The World According to Bertie 4ss-4
Page 37
The guest list that evening had been fully approved by Angus, and he was looking forward to the good conversation that he knew would take place. As he sat there, watching Domenica carry out a few last-minute preparations, Angus thought about the painting he had begun a few days before and which now dominated his studio. It was an extremely large canvas, ten feet by six, and he was at present sketch-ing in the outlines of his planned great work on kindness: a 336 Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe seated woman, beneficent, portrayed in the style of Celtic illuminations, comforts a crouching boy, a figure of modern Scotland.
“I’m working on an important picture,” he said to Domenica,
“on the theme of kindness.”
Domenica, who had been peering into a pot on the top of the stove, looked over her shoulder at Angus. “A very good subject for a picture,” she said. “I approve. Do you have a title for it yet?”
Angus shook his head. He thought of it simply as Kindness, but he knew that this sounded a bit weak, a bit too self-explanatory.
“In that case,” said Domenica, “I suggest that you call it Let the More Loving One.”
Angus frowned. “Let the More Loving One?”
Domenica turned away from the stove. “It’s a line from Auden,” she said. “‘If equal affection cannot be / Let the more loving one be me.’”
They were both silent for a moment. Behind Domenica, the pot on the stove simmered quietly; there was a square of light on the ceiling, reflected off window glass, shimmering, late light.
Angus thought: yes, that is precisely the sentiment. That’s it exactly. That’s all we need to remember in this life; two lines to guide us.
99. Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe They sat at the table, Domenica’s guests, all in perfect agreement, at least on the proposition that the first course was exceptional. At the head of the table sat Domenica herself, anthropologist, widow of the late proprietor of the Cochin Sunrise Electricity Factory, author of numerous scholarly papers including, most recently, “Intellectual Property and Piracy in a Malaccan Village.” At the opposite end of the table, in a position which indicated his special status in this house Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe 337
as old friend and quasi-host, sat Angus Lordie, portraitist and occasional poet, pillar of the Scottish Arts Club, and member of the Royal Scottish Academy. On Domenica’s right sat James Holloway, art historian and a friend of Domenica of many years’ standing, whose advice she had sought on many occasions, and followed. On his right, Pat, the attractive but somewhat bland student who had got to know Domenica when she lived next door as tenant of Bruce Anderson, the surveyor –
now the fiancé of Julia Donald – an unrepentant, a narcissist, a success. Then there were David Robinson and Joyce Robinson, both old friends of Domenica; her neighbour, Antonia, invited at the last moment out of guilt; Ricky Demarco, that great man, the irrepressible enthusiast of the arts, artist, impresario; Allan Maclean of Dochgarroch, chief-tain of the Macleans of the North, and Anne Maclean; and, of course, Humphrey and Jill Holmes. That was all, but it was a good sample of Edinburgh society, and there were many who were not there who, had they known, would have given much to have been present.
Angus looked about the table. He had been charged by Domenica with responsibility for ensuring that everybody’s glass was well filled, and they were. Now, sitting back, he savoured both the timbale and the conversation.
“It’s a disaster,” said Ricky Demarco. “A complete disaster.”
Silence fell about the table as all eyes turned to Demarco.
Was he referring to the timbale?
“Yes,” he said. “The Festival Fringe is in great danger.”
Most were relieved that the subject was the arts and not salmon timbale; David Robinson, in particular, looked interested. People were always predicting the demise of the Edinburgh Festival, he reflected, but somehow it always got better. And the same was true of the Fringe, the Festival’s unruly unofficial partner, which seemed to get bigger and bigger each year.
“Danger of what?” asked David.
“Drowning in stand-up comics,” said Demarco. “Haven’t you 338 Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe seen how many of them there are? They flock to Edinburgh, flock like geese over the horizon.” He waved a hand airily.
“Thousands of them.”
Pat picked at a small fish bone that had become lodged in her teeth. She rather enjoyed going to hear stand-up comics, even if there were rather a lot of them.
“I quite like them,” she said quietly.
Fortunately, nobody heard her, and she was only twenty anyway.
“I must admit, for the most part, they’re very unfunny,” said Angus. “Or am I out of touch?”
“You’re out of touch,” said Domenica. “But you may nonetheless be right about their unfunniness. I find most of them rather crude and predictable. No, I agree with Ricky. These people are getting a bit tedious.”
“They are,” said Demarco. “And the problem is this: they charge so much, some of them, that they mop up all the ticket money. The Fringe should be about the arts, about drama, music, painting. And all these people do is stand there and tell joke after joke. Just think of it: the world’s biggest, most exciting arts gathering reduced to a motley collection of comedians telling jokes. Is that what we’ve come to?”
Angus looked down at his plate. “I wish I found more things funny,” he said. “But I don’t. The only people who can make me laugh anymore are Stanley Baxter and Myles Na Gopaleen.”
David Robinson agreed about Na Gopaleen. “Yes, Flann O’Brien was a very funny writer. Do you remember his book-distressing service for the nouveau riche?”
“Of course I do,” said Angus. “They would come and make newly acquired books look suitably used. And for an extra fee they would write appropriate marginalia so that people thought that you had actually read the books.”
“Irish writers can be very entertaining,” said Domenica. “But what about public life? How long is it since we’ve had an amusing politician?”
Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe 339
There was a complete silence. Mrs Thatcher had been tremendously funny, but she had gone now.
“Harold Macmillan,” said Humphrey, after a while. “He made the entire United Nations laugh once, although the laughter took a long time to travel round the Assembly as his remark had to be translated into numerous languages. The Germans laughed last, only because of their word order, I hasten to add.”
“What did he say?” asked Domenica.
“Well,” said Humphrey. “Mr Khrushchev started to get very heated when Macmillan was making his speech and he took off his shoe and started to bang it on the table. Whereupon Macmillan looked up and said, in a very cool drawl: ‘Could we have a translation of that, please?’ The whole place collapsed.”
They all laughed. Then Humphrey raised a finger in the air.
“Mind you, I know an even funnier story about Khrushchev.”
They looked at him.
“This story concerns Chairman Mao,” said Humphrey. “He was said to have had a very good sense of humour. He was asked once what he thought would have happened had it been Nikita Khrushchev rather than President Kennedy who had been assas-sinated. He thought for a moment and then said: ‘Well, one thing is certain: Aristotle Onassis would not have married Mrs Khrushchev!’”
Angus let out a hoot of laughter, but he noticed that Pat looked puzzled. Leaning across the table he whispered to her:
“Mrs Khrushchev, my dear, was a terrible sight. One of those round, squat Russian women whom one imagined picking potatoes or working in a tractor factory.
“Mind you,” he went on, “Russian women weren’t the only frumps. I had a friend who was once invited to meet a foreign leader (a delightful chap, now, alas, deceased) and was being shown around the leader’s tent – he lived, you see, under canvas.
Anyway, he saw this picture of a very ugly-looking chap hang
ing on the side of the tent and he was about to ask: ‘Who’s that 340 Not an Ending – More an Adjournment man?’ when an official leaned forward and whispered to him:
‘That, sir, is our beloved leader’s mother.’”
100. Not an Ending – More an Adjournment The salmon was entirely consumed, and at least one pair of longing eyes was directed to the empty plate on which the large timbale had stood; but there was to be no more, and those who had hoped for a second helping were sent empty away. But more was to come; now they progressed to the venison cassoulet, accompanied by Sardinian Rocca Rubia, a wine which Philip Contini himself had pressed into Domenica’s hands; and beyond that to the apple tart with the Celtic-inspired pastry strips.
The conversation around the table was noisy and enthusiastic, as wide-ranging as it always was in Domenica’s flat – that was her effect upon others, a freeing of the tongue, an enlargement of confidence. Even Pat, who might have felt inhibited in such accomplished company, found herself expounding with ease on obtuse topics, emboldened by Domenica’s smile and encouraging nods of agreement. And outside, slowly, the light faded into that state of semi-darkness of the Scottish mid-summer; not dark, not light, but somewhere in between, a simmer dim perhaps, or something like it.
At one point, at an early stage of the dinner, Domenica heard, but only faintly, the sound of Bertie practising his saxophone downstairs, and grinned. She glanced at Angus and at Pat; they as well had both heard, and smiled too, for they could picture Domenica’s young neighbour at his music stand, under the supervising gaze of his mother. Poor Bertie, thought Angus, what a burden for a boy to bear in this life, to have a mother like that, and how discerning Cyril had been when he bit her ankle in Dundas Street. And although on that famous occasion he had been obliged to look apologetic and to administer swift Not an Ending – More an Adjournment 341
punishment to Cyril, his heart had not been in the retribution, and, as soon as possible, he had rewarded the dog with a reassuring pat on the head and the promise of a bone for his moral courage.
And as Angus remembered this incident, Domenica found herself thinking of how well Auden’s words in his poem on the death of Freud fitted Bertie’s situation. He had written there of the child “unlucky in his little State,” of the hearth from which freedom was excluded; such powerful lines to express both the liberating power of Freudian insights, but also to describe the plight of a child. Of course, Auden had believed in Freud then, had imagined that the problem of human wickedness was a problem for psychology, a belief which he had later abandoned when he had come to recognise that evil could be something other than that. On balance, Domenica thought that she agreed here with the younger rather than the older Auden. What tyrant has had a happy childhood?
When they rose from the table to go through for coffee, Angus came up to Domenica and took her hand briefly. It was an unusual gesture for him, and Domenica looked down, almost in surprise, at his hand upon hers, and he, embarrassed, let go of her.
“I wanted to thank you for the apple tart,” he said. “You know I like it.”
“That is why I chose it,” she said.
“Well, thank you,” he said.
“You heard Bertie playing back then?” she asked. “I believe it was ‘Mood Indigo.’”
Angus nodded. “It was.” He paused for a moment. “He’ll be all right, that wee boy. He’ll be all right.”
Domenica hesitated before she replied. But yes, she thought he would be, and this comforted her. As they entered the drawing room, she turned to Angus and whispered to him: “You will say something, won’t you? They’ll be expecting it, you know. You always have a poem for these occasions.”
Angus glanced at his fellow guests. “Are you sure they want to hear from me?”
342 Not an Ending – More an Adjournment Domenica was sure, and a few minutes later, when everybody was settled with their coffee, she announced to her guests that Angus had a poem to read.
“Not exactly to read,” he said.
“But it is there, isn’t it?” pressed Domenica. And she thought, as she spoke, perhaps I would get used to canine company after all. Yes, why not?
Angus put down his cup and moved to the window. There was still a glow of light in the sky, which was high, and empty, the faintest of blues now, washed out. Then he turned round, and he saw then that every guest, every one present, was a friend, and that he cherished them. So the words came to him, and he said:
Dear friends, we are the inhabitants Of a city which can be loved, as any place may be, In so many different and particular ways; But who amongst us can predict
For which reasons, and along which fault lines, Will the heart of each of us
Be broken? I cannot, for I am moved
By so many different and unexpected things: by our sky, Which at each moment may change its mood at whim With clouds in such a hurry to be somewhere else; By our lingering haars, by our eccentric skyline, All crags and spires and angular promises, By the way we feel in Scotland, yes, simply that; These are the things that break my heart In a way for which I am never quite prepared –
The surprises of a love affair that lasts a lifetime.
But what breaks the heart the most, I think, Is the knowledge that what we have
We all must lose; I don’t much care for denial, But if pressed to say goodbye, that final word On which even the strongest can stumble, I am not above pretending
Not an Ending – More an Adjournment 343
That the party continues elsewhere,
With a guest list that’s mostly the same, And every bit as satisfactory;
That what we think are ends are really adjournments, An entr’acte, an interval, not real goodbyes; And perhaps they are, dear friends, perhaps they are.
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