‘You will excuse Albert for serving me first,’ Doctor Fischer said.
‘I adore Caviare,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘I could live on it.’
‘You could afford to live on it if you were prepared to spend your own money.’
‘I’m not such a rich woman as all that.’
‘Why bother to lie to me? If you weren’t as rich as you are you would not be sitting at this table. I invite only the very rich.’
‘What about Mr Jones?’
‘He is here as an observer rather than as a guest, but of course, as he is my son-in-law, he may imagine he has great expectations. Expectations too are a form of wealth. I am sure Mr Kips could arrange him substantial credits, and expectations are not taxable - he wouldn’t need to consult Monsieur Belmont. Albert, the bibs.’
For the first time I noticed that there were no napkins by our places. Albert was fastening a bib round Mrs Montgomery’s neck. She gave a squeal of pleasure.
‘Ecrevisses! I love ecrevisses.’
‘We haven’t toasted the late lamented Monsieur Groseli, the Divisionnaire said, adjusting his bib. ‘I won’t pretend that I ever liked that man.’
‘Hurry up then, while Albert fetches your dinner. To Monsieur Groseli. He only attended two of our dinners before dying of cancer, so I had no time to study his character. If I had known of the cancer I would never have invited him to join us. I expect my guests to entertain me for a much longer time. Ah, here is your dinner, so I can now begin my own.’
Mrs Montgomery gave a high shriek. ‘Why, this is porridge, cold porridge.’
‘Real Scotch porridge. You should appreciate it, with your Scotch name.’ Doctor Fischer gave himself a helping of Caviare and poured himself out a glass of vodka.
‘It will destroy all our appetite,’ Deane said.
‘Don’t be afraid of that. There is nothing to follow.’
‘This is going too far, Doctor Fischer,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘Cold porridge. Why, it’s totally inedible.’
‘Don’t eat it then. Don’t eat it, Mrs Montgomery. By the rules you will only lose your little present. To tell you the truth I ordered porridge especially for Jones. I had thought of some partridges, but how could he have managed with one hand? ‘
To my astonishment I saw that the Divisionaire and Richard Deane had begun to eat and Mr Kips had at least picked up his spoon.
‘If we could have a little sugar,’ Belmont said, ‘it might perhaps help. ‘
‘I understand that the Welsh - no, no, I remember, Jones - I mean the Scots - consider it a blasphemy to spoil their porridge with sugar. They even eat it, I am told, with salt. You may certainly have salt. Offer the gentlemen salt, Albert. Mrs Montgomery has decided to go hungry.’
‘Oh no, I won’t ruin your little joke, Doctor Fischer. Give me the salt. It can’t make the porridge any worse than it is.’
Within a minute or two to my wonder they were all eating in silence and with a grim intensity. Perhaps the porridge clogged their tongues. ‘You don’t attempt yours, Jones?’ Doctor Fischer asked me and he helped himself to a little more Caviare.
‘I’m not hungry enough.’
‘Nor rich enough,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘For several years now I have been studying the greediness of the rich. “To him that hath shall be given” - those cynical words of Christ they take very literally. “Given” not “earned”, you notice. The presents I hand out when the dinner is over they could easily afford to give themselves, but then they would have earned them if only by signing a cheque. The rich hate signing cheques. Hence the success of credit cards. One card takes the place of a hundred cheques. They’ll do anything to get their presents for nothing. This is one of the hardest tests I’ve submitted them to yet, and look how quickly they are eating up their cold porridge, so that the time for the presents will arrive. You, I am afraid, will get nothing, if you don’t eat.’
‘I have something of more value than your present waiting for me at home.’
‘Very gallantly put,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘but don’t be too confident. Women don’t always wait. I doubt if a missing hand aids romance. Albert, Mr Deane is ready for a second helping.’
‘Oh no,’ Mrs Montgomery said, ‘no, not second helpings. ‘
‘It’s for the sake of Mr Deane. I want to fatten him so that he can play Falstaff.’
Deane gave him a furious look, but he accepted the second helping.
‘I’m joking, of course. Deane could no more play Falstaff than Britt Ekland could play Cleopatra. Deane is not an actor: he is a sex object. Teenage girls worship him, Jones. How disappointed they would be if they could see him without his clothes. I have reason to believe that he suffers from premature ejaculation. Perhaps the porridge will slow you down, Deane, my poor fellow. Albert, another plate for Mr Kips and I see Mrs Montgomery is nearly ready. Hurry up, Divisionnaire, hurry up, Belmont. No presents before everyone has finished.’ I was reminded of a huntsman controlling his pack with a crack of the whip.
‘Watch them, Jones. They are so anxious to be finished that they even forget to drink.’
‘I don’t suppose Yvorne goes well with porridge.’
‘Have a good laugh at them, Jones. They won’t take it amiss. ‘
‘I don’t find them funny.’
‘Of course I agree that a party like this has a serious side, but all the same… Aren’t you reminded a little of pigs eating out of a trough? You would almost think they enjoy it. Mr Kips has spilt some porridge over his shirt. Clean him up, Albert.’
‘You revolt me, Doctor Fischer.’
He turned his eyes towards me: they were like the polished chips of a pale blue stone. Some grey beads of Caviare had lodged in his red moustache.
‘Yes, I can understand how you feel. I sometimes feel that way myself, - but my research must go on to its end.
I won’t give up now. Bravo, Divisionnaire. You are catching them up. You ply a good spoon, Deane, my boy, I wish your female admirers could see you at this moment, guzzling away.’
‘Why do you do it?’ I asked.
‘Why should I tell you? You are not one of us. You never will be. Don’t count on your expectations from me.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You have a poor man’s pride, I see. After all, why shouldn’t I tell you. You are a sort of son. I want to discover, Jones, if the greed of our rich friends has any limit. If there’s a “Thus far and no further.” If a day will come when they’ll refuse to earn their presents. Their greed certainly isn’t limited by pride. You can see that for yourself tonight. Mr Kips, like Herr Krupp, would have sat down happily to eat with Hitler in expectation of favours, whatever was placed before him. The Divisionnaire has spilled porridge down his bib. Give him a clean one, Albert. I think that tonight will mark the end of one experiment. I am playing with another idea.’
‘You are a rich man yourself. Are there limits to your greed? ‘
‘Perhaps I shall find out one day. But my greed is of a different kind to theirs. I’m not greedy for trinkets, Jones.’
‘Trinkets are harmless enough.’
‘I like to think that my greed is a little more like God’s.’
‘Is God greedy?’
‘Oh, don’t think for a moment I believe in him any more than I believe in the devil, but I have always found theology an amusing intellectual game. Albert, Mrs Montgomery has finished her porridge. You can take her plate. What was I saying?’
‘That God is greedy.’
‘Well, the believers and the sentimentalists say that he is greedy for our love. I prefer to think that, judging from the world he is supposed to have made, he can only be greedy for our humiliation, and that greed how could he ever exhaust? It’s bottomless. The world grows more and more miserable while he twists the endless screw, though he gives us presents - for a universal suicide would defeat his purpose - to alleviate the humiliations we suffer. A cancer of the rectum, a streaming cold, incontinence. For example, you are a poor man, so he gives you a small present, my daughter, to keep you satisfied a little longer.’