Alexander Mccall Smith - Isabel Dalhousie 05 (6 page)

“Well, then,” said Isabel. “There you have it.”

“But how can you believe her—just like that?”

“She seemed to me to be telling the truth.”

“But what wife wouldn't? Of course spouses protest that their spouses are innocent. Mothers do it too. Presumably Mrs. Stalin took the view that her son Joe was widely misjudged. That he would never have run a terror.”

Isabel laughed. “One cannot expect objectivity from a spouse, I suppose. But then I have somebody else's view to go on as well. That cardiologist I sat next to at the dinner told me that he was convinced that Marcus was innocent. He didn't tell me at the time what it was that he was supposed to have done, but he did tell me that he thought he didn't do it. That's two views in favour of innocence.”

They had reached the end of the reservoir, and Jamie now glanced at his watch. “We should go back now,” he said. “We'll need to settle him.” He planted a kiss on the top of Charlie's head, on the tiny tam-o'-shanter he was wearing. Then, when they had started to retrace their steps, he said to Isabel, “I'm sorry I sounded so discouraging. You want to do this, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “I do.”

“Then I'm proud of you,” said Jamie. “Really proud.”

And with that he leaned over towards her and kissed her. She touched his hair. She breathed in. I am so in love, she thought, so deeply in love; and love of one is love of another, and another, until all humanity is embraced and the heavenly city realised, which will never happen, not even in your lifetime, Charlie, she thought.

         

WITH CHARLIE PUT TO BED,
Jamie said, “I'll cook.”

It was now almost nine in the evening and Isabel had not thought much about supper. She had a vague idea that they might have a plate of the moussaka that she had made the previous day and needed to be finished off, but she had done nothing about it and Jamie's offer was particularly welcome. He would make pasta, he said; he had discovered some porcini mushrooms in the larder and some cream. “Not very adventurous,” he said.

“Delicious,” said Isabel. “And thank you. I want to look at some things in my study.”

She left him in the kitchen and went through to her study in the front of the house. She had a fax machine there, and there was often a small pile of papers disgorged at the end of the day, waiting for her attention: scribbled notes from the printers, queries from the copy editor, and, in this case, a report from a reader. That was what she had hoped for, and she caught her breath when she saw it.

She had sent Dove's paper on the Trolley Problem to two referees, as was normal with any unsolicited paper. She had been scrupulously careful in her choice of referees; it would have been easy to pick a harsh one—and she knew at least one professor of philosophy, himself a seldom published man, who delighted in finding fault with the work of others and recommending against publication. Isabel would not use him as a referee, although when Professor Lettuce had been in charge of the board he had taken to doing so off his own bat. This man, whom Isabel had nicknamed the Harsh Critic, was friendly with Lettuce. Two peas from the same pod, thought Isabel; Lettuce seemed to attract vegetable metaphors, she admitted—the great turnip. No, she would not send it to the Harsh Critic because he would reject it more or less automatically—or would he? If he, the Harsh Critic, was friendly with Lettuce, then might it not be possible that he would be on good terms with Lettuce's acolyte, Dove, the oleaginous one? In which case he would probably recommend in favour of publication, as he would not like to cause Lettuce to wilt. This made matters more complex. If she decided against the Harsh Critic, then she was taking away from Dove a chance that he would otherwise have, and she wanted to treat him with scrupulous fairness. But no, he would get a random referee, one chosen by her when she opened her address book at random…like this, and there he was, the obvious choice, her friend Iain Torrance. Iain, a theologian with a philosophical background, was as fair-minded a man as one could meet, and, what was more, he had a reputation for working quickly, as he had done now. For she saw lying there, having slid down from the desk on which the fax machine was placed, his faxed report—a neatly typed page of paper subscribed at the bottom with his signature:
Iain.

She reached down to pick it up. Her hand, she noticed, was shaking. She perched on the arm of one of her library chairs; the seat itself was stacked with papers, the chair having long since ceased to be anything but part of her filing system. There were three paragraphs; two lengthy ones and a final, short one. She skimmed through the first two and then came to the third. It could not have been clearer.

“I much regret,” wrote Iain, “that I find no original insights in this paper. The arguments advanced by previous participants in the discussion are repeated, but not developed. And that part of the paper which purports to be a further refinement of the original conditions of the bystander's plight do not add anything. Try as I might, I cannot think of any respect in which this paper helps a problem which already has a certain hoariness to it. Paper and ink are finite. I cannot recommend they be squandered on this article.”

She put down the report and closed her eyes briefly, as if to order her thoughts. Then she left her study and went back into the kitchen. The pasta was simmering on the stove, misting up the windows, but there was no sign of Jamie. Then she heard the piano, and smiled. They sometimes sang together, or he sang for her; now she heard him.

He stopped as she came into the morning room. He laid his hands gently on the keyboard, at rest, and smiled at her. She wanted to run to him, to hug him to her, this young man who had come to her so unexpectedly, who brought music, a child, beauty—all these things into her life. But she contained herself, and asked, “What was that again? It was so haunting.” It was.

“ ‘The Parting Glass,' ” he said. “It's one of those songs that has a complicated history. There are Irish versions and Scottish versions. Burns joined in and did a version too.”

“Of course. I've heard it before. Could I hear it again?”

“Here,” he said. “Take this glass of wine. And hold it. That's how you should listen to it. Take a sip.”

She took the glass of white wine from him. It was still chilled, with tiny drops on the outside. She moved it in her hand, feeling the cool of it, the wetness.

Jamie said, “This song makes me feel sad.”

She watched him.

He began to sing, and the words, which he enunciated so carefully, and the slow movement of the melody, touched at her heart:

Oh, all the comrades that ere I had

Are sorry for my going away

And all the sweethearts that ere I had

Would wish me one more day to stay

But since it falls unto my lot

That I should rise and you should not

I'll gently rise and I'll softly call

Good night and joy be with you all.

He finished and gently closed the lid of the piano.

She did not move. “Why did you sing that?” she asked.

Jamie looked up. “Sometimes I just feel that way,” he said. “I feel sad when I'm happy. It's strange, isn't it?”

She thought of the words:
But since it falls unto my lot / That I should rise and you should not
—words of leave-taking, every bit as moving as those used by Burns in “Auld Lang Syne,” and with perhaps an even greater poignancy to them. Why, she wondered, did we need loss and parting to remind us of how much friendship, and indeed love, meant to us? Yet we did.

CHAPTER SIX

S
HE DID NOT
tell Jamie that she was going to see Marcus Moncrieff the next morning. It was true that he had accepted her involvement, but she suspected that his acceptance was a reluctant one and that he would not really want any further details. Perhaps he had come to the realisation that this is what she did: she became involved, and he had simply decided that he might as well let her get on with it. She wondered whether it was the same as accepting that one's partner smoked, or drank rather too enthusiastically, or read frivolous novels; bad habits all, but ones with which one might just have to live. She found herself using the word
partner
against her will; it insinuated itself into her thoughts; linguistic resistance was difficult, and ultimately futile: there was no point in continuing to call Beijing by its long-established anglophone homonym when a whole generation had forgotten that it was once Peking.

She thought that it was a good sign that Jamie was becoming more tolerant of her involvement in the affairs of others; it showed, she thought, that he accepted her for what she was. Isabel had been perfectly self-assured in all areas of her life until that fateful night when she and Jamie had made the transition from friends to lovers. We can be confident in our dealings with the world when what the world sees is the outer person, with all the outer person's defences: the intimacy of a love affair is a different matter altogether. And who might not feel just the slightest bit insecure under the gaze of a lover—a gaze which falls on birthmarks, on blemishes physical and psychological, on our imperfections and impatience, on our human vulnerability? And how more so when one is older and the lover is younger.

Jamie made everything different, and she was blessed by his presence. But by accepting him into her life she had given a hostage to fortune: he could become bored with her; he could leave her; he could suddenly find her ridiculous. None of which she thought would necessarily happen, but it could. So this sign that he approved of her was important. Yet I am not to think about this, she reminded herself.

Peter Stevenson, her friend whose advice she sought on all sorts of matters, had been explicit. “Isabel, you must stop fussing about this!” he had said, his voice revealing his irritation. “You and Jamie are together. The age gap is a little unusual. But so long as you are both happy, which you are, it doesn't matter. And Charlie's arrival has created a bond between you which will last for the rest of your lives. So stop fussing, for heaven's sake.”

The three of them, Peter, his wife, Susie, and Isabel had been walking along the Water of Leith together, having had lunch in the Dean Gallery, when Isabel had said something about not wanting to crowd Jamie. The Stevensons had asked them to dinner at West Grange House and she had been hesitant in her acceptance.

“I'd love to come,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

“And Jamie too,” said Susie. “We meant both of you. Charlie will settle, won't he?”

“I'll bring Charlie,” she said. “I'm not sure about Jamie.”

“But you can choose the evening,” said Susie quickly. “We'll fit in with you.”

Again Isabel had hesitated. “It's not that,” she said. “It's just that…”

Peter had looked at her quizzically. “Doesn't Jamie want to come?”

They had reached the point where the road dips down to the Dean Village, at the old millpond, and the path along the river begins. High above them were the soaring stone arches of the Dean Bridge, at the end of which a private house, built into the rock, acted as the bridge's anchor to the wall of the valley. It was one of Edinburgh's astonishing architectural details; a house which had been lived in for many years by a prominent psychiatrist, who used to joke that since the Dean Bridge had traditionally been the bridge of choice for suicide, like the Golden Gate in San Francisco, his house should have borne the sign
LAST PSYCHIATRIST BEFORE THE DEAN BRIDGE.
Some had frowned at this, but Isabel had appreciated the joke; doctors needed their moments of dark humour amidst all the human suffering of their day. She looked up. How long would it take to fall—should the psychiatrist's counsel prove ineffective—and what would one think on the way down? The Roman Catholic Church used to be charitable in such matters and had been prepared to concede that people probably changed their minds on the way down from these great heights, that the desire to die became a desire to live once the descent began. Repentance, then, could be assumed, and in this way one went up rather than down, in the metaphorical sense; once, that is, that one had come down. Did the Vatican still think this, she wondered, or was it no longer necessary to make scholastic distinctions of this nature, if Hell had been abolished in Catholic teaching, as it had been by liberal Protestantism? She had never been able to understand how anybody could reconcile the existence of Hell with that of a merciful creator; he simply would not have embarked on us in the first place in order to send us to some Hieronymus Bosch–like torture chamber or its more modern equivalent (a place of constant piped music, perhaps). Hell might be an airport, she thought, lit with neon lighting and insincere smiles. No, she told herself; she was prepared to accept the possible existence of a creator, in the same way that she was prepared to accept curved space, but he or she would not invent Hell, whatever twists and turns on the subject of free will and choice were resorted to by the concept's apologists. Why would a creator want us to have free choice in the first place if we were bound, imperfect creatures that we are, to abuse it? And yet, she thought, who amongst us does not want there to be justice; does not relish the idea that when Stalin took his final breath what he was shortly to encounter was at least some measure of punishment for his countless murders, rather than forgiveness? We should be careful, she decided, about abolishing Hell, even if we have no proof of its existence; and yet, and yet…was it not a part of growing up to understand that much as we may yearn for a universe ruled by perfect justice, this was not the way the world would ever be? The wicked got away with their wickedness more often than not, and became incorrigible as a result; the robber barons became richer; the swaggering bullies never met anybody stronger than themselves. The most that many could hope for was that justice had the occasional victory, and that they would see it, and be comforted.

She looked away from the bridge. It made her dizzy to look up, even more so than looking down. I could never live up in the air, she thought, like people who inhabit high apartments, with nothing below them but an almighty drop, with eagles for company.

Peter's question needed to be answered. “I'm sure that he'd like to come,” she said. “It's just that—”

There was an edge to Peter's interruption. “It's just that
what,
Isabel?”

It was not easy to explain. She was sure she was right in thinking that Jamie would not want to feel
taken over;
what young man would? “It's a little difficult,” she began. “I don't want him to think that he has to tag along with me.” Even as she spoke, she knew that it sounded unconvincing, and the way that Peter and Susie were looking at her confirmed this. Peter was frowning, in an effort to see what exactly Isabel was driving at; Susie looked sympathetic, but it was evident that she did not agree. And that was when Peter told her to stop thinking about the age difference.

For a while she was silent. They had continued on their walk, leaving the bridge behind them. The river, which was in full spate, was louder now, and she had to raise her voice to be heard above the sound of the water.

“Easier said than done,” she said.

Peter thought about this. “All right,” he said. “Advice is always easy to give. But that doesn't make it any less relevant.” He looked at her quizzically. “Don't you realise that Jamie probably feels about you exactly as you feel about him? Hasn't it occurred to you that he can probably hardly believe his luck—to have found an attractive, intelligent…I could go on…witty woman like you? What would his alternatives be? Any other woman I can think of would be boring by comparison with you, Isabel. So stop it. Right? Just stop it. Subject closed.” He drew a breath. “Except for one final thing. You're—what are you?—forty-something? Forty-three? That's still young…ish. And it's not all that much older than him. Fourteen, fifteen years? So what?”

“So does that mean we're to come to dinner?” Isabel asked.

All three laughed.

“Yes,” said Peter. “It does.”

They continued with their walk. Then, as they drew level with St. Bernard's Well, with its small stone temple to Hygena, she saw a figure ahead of them. He had been walking towards them and now he suddenly turned and walked the other way, back towards Stockbridge. She had not been paying attention; there were a few people on the path and he was just one of them. But then she realised who it was. Nick Smart.

She stared after the retreating figure; he was a swift walker. Peter noticed.

“Seen a friend?” he asked.

“No,” said Isabel.

They stopped to admire the temple. Isabel glanced down the path; Nick Smart must have let himself into Moray's Pleasure Gardens, as he had disappeared from sight. She felt vaguely puzzled. Did he live there, in Moray Place or Doune Terrace? The gardens were private, and one needed to be a key-holder to get into them. And had Jamie not said something about his living over in the Pleasance somewhere, quite a different part of town.

“People used to come and take the waters here,” said Peter. “Apparently the water tasted foul. Full of iron.”

“But that would have been a plus,” said Susie. “Smelly mineral water was always thought to be better for you. More potent.”

Isabel remembered visiting a spa in France where the water was traced with arsenic, and much sought-after for that reason. We like our pills bitter, she thought.

Peter had remembered something. “We visited Vichy once,” he said. “I remember that it was at the end of the season and there was an orchestral concert in the public gardens. The mayor made a speech at the concert and concluded by saying that he hoped to see all the
curistes
back again next year. Which I thought was rather tactless.”

Isabel asked why, and Peter explained. “Because presumably they hoped to be better,” he said. “And if they were better, they wouldn't need another cure the following year.”

Isabel felt foolish. “I see. Of course.”

Peter looked at his watch and suggested that they walk back to the gallery, where they had left the car. As she walked, Isabel wondered about Nick Smart. Why had he turned round so suddenly? Had he seen her coming? And if he had, then why should he wish to avoid her?

         

STELLA MONCRIEFF
had said: “He said that he'll see you. At first he said no. He was adamant—you know how stubborn men can be. But we can be stubborn, too, can't we? And I insisted. I begged him. I said that he should see you if only for my sake. And eventually he said that he would.”

Isabel did not particularly like the idea of anybody being forced to see her; the position, she thought, that dentists must find themselves in when a young and nervous patient is led to the chair. Dentists, of course, could console themselves with the fact that the encounter was in the patient's best interests, whereas she was not so certain that her seeing Marcus Moncrieff would do him any good. She had agreed to the meeting because Stella had pleaded with her and because she felt that it was her duty to respond, but that did not mean that her heart was in it. In fact, right up to the moment that she left the house at eleven o'clock that morning she had hoped that Stella would call and say that the whole thing was off. But she had not, and Isabel had set off on foot for the Moncrieff flat in Ramsay Garden.

The city was preparing for the annual arts festival, which was now only a few weeks away. During that time, for a spell of just under a month, it would become another town altogether—a great open amphitheatre of plays and concerts and opera. Jamie would be busy, both as a player and as a spectator, and they had paged through the programme together, selecting what they wanted to see. Even Charlie had a programme outlined for him: a concert of performing dogs, to be held in a tent, and a magic show described in the programme as being “completely suitable for those under two.” “But everything's magic for them,” Isabel had said. “Have you noticed how he laughs if you hide your fingers under the tablecloth? He thinks that's terribly clever.”

For the inhabitants of Ramsay Garden, the Festival brought only the promise of sleepless nights. Their proximity to the Castle Esplanade, on which the military tattoo was performed each evening during the Festival, meant that they had to endure massed pipe bands every night, along with all the pyrotechnics, the fireworks and explosions, that the military, and large sections of an enthusiastic public, consider to be artistic. The final movement of the 1812 Overture, with its cannon fire, was a gift for such an occasion, and was being performed that year, adding to the assault on the senses of those who lived nearby. At least, thought Isabel, as she glanced up at the immense structure which had been erected on the esplanade, at least the modern inhabitants know that the bangs and explosions were not real; earlier inhabitants of that spot would have quaked at such sounds, which would have meant real cannon fire. And the skirl of pipes would have heralded the arrival of troops, and trouble.