Espresso Tales 4ss-2

by Alexander McCall Smith

  101. In the Bookshop

  Seated on a comfortable blue sofa in the coffee shop of Ottakar’s Bookshop, Domenica Macdonald was in conversation with her old friend, Dilly Emslie. Beside her, in a plastic shopping bag, lay Domenica’s haul from her trip to the bookshop: a racy biography of an eighteenth-century German princeling (or Domenica hoped it was racy – the cover certainly suggested that, but covers were notoriously meretricious), a history of aspirin, and a novel about a young woman who went 330 In the Bookshop

  to London, discovered it was a mistake, and returned to her small town in Northumbria, where nothing happened for the remainder of the book.

  “I almost bought a book about pirates,” Domenica remarked.

  “Pirates are such an interesting subject, don’t you think? And yet there are very few anthropological studies of pirate life.”

  “It must be rather difficult to do,” Dilly said thoughtfully.

  “Presumably pirates wouldn’t exactly encourage anthropologists.”

  Domenica took a sip of her espresso. “I’m not sure about that,” she said. “Most people are flattered by attention. And remember that anthropologists have studied all sorts of apparently dangerous people. Head-hunters in New Guinea, for example. Those people became very used to having an anthropologist about the place. Some of them became quite dependent on their anthropologists – rather like some people become rather dependent on their social workers.”

  “But of course it’s a bit late now, don’t you think?” said Dilly.

  “Today’s pirates must be rather elusive.”

  “There are more than you imagine,” said Domenica. “I gather that the South China Seas are riddled with them. And they’re becoming bolder and bolder. They even try to board tankers and ships like that. They’re very piratical.”

  The two friends were silent for a moment. There was a certain incongruity in discussing pirates in George Street. But Domenica had a further thought. “Do you know that pirates used to be quite active, even in British waters? They used to plague the south coast of England, coming ashore and carrying off the local women into captivity. Can you imagine going about your day-to-day business in your kitchen and suddenly having a large pirate bursting in and carrying one off ? What a shock it must have been.”

  Dilly agreed. It must have been very disruptive, she thought.

  Domenica warmed to her theme. “Of course, it might have suited some women to be carried off by pirates. You know, the plainer sort of girl may have found it livened up her life a bit, don’t you think? In fact, one might just imagine groups of plainer girls having endless picnics on likely-looking cliffs, just on the In the Bookshop

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  off-chance that a pirate ship might go past. Waving, perhaps, to attract attention . . .”

  They both laughed.

  “That’s enough about pirates,” said Dilly. “What about you, Domenica? What have you been up to?”

  Domenica thought for a moment. What had she been up to?

  The answer, it seemed, was very little. She had gone nowhere, she had stopped writing the paper she was working on, and she had hardly even spoken to her neighbours for months. It was a depressing thought.

  “Very little,” she answered. “In fact, Dilly, I feel quite stuck.

  I’m in a rut.”

  “Impossible,” said Dilly. “I’ve never known you to be anything but involved. You do so much.”

  “Not any more,” said Domenica. “I’m stalled.”

  Dilly smiled. “You need a new project. A new anthropological study. Something novel. Something that will make waves.”

  Domenica looked at the ceiling. A new project was a good idea, but what was there for her to do? She had no stomach for further theoretical speculation on method and objectivity, and she had no idea of what opportunities there were in the field.

  New Guinea was stale these days, and the head-hunters were more concerned with human rights than they used to be . . .

  Besides, it was politically incorrect even to use the term head-hunter. They were . . . what were they? Head re-locators? Or, by some lovely inversion, personnel recruiters?

  “I have an idea for you,” said Dilly. “What about pirates?

  What about a pioneering anthropological study of the life and customs of modern pirates in the South China Seas? You could live with them in their mangrove swamps and then sit in the back of their boats as they dash out to commit acts of piracy.

  Of course, you’d have to be completely detached. You could hardly join in. But you anthropologists know all about detach-ment and disinterested observation.”

  Domenica, who had been cradling her coffee cup in her hands as Dilly talked, now put it down on the table with a thud.

  “Do you know?” she said. “That’s a very intriguing idea.

  332 In the Bookshop

  There are plenty of studies of modern criminals – even the Mafia has been looked into by anthropologists and criminologists. But, as far as I know, nobody has actually gone and lived with pirates.”

  “And would you?” asked Dilly.

  “I feel like a change,” said Domenica. “I’m fed up. I need a new challenge.”

  “This will be challenging,” said Dilly, expressing a note of caution. “In fact, I wonder if it would be altogether wise. These people sound as if they are rather desperate characters. They might not appreciate . . .”

  But it was too late for caution. Domenica had gone to New Guinea on impulse; she had carried out her ground-breaking study of bride-price procedures amongst the Basotho on the passing suggestion of a colleague; and she had spent an entire year among the Inuit of the North-West Territories simply because she had seen a striking picture of the Aurora Borealis, pictured from Yellowknife. Pirates now beckoned in exactly the same way, and the call would be answered.

  “It’s a marvellous idea,” Domenica said. “I shall get in touch with the Royal Anthropological Institute. I imagine that they’ll be positive about it.”

  “We shall miss you,” said Dilly, “when you’re with the pirates.”

  “Oh, I expect they’re on e-mail these days,” said Domenica.

  “I shall keep in touch.” They said goodbye to one another at the front door of the bookshop and Domenica began the walk back to Scotland Street. On the surface, it was an outrageous idea; but then so many important anthropological endeavours must have seemed outrageous when first conceived. This would certainly be difficult, but once one had established contact, and trust, it would be much the same as any fieldwork. One would observe the households. One would study family relationships.

  One would look at the domestic economy and the ideological justification structure (if any). It would, in many senses, be mundane work. But pirates! One had to admit there was a certain ring to it.

  Matthew Thinks

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  102. Matthew Thinks

  After Big Lou had burst into the gallery, full of her good news, and had burst out again, Matthew and Pat sat quietly around a desk, sorting out the photographs for a catalogue that they were planning.

  “I’m very pleased for Big Lou,” Matthew said. “She had written him off, you know. She thought she’d seen the last of him.”

  “She deserves some good luck,” said Pat. “I hope that he’s good for her.”

  “Big Lou can look after herself,” said Matthew. “She’s strong.”

  Pat disagreed, at least in part. “And it’s often the strong women who suffer the most,” she said. “You’d be surprised, Matthew. Strong women put up with dreadful men.”

  “Anyway,” said Matthew, “the important thing is that Big Lou is happy.”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “That’s good.”

  Matthew looked at Pat. It made her uncomfortable when he looked at her like that; it was almost as if he were reproaching her for something.

  “And I’m feeling pretty happy too,” he said. “Do you know that? I’m feeling very happy this morning.”

  “
I’m glad,” said Pat. “And why is that?”

  “That talk I had with my old man,” said Matthew. “It was

  . . . well, shall we say that it was productive.”

  Pat waited for him to continue.

  “I was wrong about Janis,” went on Matthew. “I thought that she wasn’t right for him.”

  “In what way?” asked Pat. “Too young?”

  “That . . . and in other ways,” said Matthew. “But I was wrong.

  And now I know that one shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “And you told him this?” asked Pat.

  “I did. And he was really nice to me – really nice. He said something very kind to me. And then . . .”

  Pat waited. She was pleased by this reconciliation – she liked Gordon and she had thought that Matthew had been too hard on him.

  334 Matthew Thinks

  Matthew seemed to be debating with himself whether to tell Pat something. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. But at last he spoke.

  “He was very generous to me,” he said. “He gave me some money.”

  “That’s good of him,” said Pat. “He’s done that before, hasn’t he?”

  “Oh yes, he’s done that before. But never on this scale.”

  Pat sighed. “My father gave me fifty pounds last week,” she said. “How much did you get? A hundred?”

  Matthew looked down at the desk and picked up a photograph of a painting. It was of a sheep-dog chasing sheep; the sort of painting that nineteenth-century artists loved to paint, on a large scale, for upwardly mobile purchasers. Nobody painted sheep-dogs any more, it seemed.

  “Four million,” he said quietly.

  There was complete silence. Matthew put down the photograph, but did not look at Pat. She was staring at him, her mouth slightly open. Four million.

  At last she spoke. “Four million is a lot of money, Matthew.

  What are you going to do with it?”

  Matthew shrugged. He had no idea what he would do with four million pounds, other than to put it safely away in the bank.

  Adam and Company would be the safest place for that.

  “I don’t know,” he said. He looked about the gallery. “I could put some of it into this place, of course. I could go to the auctions and bid for the expensive paintings. A real Peploe, for example.

  A Hornel or two. A Vettriano.”

  “You had a Vettriano,” said Pat. “And then . . .”

  “That was some months ago,” said Matthew. “There’s also Elizabeth Blackadder. People like her work. All those flowers and Japanese what-nots. Or Stephen Mangan, with those thirties-like people; very enigmatic. People like him. I could have all these people in here now if I wanted to.”

  Pat reflected on this. “It could become the best gallery in town.”

  Matthew beamed. “Yes,” he said. “There’s nothing to stop us Matthew Thinks

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  now. The London galleries will be very jealous. Stuck-up bunch.”

  He looked down at the photographs on the table before them.

  The paintings seemed somewhat forlorn after the roll-call of famous artists he had just pronounced. Yet there was a comfortable integrity about these paintings, with their earnest reporting of domestic scenes and picturesque scenes. But they were not great art, and now he would be able to handle great art. It would all be very different now that he had four million pounds.

  “It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Matthew, “what a difference four million pounds makes? You wouldn’t think that it did, would you? – and yet it does.”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “I wouldn’t mind having four million pounds.”

  Then she added: “Are you going to buy a new car, Matthew?”

  Matthew looked surprised. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said.

  “Do you think I need to?”

  Pat’s reply came quickly. “Yes,” she said. “You could get yourself something sporty. One of those little BMWs. Do you know the ones?”

  “I’ve seen them,” said Matthew. “I don’t know . . .”

  “But you must,” said Pat. “Can’t you see yourself in one of them? Shooting down the Mound in one of those, with the top down?”

  “Maybe,” said Matthew. “Or maybe one of those new Bentleys

  – the ones with the leather steering wheel and the back that goes like this. I wouldn’t mind one of those.”

  “Well, you can get one,” encouraged Pat. “Now that you’ve got four million pounds.” She thought for a moment, and then went on, “And just think of the trips you can make! French Polynesia! Mombassa! The Caribbean!”

  “That would be interesting,” admitted Matthew.

  “Well, you can do all of that,” Pat concluded. “All of that –

  and more.”

  They returned to their work, putting aside thoughts of expensive cars and exotic trips, at least on Matthew’s part. After about ten minutes, Pat looked up from her task of arranging photographs to look at Matthew.

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked him.

  336 All Goes Well for Bruce

  “Domenica’s having a dinner party and asked me. She said that I could bring a friend, if I wished. Would you . . . ?”

  Matthew accepted quickly. He was delighted to receive an invitation from Pat, and had long hoped for one. Now, at last, she . . . He stopped. He stood up and walked over to the window to look out on the street. He looked thoughtful, for there was something very specific to think about here, something which sapped the pleasure that he had felt. There was something worrying to consider.

  103. All Goes Well for Bruce

  “So he’s going away,” said Dr Macgregor. “To London, you say?”

  Lying on her bed, talking to her father on the telephone, Pat gazed up at the ceiling. “Yes,” she said. “He came back this evening looking tremendously pleased with himself.”

  “But that’s not unusual for that young man,” said Dr Macgregor. “The narcissistic personality is like that. Narcissists are always pleased with themselves. They’re very smug.” He paused. “Have you ever come across anybody who always looks very smug? Somebody who just can’t help smiling with self-satisfaction? You know the type.”

  “Yes,” said Pat.

  “Apart from Bruce, that is,” said her father.

  Pat thought for a moment. There had been a boy at school who had been very smug. He came from a smug family in Barnton. All of them were smug. And what made it worse was that he won everything: the boys’ 100-metre dash; the under-sixteen 50-metre breaststroke; the school half-marathon . . .

  “Yes,” she said. “There was somebody like that.”

  “And did you feel envious?”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “We all felt envious. We hated him. We wanted to prick him with a pin. Somebody actually did that once.”

  “Not surprising,” said her father. “But it really doesn’t help, you know. These people are impervious to that sort of deflation.

  All Goes Well for Bruce

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  They’re psychologically tubeless, if I may extend the metaphor.”

  “Bruce is exactly like that,” said Pat. “He’s undeflatable.”

  Dr Macgregor laughed. “So he announced his departure?

  Why is he going?”

  “It’s a bit complicated,” said Pat. “He lost his job, you see.

  Then he started a business, a wine dealership. He says that he was let down by somebody who had promised to invest. He bought some tremendously grand wine at a knock-down price.

  He sold most of it today at a wine auction in George Street.”

  She remembered Bruce’s triumphant return to the flat earlier that evening, brandishing the note of sale from the auction house.

  “He made over thirty thousand on the wine,” she went on.

  “He was very pleased. He said that he wouldn’t bother with the wine trade now and would go down to London instead. He would live there for
a while on the proceeds of the auction and then get a job. He said that he was keen to try commodity trading.”

  “And what about the flat?” asked Dr Macgregor.

  “I’m afraid he’s selling it,” said Pat. “He’s going to put it on the market next week.”

  “Which means that you’re going to have to move out.”

  “Yes,” said Pat. “That’s the end of Scotland Street for me.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. The world was a lonely place, a place of transience, of change, of loss; only the bonds, the ties of friendship and family protected us from that loneliness. And what parent would not have wished his daughter to say: “Yes, I’m coming home”, and what parent with Dr Macgregor’s insight would not have known that this would have been quite the wrong answer for Pat to give him?

  “You’re always welcome to come back here,” he said. “But you’ll want somewhere with other students, which would be much better. Will it be hard to find somewhere?”

  “I’ve got a friend in Marchmont,” said Pat. “She says that there’s a place in her flat. It’s one of those big flats in Spottiswoode Street.”

  “You must take it,” said Dr Macgregor.

  After they had concluded their conversation, Pat got up and went through to the kitchen. Bruce was sitting at the table, a 338 All Goes Well for Bruce

  newspaper spread out on the table in front of him. He looked up and smiled at Pat.

  “Do you realise how much this place is going to go for?” he asked her. “I’m looking at some of the prices of places nearby.

  I’m going to make a packet, you know.” He sighed. “Pity you can’t afford to buy it, Pat. Then you could stay here instead of moving out to some obscure street on the South Side. Acne-Timber Street, or whatever it’s called.”

  “Acne-Timber Street?”

  “That’s what I call Spottiswoode Street,” Bruce said. “Where’s your sense of humour?”