Bertie Plays the Blues

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Just as it was now, in this small room in a building tucked away in a discreet Southside street. From the outside, the building was unexceptional; a small 19th-century warehouse, the passer-by might think, a tiny Victorian school perhaps, or the office of some ancient printer, now defunct. Nothing on the building’s façade would indicate otherwise except for a small stone device above the front door’s fanlight – a set of callipers – that gave the game away.

  Stuart was now in the anteroom of Lodge No. 345, Star of the Heavenly Firmament, a branch of the Antient Free and Accepted Masons of Scotland (founded 1736). He had been initially quite alone, left to contemplate in silence the step that he was about to take, but was now joined by another initiate, who sat down in the apparently equally uncomfortable chair next to his.

  Stuart smiled at the new arrival. “You too?” he said.

  The other man was considerably younger than Stuart. He smiled warmly and extended a hand. “My name’s Keith, by the way. We aren’t allowed to give the proper handshake just yet,” he said. “But we shall be in … what, half an hour’s time?”

  Stuart introduced himself. “They said we’d have a bit of a wait. They have a lot to do in there.” He nodded in the direction of the closed door on the other side of the room. From underneath this door, a light could be made out burning in the room beyond – a light that was suitably dim for the mysteries it illuminated.

  “I’ve been meaning to join for the last three years,” said Keith. “Ever since my twenty-first birthday. My grandfather was in this lodge, you see, and my father too. My father lives in Australia now and so he’s in a lodge in Adelaide. But he kept nagging me to join here. So this is it.”

  Stuart was impressed by the connections. “Your grandfather?” he said. “Well, that’s something.”

  “Yes,” said Keith. “And it stood him in good stead in the war. He was taken prisoner by the Japanese in Singapore and held in Changi – you know that place where they have the airport these days. They were half-starved and the Japanese were terribly cruel. They executed prisoners by chopping their heads off with swords. They beat them mercilessly. Thousands of men died.”

  Stuart nodded. It was true.

  “My grandfather was in a pretty bad way at one point, but there was this Australian officer who saw how things were going for him. He knew that anybody who became too ill to work or to look after himself would probably not make it. When they met, my grandfather gave him the handshake and so he knew that he was a fellow mason. The officer managed to get hold of some extra food for my grandfather by arranging to have it stolen from the Japanese officers’ mess. If he had been found out, he would have been executed straight away. But he did it, and he saved my grandfather’s life. The Aussies were very brave.

  “Not that I’m joining in case I need to have my life saved,” Keith went on. “But I’ll tell you this, Stuart: my grandfather’s life was saved a second time. Yes, I’m not making this up. After the war he went to Malaya, where he ran a rubber plantation for a firm in Dundee. There was a big communist uprising there – remember? – and a lot of these rubber plantations came under attack. It was pretty dangerous. Anyway, my grandfather went into town one day and on the way back his truck broke down. A vehicle came along after a while and this chap got out and they shook hands. Same handshake.

  “My grandfather didn’t want to leave his vehicle and so the other man offered to drive off for help. But he didn’t want to leave him unarmed, and so he left him a sten gun he had with him. He – the man who had come along – was prepared to take the risk of travelling without it just so that my grandfather could have something to ward off attack, if he needed it. How about that? Thinking of the other fellow first – that’s what this is all about.”

  Stuart nodded. “And what happened?”

  “My grandfather came under attack, but he fired a few shots with his sten gun and they skedaddled into the jungle. But his life had been saved a second time by the fraternal handshake.”

  “Amazing,” said Stuart. He thought it unlikely that his own life would be saved by the handshake, but one never knew.

  The young man became silent, and they both stared for a while at the facing wall, which was covered in photographs of men wearing ceremonial sashes and aprons. From where he was sitting, Stuart strained to make out the faces in some of the pictures. His statistician’s eye, by ancient habit, calculated the age of each person in each photograph, and then stopped. He knew him, and, yes, he knew him too. And that man in the middle was surely … yes, it was. Well, no doubt he got at least some votes that way … and there, if he was not mistaken, was his bank manager.

  “Are you married?” Keith asked suddenly.

  “Yes,” said Stuart. “And you?”

  “No. I’ve got a long-term girlfriend, though. I’ve bought her a Masonic brooch. It’s got some of the symbols on it. Enamelled. She’s really pleased.”

  Stuart closed his eyes. He was imagining himself presenting Irene with a Masonic brooch, symbols and all. It was a difficult envisioning.

  36. Stuart is Initiated

  The door on the opposite wall opened and an apron-wearing man, laden with regalia, stepped out.

  “You’re first, Pollock,” he said.

  Stuart stood up. He had been told what to expect, but now, as the Lodge officer helped him take off his shirt, he felt his heart thumping heavily within his exposed chest.

  “Put this on,” said the officer, handing him a curious one-sided garment, a half shirt of the sort that would have been perfectly fitting for Italo Calvino’s bifurcated viscount. On one side it was complete, with a full and buttoned sleeve; on the other it simply did not exist, so that there was only half a collar, half a back, half a front – the division being entirely vertical. Stuart slipped into it and the officer tied the pieces of tape that would prevent the shirt from slipping off his right shoulder. Then the officer placed a loose piece of cord about his neck, rather like the lanyard of a military uniform.

  “Please take off your left shoe and left sock,” the officer said. “Then roll your trouser leg up to just below the knee.”

  Stuart complied. He felt rather like Robinson Crusoe, he decided – clad in clothing that had been half torn off by wind and wave, trouser leg prepared for a walk along a deserted beach.

  “Now then,” said the officer. “Are you ready to go ahead with this?”

  Stuart nodded, and then swallowed. He tried to keep Irene out of his mind, but now, faced with this question, he heard her voice echoing within his head. You did what, Stuart? You rolled up your trouser leg? Am I hearing this correctly?

  The officer moved towards the door, which now opened as if under its own momentum. Stuart followed him, entering the room to find himself flanked by two supporters, armigers perhaps, who gently propelled him into the centre of the room. There, standing beside a table, was the Grand Master. His, at least, was a familiar face, as Stuart had been interviewed by him before his application to join the Lodge had been submitted.

  There were lights behind the Grand Master, and these shone directly in Stuart’s eyes, imparting a halo to the Grand Master himself and bathing his assistants with gold. Stuart blinked as the first and fundamental question of the oath was administered: did he believe in the Great Architect of the Universe?

  This was no time for theological debate, but even as he began to answer this question – to which, in these circumstances, there could be only one answer, or at least that was the case if an initiate wished to be admitted to the Lodge – he wondered whether his response would be entirely truthful. And would you really want to lie if you were faced with a Grand Master asking such a thing?

  You could hardly say, “It depends on what you mean by a Great Architect.” People who asked you whether or not you believed in x or y – especially with a light behind them – tended not to be interested in equivocation – in much the same way as customs officers are not interested in hearing their query as to quantities of whisky in one’
s suitcase answered with debates on what was meant by whisky. Was there a Great Architect? Was the notion of a great architect any different from the idea of God as explained in Sunday schools or catechism classes, or New College on the Mound for that matter? Calling him a great architect suggested a degree of purpose and a design sense, indeed, that a concept of a creator did not necessarily entail. One might have such a being who simply brought matter into existence but who did not plan the outcome in any way; any thoughtful consideration of the world, with its chaos and its suffering, perhaps lent a certain attractiveness to such a theory.

  Stuart felt that he could believe in that, and did so, in a rather vague and unarticulated way. He thought that there could well be something other than that which we saw; some motivating force, some directing principle; he believed that to be so because he felt it; he felt it when he experienced love, or joy, or a sense of wonder. He felt it when he penetrated to the heart of a mathematical theorem – as he had done as a student at university – and saw in the figures and symbols an underlying beauty. Perhaps the Great Architect was really the Great Mathematician; that was an altogether easier concept for him.

  “Yes,” he said. “I believe in the Great Architect.”

  The Grand Master then said something that Stuart did not understand. It sounded rather like Bemofmpth, and when the word was repeated by the varying grand panjandrums standing in a circle, by the masters in the third to twenty-sixth degree, by the grand this and the grand that, it also sounded rather like Bemofmph.

  “Repeat after me: As surely as the sun sinks in the west,” intoned the Grand Master, “and the great star of Jerusalem and all the Orient rises in the third quarter of the Great Arch, so shall my soul wither and fall from the vine should I reveal, to those not entitled to receive it, any word or whisper of these proceedings of the Grand Scottish Rite, including this initiation ceremony.”

  Stuart repeated the words, which had been helpfully printed out in a small manual thrust into his hands. Then there were further oaths, with many references to arches, quadrants, corners and even U-bends. After these had been administered, there was a formal handshake with the Grand Master, in which the Master’s forefinger was firmly pressed on an upper knuckle of Stuart’s right hand, while Stuart placed his heels together and his toes sticking out – “on the square” as the position was described. This was followed by the ceremonial unrolling of his trouser leg, and the donning of his original shirt.

  “Congratulations!” whispered one of the brothers as Stuart took his place in their ranks. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  Stuart thanked him, and smiled. It had not been too bad at all, and for all the mumbo-jumbo of ritual, the essential point of it all seemed clear to him. He was being received into something that stood for honour and dedication to sound community values. These men were simply underlining the fact that they all accepted and practised the same values, which were entirely defensible ones: that you should act with integrity; that you should be truthful; that you should strive to help others. What was wrong with that? Nothing, he thought.

  37. We Meet the Duke of Johannesburg

  At the end of the ceremony Stuart and Keith were given the opportunity to mingle with their newly acquired Masonic brothers. Stuart, relieved that the ordeal of initiation was over, felt a curious sense of exhilaration, an almost light-headed feeling of special accomplishment. He was now a mason – fully fledged and inducted. It was, moreover, something that he had done personally, without any reference to his wife; it was, he realised, something that was authentic to him and to him alone, and in fact the first authentic thing he had done for years – almost for the whole period of his marriage.

  He looked about him. Most of these men had wives, he assumed, and these wives would know all about their husbands’ Masonic involvement. He wondered whether they would be shocked if he were to reveal that he had not told Irene about this. Would they regard him as weak, or even dishonest, in not telling her? Would he be considered to have failed a Masonic standard of probity, even at this early stage of his career as a member?

  He was thinking about this, sipping at a cup of tea, when a well-built man wearing an ornate green apron and matching sash came up to him.

  “You’re the new brother. Congratulations on joining. Well done!”

  Stuart studied the other man while they shook hands. “Thank you. I’m very pleased.” He noticed the large, confident moustache, the welcoming expression, and the confident bearing. This was a man best described as clubbable.

  “I should introduce myself,” said the stranger. “I’m the Duke of Johannesburg. Call me Johannesburg – it’s simpler.”

  Stuart’s eyes widened. He had not expected a duke – but then there was much that he had not expected that day.

  “I’ve been a member for a long time,” continued the Duke. “Can’t remember exactly why I joined, but it’s a good group of people and the objectives are fine. All we do, as far as I can work out, is raise money for charity. That, and dress up. And I don’t see what’s wrong with that. The way people go on about the masons, you’d think we were some sort of sinister society. Nothing could be further from the truth. Why do people criticise things they know nothing about? Can you throw any light on that?”

  “None at all,” said Stuart. “Unless it’s resentment. Envy and resentment make people suspicious. They don’t like people to have fun. They don’t like people to enjoy themselves. These people want to stop things.”

  “My views exactly,” said the Duke. “You’d think the press would have better things to do than drop dark hints about freemasonry. Nonsense – complete nonsense.” He paused. “Unless it’s the oaths they worry about. You know this business about not being able to stop being a mason. People go on about that. That, and the oaths, perhaps. I must say that oaths are a bit much, but then I followed a very simple expedient when I took mine.”

  Stuart was curious, and asked the Duke what it was.

  “I crossed my fingers,” said the Duke. “As I was taking the oath, I had the fingers of my left hand crossed. I’ve always done that – ever since I was in short trousers. I crossed my fingers if I had to make a promise I didn’t want to keep, or if I had no alternative but to tell some fib. We all did that as children.”

  “That means you’re not bound?”

  The Duke smiled. “Morally, I suppose one is. Promises should be kept, as any moral philosopher will tell you. As anybody will tell you, I suppose. But if you cross your fingers it means that you have some sort of mental reservation, and therefore are not quite as bound as you otherwise might be.” He looked apologetic; as if he were defending some dubious proposition and needed support.

  “Mental reservation is an interesting concept,” the Duke continued. “Rome uses it to give people annulments of marriage. If you can show that your spouse had a mental reservation about having children, then you can get the whole thing set aside by the Holy Roman Rota. It’s frightfully useful.

  “But they don’t throw it around, you know. There are people who claim that you can get an annulment on the grounds of mental reservation simply by sending a postal order for ten and sixpence to Rome. That’s quite untrue. They’re very careful about that sort of thing.”

  Stuart began to say something, but the Duke had not finished.

  “Speaking of marriage,” he went on, “I’ve just heard the most wonderful story from a Sri Lankan friend of mine.

  “Apparently there was a marriage registration officer who was taking down details from an engaged couple who were applying for a marriage licence. The official asked the young man his name and was given the reply ‘da Silva’. So he solemnly wrote that down. Then he turned to the young woman and said, ‘And what is your good name?’ They love the expression good name. She replied ‘da Silva’. So he started to write that down and then paused and looked at her. ‘Any relation?’ he asked.” The Duke himself paused before continuing. “The young woman looked a bit embarrassed and then said, very
coyly, ‘Only once, sir!’”

  “Hah!” said Stuart.

  “Indeed,” said the Duke, looking around him. “It’s fascinating to see how ubiquitous our Masonic brethren are. Virtually everybody’s one, you know.” He leaned forward to address Stuart with the air of one imparting a particularly significant secret. “Did you know that if you look at the proportions of the Edinburgh New Town, they reveal pi, a very Masonic number? Did you know that?”

  Stuart confessed that he did not.

  “Well,” said the Duke, “if you take the distance from the Royal Bank of Scotland building in St Andrew Square to the corner of Charlotte Square and Glenfinlas Street – which I believe is a distance of 469.3 metres – and then divide it by the width of the New Town – from Princes Street to Queen Street – which I understand is 149.4 metres, then the result is 3.142, which is pretty much pi.”

  The Duke let this information sink in. Then, when it had, he whispered to Stuart, “My God, I could do with a whisky! All you get in this place is tea. It makes me really relieved that I crossed my fingers when I took the oath and that I’m therefore not a real Mason. You, by contrast, I’m afraid, are the real McCoy! Bad luck, my dear chap!”

  “Not bad luck at all,” retorted Stuart. “I’m proud of what I am … Your Grace!”

  38. On the Machair

  The following Wednesday, Domenica awoke early, and in a state of lightness of soul that she had not experienced for years; how one feels at twenty, she thought. She was normally a sound sleeper, awakening regularly each morning at six thirty, at least in the summer; in winter, when the sun did not reach Edinburgh until after nine o’clock – if it reached it at all – she was slower to emerge from her bedroom. What was the point in getting up early if it was only to survey the encircling gloom and to shiver?