Corduroy Mansions

by Alexander McCall Smith

  James sighed. “That’s right. He’s dead now, of course. And people seem only to remember the fact that he was a spy. They don’t remember what he did for art history. Or for the Courtauld Institute. Or for all the students he helped.”

  William raised an eyebrow. “He spied for one of the greatest tyrannies the world has ever known,” he said. “He lived in a democracy but spied for a tyranny.”

  James was cautious. “He believed in his cause, I think. People really believed in communism; they thought that it was the only possible way out. And once he was recruited—as a young man—it might have been difficult to escape. I can imagine how easy it was to find oneself on the wrong side and then …”

  William thought for a moment. “Yes. It’s not as simple as people think it is.”

  “It never is,” said Marcia.

  “Yet I don’t condone what he did,” added William.

  “Nor do I,” said James.

  They looked at Caroline. “He had no real excuse,” she said. “What a mess he made of his life. And then he was publicly humiliated.”

  “Even if what he did seemed unforgivable,” said William, “perhaps we should still have forgiven him.”

  “Well, we can’t ask Blunt,” concluded James. “But there’s bound to be someone. So what do you want us to do, William?”

  Marcia now made a suggestion. “We’ve shown them the painting,” she said to William, talking as if Caroline and James were not in the room. “I think we should tell them about how we came to have it. About whose wardrobe it was in and so on. Then we can all decide what to do.”

  Caroline had already guessed. “It was Eddie’s wardrobe, wasn’t it?”

  William confirmed this, and added, “I think … well, I have to say that I think it’s stolen—how else would it be here?”

  “He may have bought it in an antique shop,” ventured Caroline. “Sometimes you see paintings hanging up in such places. They often have no idea what they’ve got.”

  William thought this unlikely. “Those characters—the dealers—know what’s what. If they see anything remotely interesting, they show it to an expert. It’s inconceivable these days that any antique dealer would let something like this slip through their fingers.” He paused. He had more to say on the subject of the painting’s provenance. “I should tell you, by the way, that I found a site on the Web. It lists stolen paintings, and there was nothing by Poussin, I’m sure. So—”

  “If the owner knew that it was a Poussin,” James interjected. “What if this had simply been an attractive painting hanging on his wall? He might have had no idea at all what he had. Then along comes somebody and steals it.”

  William winced. That somebody could have been his only son.

  86. Terence and Berthea

  “IT’S ENTIRELY UNSUITABLE,” said Berthea Snark. “You told me that you were buying a Peugeot. Now look what you’ve gone and done. You’ve bought a Porsche. What am I to think, Terence? Honestly, you tell me—what am I to think?”

  It was Tuesday morning, and Berthea was at breakfast in the garden room of her brother’s Queen Anne house on the edge of Cheltenham. It was a fine morning and the sun was streaming through the large glass windows, making brilliant the white tablecloth, glinting off the cutlery laid at each end of the breakfast table. It was a day that made Berthea glad that she had postponed her return to London and still had two weeks to spend in the bucolic surroundings of Cheltenham, even if looking after Terence was proving to be a frustrating task. One does not expect one’s brother to have a near-death experience when one goes to spend a few days with him; nor does one expect him to buy a totally unsuitable Porsche, when up to that point he has been perfectly content to drive a Morris Traveller.

  Terence, who was cutting the top off his boiled egg, seemed unconcerned. “It’s a lovely little car,” he said. “It used to belong to Monty Bismarck. So I know it’s been well looked after.”

  Berthea made a face: Monty Bismarck sounded a completely unsuitable man from whom to buy a car. “And who exactly is this Monty Bismarck? You’ve mentioned him before,” she said.

  “Monty is Alfie Bismarck’s son,” he explained. “Alfie has racehorses. A terribly nice man. He’s offered me a share in a racehorse on several occasions but I’ve never taken him up on it. Maybe I shall sometime in the future.”

  Berthea sighed. “I don’t think so, Terence. But tell me—why did you want a car like that? Is it a …” She hesitated. Terence was sensitive to criticism from her, but there were some questions that just demanded to be asked. “Is it a potency issue?”

  Terence looked at her in puzzlement. “I really don’t see what a car has to do with potency, of all things. What a funny thing to say, Berthy! You really are a silly-billy!”

  Berthea busied herself with the buttering of a piece of toast. “Well,” she said briskly, “don’t say that I didn’t warn you. I’ve had so many middle-aged male patients for whom the purchase of a car has been the first sign of something going awry. It’s the new car first and then it’s infidelity. New car, new girlfriend. It’s all so predictable.”

  Terence sighed. “But I don’t have anybody to be unfaithful to, Berthy. You know that.”

  Berthea’s hand was poised above the toast. Terence was not one for self-pity, and the absence of that unattractive quality made the words he had just uttered all the more poignant. Berthea looked at her brother and reflected on how we allow loneliness in others to escape our attention. The lonely are often brave, putting on the pretence of being content in their condition but all the time wanting the company of another. Was that how it was for Terence? Did he sit by himself in this morning room, contemplating empty days in which there would be nobody to speak to? Did he yearn for telephone calls that he knew would never come? She realised that his telephone never rang—indeed she had had no idea where it was until she had been obliged to look for it quickly when he had had his near-death experience. Poor Terence! And here she was sniping at him over his one little extravagance, the one bit of excitement in his life, this new Porsche of his. It was like laughing at a little boy’s new bicycle, like saying that it was too red, or too small, or that the girls would laugh at him as he rode it. It was every bit as mean as that.

  Berthea put down her knife. “Actually, Terence, I’m having second thoughts. Maybe it is just the car for you. It must be lovely and fast.”

  Terence responded immediately. “Oh it is, Berthy—it really is. Do you know, when I went for the test drive yesterday, Mr. Marchbanks and I did over forty-five miles an hour! You just touch the accelerator and zoom! Before you know it you’re doing forty and above.”

  Berthea tried to appear impressed. “And I bet it’s got a radio and CD player,” she said. “Surround-sound, I should think.” Berthea actually did not know what surround-sound was, but she did know that it was highly sought after and was just the thing for a Porsche.

  Terence looked blank. “Is there a radio? I’m not sure. And as for a gramophone, I expect it has one but I haven’t found it yet. We’ll have plenty of time to read the manual and see how to work everything. Plenty of time.”

  His own mention of time made him look at his watch. He was due at sacred dance in twenty minutes and, even if he was driving there in his Porsche, he would have to leave in ten minutes or thereabouts.

  “Sacred dance calls,” he said. “Are you going to come?”

  At first, Berthea’s response was to feel reluctant. She did not relish the thought of mixing with Terence’s peculiar friends—and they would be peculiar, because his friends had always been peculiar—but at the same time she felt that she owed it to her brother to go. She had pledged that she would. I must not be selfish, she told herself. I must be more supportive of poor Terence, Porsche and all.

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll come along. But what should I wear?”

  “Something loose,” said Terence. “I wear a tracksuit. But if you don’t have that, choose clothes that you can dance in. Noth
ing too tight.”

  Berthea remembered something. “Last time I was staying with you,” she said, “I left a tennis dress in the wardrobe. Do you think it will still be there?”

  “I’m sure that it will be,” said Terence. “And it would be ideal. We encourage white. My anorak, as you will see, is entirely white. So your tennis dress will be perfect. And I can lend you some white socks—I have plenty of those.”

  They went off to their respective rooms to get changed, and a short time afterwards met in the hall.

  “There we are,” said Terence. “Both of us quite white! The Beings of Light love white because that is the colour of their auras.”

  Berthea said that she was sure that they did. And would the Beings of Light be in attendance on this particular morning?

  “Of course they will,” said Terence. “They are always there, even if they are on a different plane. We can reach their plane by opening ourselves mentally to their thought-realm. That can be done through sacred dance.”

  “I look forward to it,” said Berthea.

  She wanted to ask how long it would take but felt it would be tactless. Terence’s functions always seemed to go on far too long, and she was sure that sacred dance would be no exception. She did not ask. She would be positive about this. Think positively, she whispered under her breath.

  “What was that?” asked Terence. “Did you say something, Berthy?”

  “I said I’m positively looking forward to this, Terence.”

  He beamed. “I’m so happy, Berthy. And did I tell you? The BBC people are coming to make a programme about us. They’ll be there at the dance, filming. So just think—your friends might see you! What fun!”

  87. Sacred Dance

  THE SACRED DANCE MEETING was held on the back lawn of a large Victorian house belonging to a member of the group.

  “It’s the best possible place,” Terence explained to Berthea as they walked round the side of the house. “Minnie—she lives here—has been in the group since it started. She went to Bulgaria two years ago and danced on some of the sacred mountains there. They were not far from Peter Deunov’s birthplace at one point, and Minnie said that the presences were very strong. The energy fields that Peter Deunov left behind him—wherever he travelled—were just overwhelming, Berthy. You know, some people say that this happens with lots of spiritual leaders. Places are different after they’ve been there. They change them.”

  “Highly unlikely,” said Berthea. “That last Pope, for instance—he travelled a lot. Were all those airports somehow different after he had been through them?”

  “Very possibly,” said Terence. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but very possibly they were.”

  Berthea chose to say nothing. It was the best thing to do with Terence, she had decided. There was no point in trying to persuade him of anything; he was on another wavelength altogether and he simply did not take in what you said, no matter how hard you tried.

  They rounded the house and found themselves at the edge of a sweeping lawn, beautifully tended, surrounded on three sides by a tall yew hedge. In the middle of the lawn a group of about twelve people, all dressed in white, were standing in a semi-circle, hands joined. Beside them, conspicuous for their dark clothes, stood two men, one with a large video camera resting on his shoulder. The cameraman was engaged in conversation with one of the dancers, who was describing circular movements with his hands.

  Terence turned to Berthea. “Oh look, Berthy! The BBC!”

  Berthea had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t know if I want to dance with them looking on,” she said. “They’ll … they’ll interfere with the flow. Spoil the karma.”

  Terence was not going to be put off by this. He turned to his sister and shook a finger. “Naughty, naughty! I see that the Devil can quote scripture for his own purposes! Naughty!”

  One of the dancers, a small woman somewhere in middle age, came over to join them. She looked inquisitively at Berthea and then turned her gaze to Terence.

  “I’ve brought my sister,” said Terence. “Minnie, this is Berthea. And Berthea, this is Minnie.”

  “Peace be with you,” said Minnie.

  Terence leaned over and whispered to Berthea. “You say: ‘Peace be upon your house, and in your steps.’”

  Berthea did as she was told. In what steps? she wondered. In the steps of the house? Or in the steps of the dance?

  Minnie acknowledged the greeting. “I thought perhaps you had brought a girlfriend, Terence,” she said playfully.

  “I’m between girlfriends,” said Terence.

  “Oh well,” said Minnie. “Such a gay cavalier! There’ll always be another time. The Beings of Light are patient. They think in centuries.”

  “I would have thought that they don’t think at all,” said Berthea. “Are they not above thought?”

  There was complete silence. The other dancers, who had been chatting to one another, all turned and stared at Berthea.

  She gulped; there was no going back now. “Time is meaningless,” she said. “It is … without meaning.”

  The silence persisted. “Without time, we are timeless,” Berthea went on.

  Now there was a buzz of excited conversation. Minnie raised a hand for people to be quiet. “Our sister has revealed something to us today,” she said. “And what she says is … Well, it’s just so true. And now I’d like to dedicate our first dance to an interpretation of our sister’s insight. This dance will be called ‘Without Time We Are Timeless.’ Our sister will stand in the middle of the circle to represent time itself. We shall weave around her, all holding hands, inviting the Beings of Light to join us. Then we’ll see what happens.”

  Bertha found herself pushed into the middle of the circle. From a woman standing on the edge of the circle she heard the comment, “That’s a tennis dress, you know. It is not a pure garment at all.” She did not see who said it, though, and so could not respond with a discouraging glare. She was conscious of the BBC camera, which was moving from one member of the group to another, its automatic telephoto lens whirring in and out as the focus adjusted.

  The dancers began to move round in a circular motion, like the figures in Matisse’s painting. Some of them were chanting, others were silent, but all were smiling benignly as they danced. Minnie occasionally uttered a high-pitched whistling sound.

  “O Sister Time,” implored Minnie. “Tell us about time.”

  “Yes,” sang a thin woman dancing next to Minnie. “Enlighten us, O timeless one.”

  Berthea, who had been swaying slowly from side to side, more from embarrassment than conviction, looked at her wristwatch; she would have to say something.

  “It’s ten-thirty,” she chanted.

  “Ten-thirty!” repeated one or two of the dancers.

  At this point the BBC cameraman, who was standing just outside the circle, his camera trained on the dancers, began to laugh. Minnie, looking over her shoulder, frowned at him, as did the thin woman who had also been singing invocations to Sister Time.

  “I’m sorry,” muttered the cameraman, trying to control himself. But it was just too difficult, and the camera resting on his shoulder began to wobble wildly. His assistant, who was holding a powerful lamp on an extended pole, began to giggle.

  “Beings of Light!” intoned Minnie.

  “That’s you,” muttered the cameraman to his assistant.

  This brought more giggles from the lighting man.

  “Stop!” shouted Minnie, clapping her hands together. “We have some very negative forces present today.” She turned and glared at the cameraman. “You’re behaving very discourteously,” she admonished, “and I must ask you to leave.”

  The cameraman lowered his camera. “I’m sorry,” he spluttered. “I really am. It’s just that … You know how it is, sometimes one gets an attack of the giggles for no reason at all. It’s nothing to do with you.”

  “But it is,” said Minnie, shaking a finger at him. “It’s
everything to do with us. You think we’re funny, don’t you? Oh, there are plenty of people like you, you know—people who mock the spiritual lives of others. We admitted you to our dance and now you’re laughing at us.”

  The cameraman looked down at the lawn.

  “I think you should leave,” said Berthea from the centre of the circle. “It’s easy to laugh, isn’t it?”

  The cameraman looked at her with regret. His assignment was ruined; they would never get an interview with Minnie now. He would have to explain himself to his editor. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

  Berthea looked at him intently. She was the hard-bitten psychoanalyst now. She was angered by this man and his presumptions.

  “I don’t think that you’re really sorry,” said Berthea. “Not really. You’ll laugh at these people behind their backs, won’t you? The moment you leave. Your type thinks it funny to humiliate people, to laugh at them.”

  The cameraman turned to his assistant. “We’d better pack up, Bill.”

  The assistant nodded.

  “We shall resume our dance in due course,” said Minnie. “Agreed?”

  The dancers all agreed.

  “They’re jolly rude,” said Terence, with some force. “But then what can you expect these days? Everybody’s so rude.”

  88. Through the Letterbox

  IT HAD BEEN WILLIAM’S IDEA that James should take the Poussin with him.

  “There’s no point my trying to find out anything more about it,” he said, pressing the painting into James’s hands. “You take it and show it to the right person.”

  James looked at the painting dubiously. It was nice to hold a Poussin, but a stolen Poussin? He glanced uncertainly at Caroline.

  “Or Caroline could hold on to it,” he suggested. “Then it can stay safely here in Corduroy Mansions. My place …”

  Caroline came to the rescue. “Is less secure,” she supplied. “James’s building has had two break-ins recently. Or is it three, James?”

  “One, actually,” said James. “The flat downstairs was broken into last month. They didn’t take much. Just some books. A literate burglar apparently.”