and played it gently. Isabel sat down and waited for him to begin.

  “Go on.”

  It seemed to her that he was blushing. It was unusual for him to be embarrassed to play before her; they had done that countless times before. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure how it’s going to sound.”

  She sought to reassure him. “It’ll sound just fine. It always does.” She looked at him. “You don’t have to—if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I will.”

  She asked whether he had given it a name, and he thought for a moment. “No, I don’t want to. It’s just a tune I’ve made up. Nothing important.”

  “What’s it about? Olives? Or potatoes dauphinois?”

  He smiled. “I suspect nobody’s ever written a song about potatoes dauphinois.” He played another chord, as if he were looking for something on the piano. “This is about losing things,” he said. “About thinking you’ve lost something
, and then finding you haven’t.”

  Isabel sat down next to him, on the piano stool. I would go ten thousand miles for you, she thought; as she was now sure he would for her. That was another song altogether, something about turtle doves.

  Jamie began.

  What we lose, we think we lose for ever,

  But we are wrong about this; think of love—

  Love is lost, we think it gone,

  But it returns, often when least expected,

  Forgives us our lack of attention, our failure of faith,

  Our cold indifference; forgives us all this, and more;

  Returns and says, “I was always there.”

  Love, at our shoulder, whispers: “Merely remember me,

  Don’t think I’ve gone away for ever:

  I am still here. With you. My power undimmed.

  See. I am here.”

  The music accompanying the words was simple, but it followed their mood closely, fittingly, as a well-made garment will follow the shape of the body. When he reached the final sentence, the notes became softer and died away.

  Isabel sat transfixed, as did Jamie, and nothing was said for a long time; nor did they move—they were quite still, as they were when they heard the noise outside, the yelping sound: Brother Fox.

  Isabel looked anxiously at Jamie. “I hope he’s not in distress.”

  “No,” said Jamie. “He’s singing.”