Nicholas was saying that he would come back and see them in the holidays. Personally Avery believed that once the lad hit the smoke, neither of them would see or hear from him again. He called, “From me to you,” and took in the tureen, the bread, and an earthenware bowl of Greek yogurt and sour cream. The talk was still of the theater.
“I don’t know whether to stay on for Vanya or shoot off now,” Nicholas was saying.
‘‘You won’t start at Central for months,” said Tim. ‘‘But I could get some sort of job and see all the plays and join a movement class or something.”
‘‘There are three marvelous parts in it,” continued Tim. ‘‘And now that Esslyn’s gone, you could take your pick.”
“Mmm.” Nicholas spooned in some more soup. “This isn’t very tomatoey, Avery.”
“Miss Ungrateful,” retorted his host. “Still, if your taste buds are punch-drunk on monosodium glutamate, what can one expect?”
“I don’t know the play,” said Nicholas. “What’s it like?”
“Twice as long as Little Eyolf but without the laughs,” said Avery. “And the tap routines.”
“It’s wonderful. A Russian classic.”
“I don’t think I fancy being directed by Harold in a Russian classic. He’ll have us all swinging from the samovars. I think I’ll go.”
“You may not be allowed to go,” said Tim, “while the investigation’s still going on.”
“Blimey.” Nicholas scraped his bowl clean and held it out for more. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose we’re all under suspicion. Present company excepted.”
“We’ve guessed and guessed at the possible culprit,” said Avery, wielding the ladle. “You don’t deserve this— but answer came there none.”
“The present odds-on favorite is the Everards.”
“Don’t talk to me about the Everards,” said Nicholas, tenderly touching his swollen nose.
“That was wicked of Tom to tell you,” said Tim. “I didn’t think the police did that sort of thing. I thought statements were in confidence.”
“What have they got?” asked Avery.
“A black eye each and one cut lip.”
“Don’t swagger, Nicholas.”
“He asked me! Anyway—why are they on top of the list? They were the court toadies.”
“Nasty position, court toady,” said Avery, passing the still-warm twists. “You must get to hate the person you’re sucking up to.”
“Not necessarily,” said Nicholas. “Weak people often respect those much stronger than themselves. They feel safe getting carried along on their coattails.”
“You surely don’t see the Everards as weak, Nico?” said Tim.
“Well … yes … don’t you?”
“Not at all.”
“I can see him wanting to get rid of them,” continued Nicholas, “nasty little parasites. But not vice versa. I still favor Kitty.”
“What about Harold?” suggested Avery.
“Of course, along with everybody else, I’d just love it to be Harold. In fact, apart from him having neither motive nor opportunity, I see Harold as the perfect candidate.” Nicholas slurped his last spoonful. “This soup really grows on you, Avery.”
“Well, you’re not having any more,” cried Avery, bearing away the empties, “or you’ll have no room for the nice bits.”
Avery scraped the sauce, smelling of butter and peanuts, into a boat, and took his shallow Chinese dishes from the oven. He loved using these. They had a shaggy bronze crysanthemum painted on the bottom and small blue-green Oriental figures touched with gold around the sides going about their business in a world of tiny trees and short, square white rivers, tightly corrugated, like milky squibs. Avery got such pleasure from causing all this exquisite artificiality to vanish then, as he supped, gradually exposing it again. They were the only things in the kitchen that never went into the dishwasher, and only Avery was allowed to clean them. They had been an anniversary present from Tim bought during a holiday at Redruth, and so doubly treasured. Now, he brought the bowls with their curls of crispy pork and scurried round the table, placing them before the others.
Tim said, “I do wish you wouldn’t romp,” and Nicholas sniffed and murmured, “Aahhh … gravy mix.” Avery bowed his head for a moment more in relief over a job well done than in thanks for benisons received, and they all dug in. Avery passed the sauce to Nicholas, lifting it high over the candle flames.
“There’s no need to elevate it,” said Tim. “It’s not the host.”
The Tignanello was opened and poured, and Tim lifted his glass. “To Nicholas. And Central.”
“Oh, yes …” Avery toasted Nicholas, who grinned a little awkwardly. “R. and F. before you’re twenty-five, or I shall want to know the reason why. And don’t forget— we believed in you first.”
“I won’t.” Nicholas gave a slightly drunken smile. “And I’m so grateful for everything. The room … your friendship … everything …”
“Don’t be grateful,” said Tim. “Just send seats in the front row of the dress circle for all your first nights.”
“Do you think then … the gods will reward me by answering my prayers?” The heavy attempt at sarcasm was only partially successful. Nicholas’s voice trembled.
“Nico—you’re so naive.” Tim smiled. “That’s the way the gods punish us—by answering our prayers.”
“Oh, my—it’s not going to be one of your world-weary evenings is it? I don’t think I could stand that.”
But Avery’s response was jocular, and he appeared the picture of contentment. He beamed, and his little blue eyes twinkled. He started to relax. He had been tiptoeing about very carefully all day, because his morning horoscope, though fairly positive on the whole, had ended, “There may be friction in the home, however.” But surely, reasoned Avery, by nine-thirty any respectable bird of ill omen must be safely tucked up in its nest, reading the runes for the following day.
“Is it all right?” he asked, mock-anxious.
“My love—it’s absolutely marvelous.” Tim reached out, and his slim El Greco fingers rested briefly, lightly on Avery’s arm. Avery’s face burned with the intensity of his pleasure, and his heart pounded. Tim never used an endearment or touched him when other people were present, and Avery had quickly learned that he must behave with the same propriety. Of course, it was only Nico but even so …
Avery breathed slowly and deeply, experiencing the spicy scents of the meat, the delicate fragrance of the jasmine in its hooped basket, the aroma of the wine, and the slightly acrid drip of the candles not just briefly in the membranes of his nose but pervasively, as if they had been injected into his bloodstream and were spreading languorously through his body. He broke a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth, and it was like the bread of angels.
The phone rang. Everyone groaned. Avery, who was nearest, pushed back his chair and, carrying his glass, went to answer it.
“Hullo? … Oh, hullo, darling.”
“Who is it?” Tim mouthed, silently.
Avery pressed the secrecy button. “The Wicked Witch of the West.”
“My condolences.”
“Tim sends his love, Rosa.”
“And mine.”
“And Nicholas. We’ve been having the most divine— Oh, all right. I’ll be quiet. There’s no need to be rude. One must go through these opening civilities, otherwise one might just as well take to the hills … Shut up yourself, if it comes to that.” He switched again. “Evil-tempered old crone.”