Angus let out a hoot of laughter, but he noticed that Pat looked puzzled. Leaning across the table he whispered to her:
“Mrs Khrushchev, my dear, was a terrible sight. One of those round, squat Russian women whom one imagined picking potatoes or working in a tractor factory.
“Mind you,” he went on, “Russian women weren’t the only frumps. I had a friend who was once invited to meet a foreign leader (a delightful chap, now, alas, deceased) and was being shown around the leader’s tent – he lived, you see, under canvas.
Anyway, he saw this picture of a very ugly-looking chap hanging on the side of the tent and he was about to ask: ‘Who’s that 340 Not an Ending – More an Adjournment man?’ when an official leaned forward and whispered to him:
‘That, sir, is our beloved leader’s mother.’”
100. Not an Ending – More an Adjournment The salmon was entirely consumed, and at least one pair of longing eyes was directed to the empty plate on which the large timbale had stood; but there was to be no more, and those who had hoped for a second helping were sent empty away. But more was to come; now they progressed to the venison cassoulet, accompanied by Sardinian Rocca Rubia, a wine which Philip Contini himself had pressed into Domenica’s hands; and beyond that to the apple tart with the Celtic-inspired pastry strips.
The conversation around the table was noisy and enthusiastic, as wide-ranging as it always was in Domenica’s flat – that was her effect upon others, a freeing of the tongue, an enlargement of confidence. Even Pat, who might have felt inhibited in such accomplished company, found herself expounding with ease on obtuse topics, emboldened by Domenica’s smile and encouraging nods of agreement. And outside, slowly, the light faded into that state of semi-darkness of the Scottish mid-summer; not dark, not light, but somewhere in between, a simmer dim perhaps, or something like it.
At one point, at an early stage of the dinner, Domenica heard, but only faintly, the sound of Bertie practising his saxophone downstairs, and grinned. She glanced at Angus and at Pat; they as well had both heard, and smiled too, for they could picture Domenica’s young neighbour at his music stand, under the supervising gaze of his mother. Poor Bertie, thought Angus, what a burden for a boy to bear in this life, to have a mother like that, and how discerning Cyril had been when he bit her ankle in Dundas Street. And although on that famous occasion he had been obliged to look apologetic and to administer swift Not an Ending – More an Adjournment 341
punishment to Cyril, his heart had not been in the retribution, and, as soon as possible, he had rewarded the dog with a reassuring pat on the head and the promise of a bone for his moral courage.
And as Angus remembered this incident, Domenica found herself thinking of how well Auden’s words in his poem on the death of Freud fitted Bertie’s situation. He had written there of the child “unlucky in his little State,” of the hearth from which freedom was excluded; such powerful lines to express both the liberating power of Freudian insights, but also to describe the plight of a child. Of course, Auden had believed in Freud then, had imagined that the problem of human wickedness was a problem for psychology, a belief which he had later abandoned when he had come to recognise that evil could be something other than that. On balance, Domenica thought that she agreed here with the younger rather than the older Auden. What tyrant has had a happy childhood?
When they rose from the table to go through for coffee, Angus came up to Domenica and took her hand briefly. It was an unusual gesture for him, and Domenica looked down, almost in surprise, at his hand upon hers, and he, embarrassed, let go of her.
“I wanted to thank you for the apple tart,” he said. “You know I like it.”
“That is why I chose it,” she said.
“Well, thank you,” he said.
“You heard Bertie playing back then?” she asked. “I believe it was ‘Mood Indigo.’”
Angus nodded. “It was.” He paused for a moment. “He’ll be all right, that wee boy. He’ll be all right.”
Domenica hesitated before she replied. But yes, she thought he would be, and this comforted her. As they entered the drawing room, she turned to Angus and whispered to him: “You will say something, won’t you? They’ll be expecting it, you know. You always have a poem for these occasions.”
Angus glanced at his fellow guests. “Are you sure they want to hear from me?”
342 Not an Ending – More an Adjournment Domenica was sure, and a few minutes later, when everybody was settled with their coffee, she announced to her guests that Angus had a poem to read.
“Not exactly to read,” he said.
“But it is there, isn’t it?” pressed Domenica. And she thought, as she spoke, perhaps I would get used to canine company after all. Yes, why not?
Angus put down his cup and moved to the window. There was still a glow of light in the sky, which was high, and empty, the faintest of blues now, washed out. Then he turned round, and he saw then that every guest, every one present, was a friend, and that he cherished them. So the words came to him, and he said:
Dear friends, we are the inhabitants Of a city which can be loved, as any place may be, In so many different and particular ways; But who amongst us can predict
For which reasons, and along which fault lines, Will the heart of each of us
Be broken? I cannot, for I am moved
By so many different and unexpected things: by our sky, Which at each moment may change its mood at whim With clouds in such a hurry to be somewhere else; By our lingering haars, by our eccentric skyline, All crags and spires and angular promises, By the way we feel in Scotland, yes, simply that; These are the things that break my heart In a way for which I am never quite prepared –
The surprises of a love affair that lasts a lifetime.
But what breaks the heart the most, I think, Is the knowledge that what we have
We all must lose; I don’t much care for denial, But if pressed to say goodbye, that final word On which even the strongest can stumble, I am not above pretending
Not an Ending – More an Adjournment 343
That the party continues elsewhere,
With a guest list that’s mostly the same, And every bit as satisfactory;
That what we think are ends are really adjournments, An entr’acte, an interval, not real goodbyes; And perhaps they are, dear friends, perhaps they are.