Friends, Lovers, Chocolate

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She had been candid over the telephone. “It’s an invitation with a price tag,” she had explained. “I want to ask you something. I won’t talk too much about it. But I do want to ask your advice.”

  “About . . .”

  “Yes,” she had interjected. “About that.”

  She had expected him to sigh, or even to groan, and she was taken aback by his upbeat reply. “That’s fine,” he said. “In fact, I wanted to talk to you about that too.”

  She did not conceal her astonishment. “You did?”

  “Yes. But we can talk about it over dinner. That’s my doorbell. Adolescent number three. He’s the one who tries to play the bassoon with chewing gum in his mouth. Would you believe it?”

  Isabel suddenly thought of Tomasso and of the disclosure made by Angus Spens. “I would believe absolutely anything,” she said. “Anything.”

  She walked into town, making her way across the Meadows against the stream of students coming from the direction of the university. The students walked in twos and threes, engaged in animated conversation, and she thought for a moment of how she herself had done precisely the same thing, walking with her classmates, talking about the same issues, and with the same intensity, as these young people. They thought, of course, that the only people who were interesting, who really counted, were those who were twenty, or thereabouts. She had thought that too. And now? Did people of Isabel’s age, in their early forties, think that the world was composed of people in their early forties? She believed not. And the difference was this, she mused: those who are twenty don’t know what it is like to be forty, whereas those who are forty know what it is like to be twenty. It was a bit like discussing a foreign country with somebody who has never been there. They are prepared to listen, but it’s not quite real for them. We are all interested to hear what Argentina is like, but it’s difficult to feel for it unless one has actually been there.

  The problem with being me, thought Isabel, as she walked along George IV Bridge, is that I keep thinking about the problem of being me. Her thoughts went off in all sorts of directions, exploring, probing, even fantasising. She suspected that most other people did not think like this at all. In fact, she had often wondered what other people thought about as they walked through the streets of Edinburgh. Did they think about the sort of things that she thought about—about what one should do, about what one should allow oneself to think? She was sure that they did not. And when she had asked Cat what she thought about when she walked every morning from her flat to the delicatessen, she had simply replied, “Cheese.”

  Isabel had been taken aback. “All the time? Does cheese give you enough to think about?”

  Cat had thought for a moment before answering. “Well, not just cheese, I suppose. I think about things in the delicatessen. Olives too. Salami sometimes.”

  “In other words,” said Isabel, “you think about your work.”

  Cat shrugged. “I suppose I do. But sometimes my mind just wanders. I think about my friends. I think about what I should wear. I even think about men sometimes.”

  “Who doesn’t?” said Isabel.

  Cat had raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

  “I am just like anybody else,” said Isabel. “Although sometimes, I suppose, I think about . . .”

  Cat had laughed. “I suppose if one wrote down all one’s thoughts through the day it would make very odd reading.”

  “It would,” said Isabel. “And one of the reasons why it would make such odd reading is that language would be inadequate to describe our thoughts. We don’t think in words all the time. We don’t engage in one long soliloquy. We don’t mentally say things like: ‘I must go into town today.’ We don’t use those actual words, but we may still make a decision to go into town. Mental acts and mental states don’t require language.”

  “So a person who never learnt a language could think in the same way as we do?” Cat sounded doubtful. How could one know one was going into town unless one had the word for going and the word for town?

  “Yes,” said Isabel. “A person like that would have mental pictures. He would have feelings. He would have memories of what has happened to him and knowledge of what may happen in the future. The only difference is that he would find difficulty in communicating these, or recording them for that matter.”

  And she thought of Brother Fox, who had no language, other than a howl or yelp, but who knew about danger and fear, and who presumably had very precise memories of the layout of the walled gardens which composed his territory. She had looked into the eyes of Brother Fox on a number of occasions when they had surprised one another, and she had seen recognition in those eyes, and an understanding that he should be cautious of her, but not terrified. So there were memories in that mind, and at least some mute processes of thought, unfathomable to us. What is it like to be Brother Fox? Only Brother Fox knew the answer to that, and he was not in a position to reveal it.

  ISABEL HAD RESERVED a table near the front window of the Café St. Honoré. From where they sat they could look up the short, steep section of cobbled road that led to Thistle Street. It was a small restaurant and well suited for a conversational dinner, although the proximity of tables to one another could be a problem if what one had to say was private. Isabel had heard, without consciously trying, snippets of choice gossip here such as the terms of a cohabitation agreement between a fashionable doctor and his much younger girlfriend—she was to receive a half-interest in the house and there was to be an independent bank account. And all of this came from his lawyer, who was talking to his own girlfriend, who was urging him on for further details. Isabel had looked away, but could hardly stuff her fingers into her ears. And then she had turned round and stared in reproach at the lawyer, whom she recognised, but was greeted with a cheerful wave rather than a look of contrition.

  Jamie examined the menu while Isabel discreetly looked at the other diners. Her friends, Peter and Susie Stevenson, out for dinner with another couple, nodded and smiled. At the nearest table, sitting by himself, the heir to a famous Scottish house, weighed down by history and ghosts, turned the pages of a book he had brought with him. Isabel glanced at him and felt a pang of sympathy: each in his separate loneliness, she thought. And I, the lucky one, able to come to this place with this handsome young man, and it does not matter in the slightest if they look at me and think, There is a woman out for dinner with her younger boyfriend. But then the thought occurred to her: they might not think that at all, but think, instead, Cradle snatch.

  That was a disturbing thought, and a melancholy one. She consciously put it out of her mind and looked across the menu at Jamie. He had been in a good mood when she had entered the restaurant and found him already at the table. He had risen to his feet, smiled, and leant across to plant a quick kiss on her cheek—which had excited her, and made her blush, even if it was only a social kiss.

  Jamie smiled back at her. “I’ve had some good news,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to telling you.”

  She laid down the menu. Asparagus and red snapper could wait. “A recording contract?” she teased. “Your own disc?”

  “Almost as good,” he said. “Oh yes, almost as good as that.”

  She felt a sudden sense of dread. He had found a new girlfriend, would get married, and that would be the end for her. Yes, that was what had happened. This was a last supper. She glanced at the man at his single table, with his book; that would be her lot from now on, sitting at a single table with a copy of Daniel Dennett’s Consciousness Explained open in front of her among the salt cellars and butter dishes, and the olive oil, of course.

  “I don’t think I told you,” he said, “that I was having an audition yesterday. In fact, I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you. I wouldn’t want to have to say to you that I didn’t get in. I suppose it’s a question of pride.”

  Isabel’s anxiety was replaced by relief. Auditions were no threat. Unless . . .

  “The London Symphony,” he said. />
  For a moment she said nothing. The London Symphony was in London.

  “Well!” she exclaimed with a Herculean effort of fellow feeling. “That’s very good.” Was “very good” too faint praise? She decided that it was—if she were to conceal her sudden, overwhelming despair. “That’s wonderful!”

  Jamie sat back in his seat. He was beaming with pleasure. “It was the most intimidating experience of my life. I went down just for the day, and they heard me at noon. There were about ten other players hanging around. One of them showed me his new CD, complete with his picture on the back. I almost gave up there and then.”

  “What an ordeal.” She could not manage an exclamation mark. She was too dispirited.

  “It was. Until I started to play.” He threw up his hands. “Something came upon me—I don’t know what it was. But I could hardly believe the sound of my own playing.”

  Isabel looked down at the table, at the knives and forks. I have to expect this, she said to herself; it was inevitable that I would lose him, quite inevitable. And when one lost a friend, what was the right thing to do? To mourn the loss, or to take pleasure in the memories of the friendship? Of course it was the latter—she was well aware of that—but it was difficult, in the Café St. Honoré, to behave correctly when one’s heart was a cold stone within one.

  Jamie continued with his story. “They told us that they would not reach a decision that day, but they called me anyway, just as I was getting on the train to come home. And they said that they had chosen me.”

  “No surprise that,” said Isabel. “Of course you’ve always been a very fine player, Jamie. I’ve always known that.”

  He seemed embarrassed by the praise, and waved it aside. “Anyway, we can talk about that later on. What about you?”

  “Working,” said Isabel. “At the job I’m meant to do, and . . .”

  Jamie cast his eyes up in a gesture of mock impatience. “And at what you’re not meant to be doing, too, no doubt.”

  “I know,” said Isabel. “I know what you’re going to say.” And she thought of what it would be like when Jamie had gone and they could not have these discussions. Could she get involved in what she called her issues if she had nobody to sound them out with, nobody to advise her? For that is what the loss of Jamie would mean to her.

  Jamie reached for the glass of water that the waiter had brought him. “But I’m not going to say it,” he said. “Instead I’m going to give you a piece of information which I hope will—”

  Isabel reached out and touched him on the arm. “Before you do, let me tell you something. I know you feel that I should disengage from this issue. I know you think I’ve followed totally the wrong path. I know that. But I heard today from that journalist we saw. Remember him?”

  “The one you shared a bath with?”

  “The very one. We were extremely small then, let me remind you. And the bath, as I recall, was quite large. Anyway, he found out from some medical contact the name of the donor. And it’s Macleod.”

  She lowered her voice to impart this information, although nobody was in a position to hear, except possibly the man immersed in his book. But he did not know who Isabel was, although she knew exactly who he was, and he would never have eavesdropped.

  She had expected her announcement to have a marked effect on Jamie, but his reaction was mild. In fact, he smiled and nodded his agreement. “Just so,” he said.

  Isabel leant forward. “Macleod,” she repeated. “Macleod. And that means that that woman lied to me. And it also means that Graeme, her man, could be the man whom Ian sees—if he really sees anybody, but let’s just imagine for the moment that he does.”

  Again Jamie received this with equanimity. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “Macleod.”

  Isabel felt her irritation grow. “You don’t seem to be in the least bit surprised,” she muttered, picking up the menu to examine it again. “I won’t burden you with this. I suggest that we change the subject.”

  Jamie made a calming gesture. “Sorry, but you see, I’m not surprised. And the reason is . . . Well, I know that it’s Macleod. But it’s not the Macleod you think it is.”

  Isabel stared at him in incomprehension. “You’re losing me,” she said.

  Jamie took another sip of his water. “The other day after you left me, I decided to drop into the library on George IV Bridge,” he said. “Like you, I went through the Evening News for the week that you talked about. And I found what I’m afraid you missed, Isabel. Not that I’m trying to rub it in . . .”

  “You found something else about the accident?”

  Jamie shook his head. “No. It had nothing to do with that accident. It was an entirely unrelated death—of a young man. Tucked away in the death notices, on exactly the same day.”

  Yes, thought Isabel. It had been an obvious mistake on her part. She should have checked to see whether there was any other young man who died that day in the Edinburgh area. But she had not, and yet . . . She reminded herself that Angus had confirmed that the name of the donor was Macleod. So she was right; even if there had been another young man who had died that day, Rose’s son had been the donor.

  “But we know that the donor was called Macleod,” she said defensively. “That rather suggests that my initial assumption was correct.”

  “So was the other young man,” said Jamie simply. “Two Macleods.”

  She stared at him open-mouthed. “Both . . .”

  “Remember those stories about Hebridean islands where everybody’s called Macleod?” Jamie said lightly. “Well, Edinburgh’s not quite like that, but there are lots of Macleods, you know. And it just so happens that two Macleods unfortunately died on that day. The other Macleod, Gavin, lived just outside town, in West Linton. The death notice gave the name of his mother, Jean, and a younger brother and sister. No father was mentioned. But I looked up J. Macleod in the phone book and there’s a J. Macleod in West Linton. So that’s your answer.”

  He finished speaking and sat back in his seat again. Then he spread his hands, palms outward, in a gesture of finality, as if to say that the case was closed. He tilted his head quizzically. “Are you going to leave it at that? Aren’t you going to have to accept that coincidences happen? And that some things are just inexplicable, or just meaningless—such as visions of faces by people who have had heart surgery? Can’t you just accept that?”

  Isabel made an immediate decision. “No,” she said. “I might in due course, but not just yet. I’d like to know a little bit more. How did your Macleod die?”

  “The death notice said that he died peacefully, at the age of twenty-two,” Jamie said, “ ‘after a bravely borne illness’—those were the exact words. So no accident. Nothing like that.” He paused. “Which makes your man with the high forehead a bit superfluous, doesn’t it?”

  Isabel realised that she had much to think about, but for the moment she would say nothing more about it to Jamie, who would simply advise her to keep out of matters that did not concern her. He was clearly pleased with his findings, which made Isabel look a bit hasty. Well, he could enjoy his moment of triumph; she did not begrudge him that, but she had a duty to Ian to see things through, and she would.

  She dodged his question. If Graeme was the man with the high forehead, then it was difficult to see where he fitted in. But he could not be the man. Graeme’s resemblance to the man whom Ian saw was purely coincidental, one of those highly unlikely chances that simply materialised to remind us that chance still existed. And Graeme’s irritation with her was purely an irritation based on his belief that she was interfering in things that did not concern her. And who could blame him? No, Graeme was irrelevant now.

  “Well, you’ve given me something to think about,” she said. “Thank you. And now, perhaps we can catch the waiter’s eye and order. There are other things to talk about. The London Symphony, for instance.”

  Jamie beamed with pleasure. “The London Symphony!” he said. “Good, isn’t it?”

&nb
sp; Isabel tried to smile. Perhaps I’ve managed a down-turned smile, she thought, one of those smiles where the lips go down at the side. A rueful smile; full of rue, of sorrow.

  “Where will you live in London?” she enquired. “Not that it’ll mean much to me. My geography of London is pretty shaky. North of the river? South of the river? And don’t some people actually live on the river? Londoners and New Yorkers and people like that are so resourceful. They live in all sorts of caves and corners. Look at the Queen; she lives at the back of a palace . . .”

  Jamie cut her short. “Some people live in houseboats,” he said. “I know somebody who has one. Pretty damp way to live. No, I’m not going to live in London.”

  “You’ll commute?” asked Isabel. “What about concerts finishing late? Don’t the trains stop? And what happens if you try to talk to your fellow commuters? If the silence gets too much for you? Do you realise that people die of boredom in London suburbs? It’s the second biggest cause of death amongst the English in general. Sheer boredom . . .”

  “I’m not going, Isabel,” said Jamie. “Sorry, I should have told you right at the beginning. I’m not going to take the job.”

  It took her a moment to react to what he had said. Her first feeling was one of joy, that she was not going to lose him after all. It was simple joy.

  “I’m so glad,” she said. And then, correcting herself, she said quickly, “But why? Why go for the audition if you didn’t want the job?”

  Jamie explained that he had wanted the job, and that he had spent half the rail journey back thinking about when he would move and where he would live and so on. But the other half, from York onwards, was spent making up his mind to decline the offer.

  “By the time I reached Edinburgh, my mind was made up,” he said. “I decided to stay.”

  There was a tone of finality in his voice. Isabel hesitated for a moment; the simplest thing to do would be to say that she thought this was a good idea and leave it at that. But she was curious as to why he should have changed his mind. And then it came to her. Cat. He would not leave Edinburgh as long as he entertained a hope that Cat might change her mind about him.