There was a pause and then a collective rustling, as people checked the number in the programme: and then, sporadically, from one or two points in the crowd, the shouts came: ‘An Evening of Long Goodbyes! An Evening of Long Goodbyes!’
The dog’s tail thumped once, twice against the ground.
Seeing this, more voices joined in. The shouts grew louder. ‘An Evening of Long Goodbyes! An Evening of Long Goodbyes!’
And slowly, painfully slowly, the dog picked himself up, until, on legs as frail and ungainly as a newborn calf’s, rain pasting his fur to his bony head, he stood there blinking at us in wonderment.
The clamour was deafening. Men shouted and pummelled the glass and stamped their feet. ‘That’s it!’ they bellowed. ‘Go on, you cunt! Go on, Goodbyes!’ Everyone was of one voice, as if the only reason any of us were there was to cheer on this chewed and rather mangy-looking dog, which seemed to feed on these waves of furious noise and energy and — as the cheering grew to a roar, as Celtic Tiger was ushered into a cage by two men with cattle prods — now wagged his tail, and began to trot towards the finishing line.
‘Sprezzatura,’ a voice in my ear said; and I looked round to see, in the midst of the churning punters and the pillars of smoke, a familiar grey emanation. ‘What?’ I said faintly. He smiled hermetically, and pointed out the window; and turning, I saw the rainy stadium filled with men in top hats and tails, with black dicky bows and carnations in their buttonholes, cheering on the dog they’d bet against as the voice behind me mused, ‘What was it Oscar used to say? In a good democracy, every man should be an aristocrat.’
I spun round — there was so much I wanted to ask him, there were so many things I didn’t understand. ‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘Come back!’ But he was already halfway to the door, hoisting on to his head, as he melted into the throng, what appeared to be a giant sombrero… And now, after a series of dramatic collapses, An Evening of Long Goodbyes finally hauled his carcass over the line, and the place went crazy. It was as if we had just won a war. People whooped and sang; they tore up their losing stubs and threw them in the air like confetti. Frank appeared, laughing, and caught me in a bear hug. ‘We done it, Charlie!’ he exclaimed. ‘We done it!’
Someone must have overheard him, because before I could correct his grammar, we were picked up and borne along on a sea of strangers’ hands to the betting hatch, where, with the crowd amassed behind us, the clerk hastily agreed that it would be poor form to declare the race forfeit, and paid out our winnings on the spot. Everybody in the bar applauded; Frank asked if anybody wanted a drink, and it turned out that most people did; and everything was so breathless and euphoric that it took me a while to pinpoint that irritating bleeping noise. Finally I realized it was Bel’s phone. I had brought it along to give back to her tonight. It appeared to be having some kind of an episode. I pressed some buttons to make it stop and it started talking to me — a girl’s voice, someone looking for Bel.
‘She’s not here,’ I shouted, putting a finger in one ear. ‘She’s at home.’
‘I can’t get through to her at home,’ the girl said.
‘They’re having a dinner thing,’ I said.
‘Oh. Well, can you pass on a message?’ The girl had a husky, rasping voice, as if she made a regular thing of smoking too many cigarettes. ‘Will you tell her Jessica wants her to —’
‘Wait, you’re Jessica?’ I interjected.
‘Why, does my fame precede me?’
‘It most certainly does,’ I averred. ‘I’d like to know what you mean, running off with my sister.’
‘I wasn’t aware I was running off with anyone,’ the girl said. ‘Who is this, anyway?’
‘It’s Charles,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Bel told me about you,’ she added, rather pointedly.
‘That’s neither here nor there,’ I said. ‘The fact is, Bel is clearly not fit for — what did you mean by that last remark? What did she say about me?’
‘All sorts of things,’ Jessica said light-headedly, as if she had never until now believed they could be true.
‘Well, be that as it may,’ I muttered uncomfortably. ‘The thing about Bel is —’
‘Aren’t you going to this dinner?’ she interrupted. ‘Or have you been blacklisted?’
‘Yes, I am going,’ I snapped. ‘Look, just give me your damned message, will you?’
‘Certainly,’ she said primly. She told me that their flight was at seven, so would Bel get a taxi for four, and pick her up on the way? I said I would pass this on; there was a pause, and just as I was about to look for the off button, the voice came again: ‘Charles?’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t think Bel means those things she says about you, you know.’
‘Mmm,’ I said ambiguously.
‘And Charles?’
‘What?’
‘I promise I’ll take good care of her in Russia.’
‘Oh.’ I was rather touched. Possibly she was making fun of me, but somehow I didn’t think so; there was a warmth in her voice that was really quite appealing. ‘Well, thank you.’
‘You’d better get to your dinner before everyone’s gone to bed,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said; and then, ‘You know, when you get back perhaps we ought to go for a drink or something. I’ve written a play and there’s a part you might be interested in…’
She laughed, and said she’d see. ‘But our paths will cross again, Charles, somehow I’m sure of that…’
I tucked the phone away, beaming to myself. That old Hythloday magic! I was back in business!
It was now quite late. I went to find Frank and told him I was getting a taxi back to Amaurot. However he insisted on driving me over himself. This struck me as a damned decent gesture, and as we left I had another of my ideas: ‘You know, why don’t — ow!’
‘You all right, Charlie?’
‘Obviously I’m not all right, who put all those stairs there?’
‘I think they were there on the way in too.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I admitted. ‘I wish… I wish they hadn’t opened that second bottle of champagne, might have gone to my head a little…’ as he hoisted me up off the tarmac and closer to a ring of prettily spinning cartoon stars. ‘B’ what I was saying was, why don’t you come along to dinner too? I mean, you’re not in black tie, but…’
‘Van’s over here, Charlie.’
‘But don’ you worry about that,’ I dismissed these concerns with a wave of the hand; I was feeling magnanimous and iconoclastic and suddenly no obstacle seemed insurmountable. ‘I’ll explain about all that. Mother’s an absolute, an absolute pussycat if you know how to handle her — and anyway, I’ll just tell her that you’re my guest, and a, a damn fine fellow…’
‘Thanks very much, Charlie.’
‘Not at all, not at all — I say, look at that. Someone’s left behind their astrakhan jacket.’
The van’s headlights had illuminated an especially desolate section of the car park, where in a patch of weeds lay a discarded heap of clothing. It appeared to be emitting sounds of distress. I couldn’t remember if jackets typically did this or not.
‘Just a second —’ I got out and weaved my way over the unsteady gravel to the heap.
‘What is it?’ Frank called from the van
‘Hmm…’ The astrakhan jacket looked up at me with a pair of hopeful brown eyes. A long pink tongue tentatively licked my hand. ‘It seems to be An Evening of Long Goodbyes.’
‘They must have dumped it,’ Frank said, coming over.
‘Dumped it? Don’t be absurd. How could they have dumped it? Why, that dog’s a hero — a hero!’