Domenica completed his sentence. “And to bring somebody with you. Finish the letter, Angus.”
“ ‘And I do hope,’ ” Angus went on, “ ‘you won’t mind if I have one of the sisters with me. She won’t take up much space—she’s very small—and she eats like a bird. You’ll love her, and never having set foot outside Italy, poor dear, she can’t wait to see Scozia, as she charmingly calls it. I know you won’t mind, because I know that at heart you both have a very strong sense of your moral duty.’ ”
“That’s the bit!” Domenica exclaimed. “That’s the bit that takes the shortbread.”
20. Art, Resolution, and St. Ninian
Whatever surprise they felt over the sheer presumption of Antonia’s letter, Angus and Domenica nonetheless realised that they could hardly turn down their former neighbour’s request. It would have been possible, of course, to claim that they were going to be away, but there were several objections to that, not the least of which was that it would be a lie. Both of them had a strong objection to lying—something that, in a way that was becoming increasingly rare, they regarded as impermissible.
“There are so many people,” Domenica had remarked a few days earlier, “who seem to think that the truth is whatever you want it to be. I once read a novel with that message. It didn’t commit to a definitive version of the story—it said: ‘you decide what you like. You choose what was true.’ ”
Angus thought about this. “You mean that the author didn’t tell you what really happened?”
“Exactly. Two possible explanations were given. Then the reader was invited to decide which was preferable.”
“Which was more likely?”
Domenica shook her head. “No, which was the one you liked more. There’s a difference.”
Angus was not sure that he liked that. “But the author himself knew?”
“Yes, he did. The omniscient author idea. We do, I suppose, expect rather a lot of an author. We expect him or her to know the inmost thoughts of his characters—to know what goes on behind closed doors. And we expect him to tell us all this precisely because he’s omniscient.” She paused. “We also expect resolution, and if we don’t get it—if things are left up in the air—we complain vociferously.”
Angus smiled. “But life …”
Domenica knew what was coming. “… isn’t like that. No, it isn’t. We have all sorts of unresolved issues in our lives—friendships we give up on, letters we forget to answer, things we meant to do but never get round to, and so on. A lot. But art …”
“Art’s different,” said Angus.
“Exactly. Art observes our need for resolution—or should do. Musicians know that, of course. Chords need to resolve, don’t they? Otherwise the tune just sounds wrong. And pictures too.”
“Yes, much the same thing applies in painting,” said Angus. “If something is missing from a picture, it’s pretty obvious. The thing isn’t whole. You’re left waiting for something that just isn’t there. You end up dissatisfied because your quest for beauty is frustrated.”
Domenica liked the notion of a quest for beauty. It was true, she thought; that was what our lives were—a quest for beauty. We might not know it—we might never actually express it that way—but that was what we were doing. We yearned after beauty, which we could find in so many different ways, not just in the obvious ones.
And now, faced with the need to respond to Antonia’s annoying letter, she knew that she could not do anything but offer the other woman, and her companion, their hospitality for the full three weeks that had been proposed. To put Antonia off with a lie would be to sully herself with falsehood; would be to negate the moral dimension of that quest for beauty. It would be, quite simply, messy.
“I’ll try to make the room as attractive as possible for her,” Domenica said at last. “We wouldn’t want her to be uncomfortable.”
Angus looked at his wife in admiration. He was inspired by her example, and put out of his mind the thought that it would be rather a good idea to make Antonia uncomfortable, with a view to her deciding that her visit should be shorter. But he could not say that, of course, now that the high moral tone had been struck by Domenica.
“Three weeks will go quite quickly,” he said.
Domenica was not convinced. “I doubt it,” she said. “But let’s not think too much about that. I’m not sure how I shall be able to deal with Antonia going on about early Scottish saints. I’m not sure I want to hear about St. Ninian for a full three weeks.”
“He was an interesting man,” said Angus. “I read John MacQueen’s book about him. He performed some amazing miracles, we’re told, including giving the power of speech to babies.”
“Only one baby,” corrected Domenica. “He made it possible for a newly born infant to make a pronouncement about somebody’s innocence.” She paused. “The infant baby identified its real father. It was quite remarkable.”
Angus laughed. “Do you think Antonia believes all that?”
“Not literally. She’s not that credulous.”
Angus looked out of the window. “What do you think a baby would say if given the power of speech?”
Domenica smiled at the thought. “Complain about the food? Baby food is so dull, don’t you think? All those squashed peas and so on.”
“Maybe. But I have a very different image, now that I come to think about it.”
“Oh yes?”
He transferred his gaze away from the window. Now he looked at her. A conversation, begun light-heartedly, can change so quickly, he thought.
“I suppose that we shouldn’t be all superior about those early saints. They were really up against it, weren’t they? The world was a dark and violent place. Scotland was particularly so.”
She nodded. Can still be, she thought, for some.
“I can see it,” said Angus. “I can see the scene.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Tell me, Angus.”
He closed his eyes. “Ninian comes into a room and there’s a baby there, you see. The mother is somewhere nearby, and some other people. And Ninian has this … well, he has this air of peacefulness about him. He isn’t frightening the baby. The baby just looks at him and then suddenly stands up. Babies do, in early pictures, you know. The Veneto-Cretan school, for instance. They sometimes stand up.”
She waited.
He spoke carefully, as one who has witnessed something important and wishes to convey what he has seen as accurately as possible. “And then the baby turns to his mother and he speaks. A tiny voice. Just the voice you’d expect a baby to have. Like a breathing of the wind.”
She watched him.
“And then the baby turns to his mother and speaks.” He hesitated. He looked at her. “ ‘Mother, is it true that men are cruel?’ ”
Domenica gasped. “Is that what the baby says?”
“Yes,” he said. “Just that.”
21. Bruce Goes to the Waxing Studio, for Waxing
Bruce was on his way to a session at the waxing studio. He had telephoned the day before to make the appointment and had spoken to the owner, Arlene, who announced that she would be his personal therapist. “Beauty therapist, that is,” she explained, “although men sometimes prefer it if I call myself a grooming adviser. Sensitivities, you see. Same thing, though.”
They had then very briefly discussed what Arlene called his “personal depilation programme.” “Face, arms, and whatever,” she intoned. “We can sort all that out when I see you.”
“Whatever,” said Bruce, and laughed. He liked the sound of Arlene, and he was confident that she would like the sound—and sight—of him. He was probably going to concentrate on face and chest, as it happened, as it was in these regions that he felt he needed a little attention. Not much, of course, but just a little bit of tidying up; a few stray hairs here and there. Women, he knew, loved nothing more than the sight of a male chest devoid of hair—he had it on good authority that they went wild over that—and he was happy to oblige, a
lthough of course no woman had ever actually complained to him about the very modest chest hair he sported.
It would be his first waxing, and he felt slightly anxious. He had watched a video about the process and had noticed that the man being waxed wore an expression of remarkable, almost transcendental serenity throughout the whole procedure. It was an expression similar to that seen on the faces of Buddhist monks reciting mantras in the Himalayas, an expression of indifference to the annoyances of this world. It did not seem that in this clearly trance-like state he was experiencing the slightest discomfort, but surely, Bruce thought, there must be some degree of pain when those white strips were eventually pulled off. Even a Buddhist monk might be expected at least to wince if you put a depilatory strip on his arm and then pulled it off, or if you waxed his chest and tore the wax away.
One must be willing to make sacrifices, though, Bruce told himself; one must be prepared for a small measure of discomfort if one is going to get results. Physical perfection—in the quest for which he had always had such a head start over others—only came with the right attitude, with the right commitment. One could so easily ruin a fine physique through over-indulgence of one sort or another; one could so easily go to seed if one failed to take exercise and let one’s abs go flabby, as so many did. Not me, thought Bruce, not my abs, nor any part of me come to think of it; those hours in the gym, that extra effort in finding just the right hairdresser, that particular care taken in applying facial moisturiser: people could sneer at all that—and there were such people—but what did they see when they looked in the mirror? Enough said.
It would be good to lose a little hair from the right places, thought Bruce. His eyebrows, for example, could benefit from a bit of attention, and waxing was so much easier than plucking. He had once had a girlfriend who had plucked his eyebrows for him—she loved doing it—but he had found it slightly uncomfortable. Estelle, or Arlene, or whatever she called herself could presumably do that so much more easily, and it would be a bit of a treat for her to work on a face like mine, he thought.
It must be awful being really hairy, he thought as he made his way along Hamilton Place to the waxing studio in Stockbridge. Who was that boy in his year at Morrison’s Academy—that excessively hirsute one? What was he called? Something-or-other McTaggart, and his nickname was Yeti McTaggart. Hah! That was so apt, as these nicknames often are, thought Bruce. Poor Yeti—he was covered in thick body hair from the age of ten or so; it was awful, just awful. And when they went swimming they stood around and watched as he got changed, marvelling at how hairy he was—rather like an ape, actually—hence the witty nickname.
There had been that occasion when Bruce had taken Yeti’s school jotter and drawn hair all over the cover. How they had laughed, and Yeti had turned red with anger, though you could scarcely see the red underneath all the facial hair, Bruce remembered, with a smile. Waxing would have sorted Yeti McTaggart out, although you would need great tubs of wax to get all the hair off him.
What happened to him? Bruce wondered. He had seen him years later, when they both must have been nineteen or so, and Bruce had been back in Crieff and had spotted Yeti in the High Street. Bruce, who had been driving along with a girlfriend, had slowed, wound down the window and called out “Yeti!” and Yeti had been stand-offish and had turned away. He never had much of a sense of humour, of course, and there wasn’t much one could do about that. Still, you’d think that he would have at least acknowledged me, thought Bruce. After all, we had been friends since the age of ten or whatever it was. Some people had no sense of loyalty, of course; they turned their backs on the people they had grown up with. They turned their hairy backs on them.
He crossed the bridge and made his way down towards Raeburn Place. The waxing studio was in a small cul-de-sac off the main shopping street, on the ground floor of a tenement stair with flats above. It was quite discreet—a modest sign announcing its presence and giving the name of the owner: Arlene Porteous, Member of the Institute of Waxology. Bruce read the sign and smiled. Waxology! Well, at least it showed that she knew what she was doing. One would not want to put oneself at the mercy of somebody who was professionally unqualified—heaven knows what might be pulled off by mistake.
He rang the bell and waited for the door to be opened.
“Bruce?”
He nodded and smiled. “Yes, that’s me.”
Arlene returned the smile. “Good to meet you, Bruce. Come right in.”
He followed her into a small room in which there was a high, plastic-covered couch over which a towel was draped.
“Just my face and chest today,” said Bruce quickly.
“Whatever,” said Arlene.
22. Arlene Talks About Her Ex and Pulls Hairs Out
“Where do you stay, Bruce?” asked Arlene as Bruce lay back on the plastic-covered couch.
Bruce, his shirt removed, felt at a disadvantage, as anybody might on lying prostrate before one who would at any moment start pulling one’s hair out by its roots.
“I live in Albany Street,” he said. “Do you know it?”
Arlene touched his chest gently, pulling up a single hair as if to test its resilience.
“By yourself?” she asked, peering down at him.
Bruce looked up into the waxer’s face. She was attractive, he thought, but not his type. He would resist any moves she made, if she fancied him, which was more than likely.
“Yes,” he said. “Just me.”
“Nice,” she said. “Nice to have a flat all to yourself.”
“Yes,” said Bruce. “It is. And you?”
“Liberton,” she said. “I’ve got a wee boy who’s in primary school there.”
“Oh yes.”
“Yes. I’m divorced. My ex lives in Aberdeen. He works on the rigs. He’s good with the wee boy—you have to hand him that.”
“Good,” said Bruce.
“Yes. You see, nobody’s all bad, know what I mean? Most people have got some good in them if you look hard enough. That’s what I’ve found out, anyway.”
She focused a light on his face; it was disconcerting, and he closed his eyes against the glare.
“You’ve got some nasal hairs, Bruce. Let me count them. One, two, three, four, five—five hairs coming out of your left nostril and … let me see, one, two, three, four, five, six coming out of the other one. Eleven hairs altogether, Bruce.”
Bruce frowned. He had not been aware of having any nasal hair.
“Nasal hair is a real turn-off, Bruce,” Arlene went on. “In fact, I think there’s nothing worse than getting up close to somebody and seeing they have nasal hair.”
Bruce’s voice was strained. “Yes?”
“Yes. You know something, Bruce? I’ve had people in here who’ve been divorced because of nasal hair. Yes, I’m not making it up. There was this man who was something really senior in the Royal Bank of Scotland, but you know what his problem was? I’ll tell you: nasal hair. His wife couldn’t bear it. She left him for some guy in the Clydesdale Bank. That’s what nasal hair can do.”
Bruce was still smarting at the discovery that he belonged in the ranks of those thus troubled.
“Mind you,” said Arlene. “You show me anybody—anybody—who hasn’t got at least some nasal hair. Everybody has it.”
Bruce felt relieved. “Oh well …”
“But not as much as you,” said Arlene. “You’re at the extreme end of the spectrum. You could have really prolific nasal hair in a few years’ time—unless you do something about it, that is.”
Bruce said nothing. He was beginning to regret the consultation, although he felt that he could not get out of it now. But this tactless woman would be lucky if he returned, he decided.
“So we’ll tackle that, shall we?” continued Arlene. “But first we’ll look at some of your other areas.” She stared at his chest. “Interesting,” she said.
Bruce frowned again. “What’s interesting?”
“I think this is a wart,” sa
id Arlene. “See over here. Well, it looks like one of those warts that people sometimes get. I blame swimming pools, you know. I say that warts are transmitted in the changing rooms. You get all those people walking around barefoot, and naturally the spores that cause warts get passed on. Did you know that warts are caused by spores, Bruce? Like mushroom spores. They float around.”
Bruce made a non-committal sound.
“Anyway,” continued Arlene. “I suggest a general waxing for the whole chest area, except for that bit where the wart is. And then I think I need to do something about your eyebrows—a reduction on either side. It’ll look good. Agree?”
Bruce nodded. “Do what you think you need to do,” he said.
“Right,” said Arlene. “Do you want any music? Some people like music. Music to depilate to—that’s what I call it. What do you think? Abba, Bruce? You like Abba?”
Bruce shook his head.
“You don’t like Abba?” asked Arlene. “I thought everybody liked Abba.”
“Whatever,” muttered Bruce. “You choose.”
“Abba, then. It calms my nerves.” Arlene reached across and turned on the music. Then, after busying herself with a dish that had been sitting on a heating apparatus, she extracted a long white strip, rather like a bandage, and placed it across Bruce’s chest.
“I don’t mind telling you something, Bruce,” she offered.
He looked at her, but said nothing.
“No, I don’t mind telling you,” she continued. “I’ve been through a bad time. Lawyers.” She rolled her eyes. “My ex has been a bit difficult about the mortgage payments and I had to get the lawyer to deal with him. And then I’ve had a legal case against me that’s been really upsetting. I’ve had two lawyers involved in that. Two, Bruce! Two lawyers. And it wasn’t my fault in the first place. It was an accident.”
Bruce’s eyes followed her as she spoke. “An accident.”
“Yes. Human error.”
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