Friends, Lovers, Chocolate id-2

by Alexander McCall Smith

  As she turned into Merchiston Crescent, the road that wound its way towards Bruntsfield and Cat’s delicatessen, Isabel imagined what it would be like to give to others the gift of love. Not from oneself—as that may be unwanted—but from those whose love the recipient yearned for. Such a power that would be, she thought. Here, my dear, is the girl whom you have admired for so long, and yes, she is yours. And here, for you, is that desirable boy whose eye you have so long tried to catch, in vain; well, try catching it now.

  I do not even have a man myself, Isabel said to herself; I am in no position to give one to another. Of course, she had not over-exercised herself in the obtaining of a man, not since John Liamor. For some years after that, a long time, she had not even been sure that she wanted one. But now, she thought, she was ready again to take the risk that men brought with them—the risk of being left, cheated upon, made unhappy. She could get one if she wanted, she imagined. She was young enough and attractive enough to compete. Men found her interesting; she knew that, because they showed it in the way they reacted to her. It would be good to go out to dinner with the right man. She could see herself sitting at a table in the window at Oloroso, looking out over the roofs of George Street to Fife in the distance, and a man on the other side of the table, a man who was a good conversationalist, with a sense of humour, who would make her laugh, but who could make her cry, too, when he 1 0 4

  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h spoke of the more important, moving things. A man just like . . .

  She racked her brain. What men like that were there? And, more to the point perhaps, where were they?

  Jamie, of course. He came unbidden into her mind, sitting at that unreal table at Oloroso, watching her with those grey eyes of his, and speaking to her about exactly those things that they liked to speak about. She closed her eyes. It was too late.

  There had been a fatal, anachronistic error in the stars that had brought them together. Had she been born fifteen years later, then it would have been a perfect match, and she could imagine herself fighting tooth and nail to possess him—he would have been all that she wanted; but now, it was inappropriate, and impossible, and she had decided not even to think about it. She had freed herself of those thoughts of Jamie in the same way in which an addict frees himself of thoughts of the bottle, or the racetrack, or the bedroom.

  She was approaching the end of Merchiston Crescent, and she saw ahead the busy line of cars coming into town from Morningside and further south. Cat’s delicatessen was in the middle of a block, with a jeweller on one side and an antiques shop on the other. A few doors further down, on the same side as the delicatessen, was the fishmonger from whom her father had bought his Loch Fyne kippers for all those years. She had seen the antiques dealer buying kippers himself, bending down to peer at the smoked fish on the slab. One of the pleasures of living in an intimate city, she thought, was that one could know so much about one’s fellow citizens. This was what made those small Italian cities so comfortable: the fact that there was so little anonymity. She remembered visiting her friend who lived in Reggio Emilia, the same friend who had taken her to the Parmesan factory, and taking a stroll with her in the piazza. It seemed F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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  that they stopped every second minute to pass the time of day with somebody. That one was a cousin; that one was a friend of an aunt; that one had lived on the floor below for a year or two and had then gone to Milan, but must be back; that one had the cruellest nickname when he was at school, yes, they called him that, they really did. One could not stroll in quite the same way in Edinburgh—the weather was hardly perfect for la bella figura—but one could at least see people one knew buying kippers.

  Cat’s delicatessen was busy when she arrived. As well as employing Eddie full-time, Cat had now taken on a young woman, Shona, who worked several hours a day and who was now at the counter, slicing salami. Cat was weighing cheese and Eddie was at the cash register. Isabel wondered whether she should offer to help, but thought perhaps that she might just get in the way. So she sat down at a table and picked up a magazine that was lying on the floor, abandoned by some untidy previous customer.

  She was immersed in an article by the time Cat came over to see her.

  “He’ll be here any moment,” Cat muttered. “I’m sure you’ll like him.”

  “I’m sure I shall,” said Isabel mildly.

  “No, I mean really like him,” Cat said. “Just wait and see.”

  Isabel was intrigued. “But I thought you sounded a little bit . . . how shall I put it? A little bit lukewarm when you spoke about him, on the phone.”

  “Oh,” said Cat lightly. “If you mean I sounded as if he’s not for me, yes, that’s right. He isn’t. But . . . But you’ll see what I mean.”

  “What’s the snag?” asked Isabel.

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  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Cat sighed. “Age.”

  “Age? How old is he? Seventy-five?”

  “Not quite,” said Cat. “About your age, I would have thought. Early forties.”

  Isabel was taken aback. “Over the hill in that case. You think.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” said Cat. “Forty’s nothing really. Forty is thirty these days, I know. I know. It’s just that for me, from the perspective of twenty-something, forty-something is . . . I’m afraid I don’t see myself falling for somebody who’s almost twenty years older than I am. That’s all. It’s simply a question of sticking to one’s contemporaries.”

  Isabel touched her niece on the forearm in a gesture of reassurance. “That’s perfectly reasonable,” she said. “You don’t have to apologise.”

  “Thank you.” Cat looked up. The door had opened and a man had entered. He cast a quick eye about the delicatessen and, spotting Cat, gave her a wave.

  Tomasso came over to the table. Cat rose to her feet and gave him her hand. Isabel watched, and then he turned to her, and reached forward to shake hands with her. He was smiling, and she saw his eyes move across her, not very obviously or crudely, but move nonetheless.

  He sat down with them and Cat went to fetch him the glass of mineral water for which he had asked. It was too late for coffee, he said, and he was not hungry. “Water,” he said, “will be perfect.”

  He turned to Isabel and smiled. “Your city is very beautiful,”

  he said. “We Italians think of Scotland as being so romantic and here it is, just as we imagined it!”

  “And we have our own ideas about Italy,” said Isabel.

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  He inclined his head slightly. “Which are?”

  “So romantic,” said Isabel.

  Tomasso’s eyes widened with mirth. “Well,” he said. “We are in the realm of cliché, are we not?”

  Isabel agreed. But the clichés came from somewhere, and that was why they tended to have a measure of truth in them. If Italy was not romantic, then what country was? She looked at Tomasso, a bland look, she hoped, but one which concealed serious examination. He was tall and well built, and his features, which were strong, were . . . were familiar. He looked like somebody she knew, but who was it? And then, in a moment, she realised who it was. This was Jamie fifteen years on.

  The realisation surprised her, and for a few moments she was sunk in thought. Jamie was the borderline-Mediterranean type, as she had often observed, and so it was perhaps not surprising that there should be some similarities between him and Tomasso, who was the real thing. But it went beyond that: there was something in the expression and in the way of speaking that made the two seem so similar. If you closed your eyes, briefly, which she now did, briefly, and if you factored out the Italian pronunciation, then it could be Jamie with her. But Jamie would never come into Cat’s delicatessen—even now.

  This unexpected comparison unnerved her and for a moment she floundered. The banal came to her rescue. “You speak such beautiful English,” she
said.

  Tomasso, who had been about to say something, inclined his head. “I’m glad you understand me. I’ve lived in London, by the way. I was there for four years, working in an Italian bank.

  You wouldn’t have said that I spoke good English when I first arrived. They used to stare at me and ask me to repeat what I had just said.”

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  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h

  “They’re ones to talk,” said Isabel. “With their Estuary English and its words all run together. The language is being murdered daily.”

  “The bank paid for me to have lessons with an elocution teacher,” said Tomasso. “He made me hold a mirror in front of my mouth and say things like The rain in Spain . . . ”

  “Falls mainly on the plain,” supplied Isabel.

  “And where’s that ghastly plain?” asked Tomasso.

  “In Spain,” Isabel answered.

  They laughed. She looked at him, noticing the small lines around the edge of the mouth that told her that this was a man who was used to laughter.

  “Is my niece going to show you Scotland?” Isabel asked.

  Tomasso shrugged. “I asked her if she would, but unfortunately she cannot. She is very tied up with this business. But I shall see what I can myself.”

  Isabel asked him if he was going to Inverness. Visitors to Scotland made the mistake—in her view—of going to Inverness, which was a pleasant city, but nothing more. There were far better places to go, she thought.

  “Yes,” he said. “Inverness. Everybody tells me I must go there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s . . .” He trailed off, and then burst out laughing. “I shall not go there. I shall not.”

  “Good,” said Isabel.

  Cat returned. She was not going to be able to show Tomasso Scotland, but she was able to get away to show him Edinburgh that afternoon. Would Isabel care to accompany them?

  Isabel hesitated. She noticed Tomasso glance at Cat after F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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  the invitation had been extended; just a quick glance, but enough to tell her that he did not want her to go along.

  “I’m sorry,” Isabel said, “but duty calls. My desk is looking awful. In fact, I can’t see the surface for papers.”

  Cat looked at her. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  she asked. “Couldn’t the work wait?”

  There was a brief exchange of glances—a niece-to-aunt exchange, a look between women, private, although in the presence of a man. Isabel interpreted it as a plea, and realised that Cat wanted her to be with her. Of course she would have to accede to the request, which she did.

  “Yes, of course the work can wait,” she said. “I’d love to come.”

  Tomasso turned to face her. “But I cannot put you out like that. No. No. Please: we shall do it some other time when nobody is busy.”

  “It’s no difficulty,” said Isabel. “I have plenty of time.”

  Tomasso was insistent. “I cannot allow you to be inconvenienced. I have plenty to do myself. I have some business here in Edinburgh—there are people I must see.”

  Isabel glanced at Cat. She felt a momentary sense of disappointment that he did not want her company; that was obvious.

  Cat, though, had her difficulties ahead. Tomasso was insistent, it seemed, and would not be put off that easily.

  The Italian rose to his feet. “I am keeping you both from your work,” he said. “It’s so easy, when one is on holiday oneself, to forget that everybody else has their work to do. Cat? May I telephone you tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” said Cat. “I’ll be here. Working, I’m afraid, but I’ll be here.”

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  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h He turned to Isabel. “And perhaps we shall be able to meet too?”

  “I’m here too,” said Isabel. “And I’ll be happy to show you round. I really would.”

  Tomasso smiled at her. “You are very kind.”

  He bent forward and took Cat’s hand in his; a lingering grasp, thought Isabel. Cat reddened. It was going to be difficult, Isabel thought, but Cat had to learn how to discourage men.

  And the easiest way of doing that, in Isabel’s view, was to show excessive eagerness. Men did not like to be pursued; she would have to tell Cat that, tactfully, of course, but as explicitly as she could.

  C H A P T E R T W E L V E

  E

  WELL, Miss Dalhousie. It is Miss Dalhousie, isn’t it?”

  Isabel nodded to the young man behind the enquiries desk at the library. “It is. Well remembered.”

  She looked at him, noticing the clean white shirt and the carefully knotted tie, the slightly earnest appearance. He was the sort who noticed things. “How do you do it?” she asked. “You must get so many people coming in here.”

  The young man looked pleased with the compliment. He was proud of his memory, which came in useful professionally, but the reason why he remembered Isabel was that she had, on an earlier visit, explained to him that she was the editor of the Review of Applied Ethics. For a young librarian, fresh from a spell as a junior in the journals department, that was an exotic and exalted position.

  He smiled at Isabel. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I need to see copies of the Evening News for this past October,” said Isabel. She gave him the date and he told her that she was in luck; while the earlier issues were on microfiche, they still had bound volumes of the more recent months and he would bring these over to her personally. Isabel thanked him 1 1 2

  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h and took a seat near the window. As she waited she could look down into the Grassmarket and watch people window-shopping.

  It had changed so much, she reflected. When she had been young, the Grassmarket had been a distinctly insalubrious place, with winos slumped in the doorways and small knots of desolate people standing outside the entrance to the doss-houses. What had happened to the Castle Trades Hotel, which took through its doorway the homeless and destitute and gave them a bowl of soup and a bed for the night? It had become an upmarket hotel for tourists, its old clientele dispersed, vanished, dead. And a few doors away from it a glittering bank and a shop selling fossils. Money pushed people out of cities; it always had. And yet no matter how much the exterior of the city changed, the same human types were still there; wearing different clothes, more prosperous now, but with the same craggy faces that were always there to be seen on the streets of Edinburgh.

  The young man returned with a large blue folder of bound newspapers. “This is two months’ worth,” he said. “But it includes October.”

  Isabel thanked him and opened the cover of the folder. The front page of the Edinburgh Evening News of the first of October greeted her eyes. There had been a fire in a nightclub, a large banner headline announced, and there was a picture of firemen directing a stream of water onto a collapsed section of roof. Nobody had been hurt, she read, because the fire occurred after-hours when the building was empty. Isabel was suspicious.

  Fires in bars and nightclubs were a well-known way of dealing with shrinking profits. Occasionally there were arrests, but usually nothing could be proved, in spite of the best efforts of the loss adjusters. So the insurers paid up and another, better-F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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  positioned bar or nightclub popped up in the place of the one that had gone.

  She turned the page and began to read another story. A male teacher had been accused of making indecent remarks to a girl pupil. The teacher had been suspended and would face what was described as a rigorous inquiry into the incident. “This sort of thing cannot be allowed to happen,” said an official from the education department. Isabel paused. Who knew that it had happened? Surely the whole point of an inquiry was to find out whether anything happened at all, and yet here was the official prejudging the matter before a shred of evidence had been produced
. And would it not be the easiest thing in the world for a streetwise teenage girl to make up an allegation of that sort in order to embarrass or destroy a teacher to whom she had taken a dislike?

  There was a photograph of the suspended teacher, a man in his late thirties, Isabel thought, frowning at the camera. Isabel studied the photograph. It was a kind face, she decided, not the face of a predator. And here, she said to herself, is the victim of the witch-hunt, or its modern equivalent. Not much has changed. Witchcraft or sexual harassment: the tactics of perse-cution were much the same—the loathed enemy was identified and then demonised. And exactly the same emotions and energy that had gone into witch-hunting now went into the pursuit of our preferred modern victims. And yet, she thought: What if the girl had been telling the truth? What then?

  She sighed. The world was an imperfect place, and our search for justice in it seemed an impossible task. But she had not come to the library to be immersed in such reports and the speculations they provoked. She had come to find out about the 1 1 4

  A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h events of a very particular week: the week during which Ian had had his heart transplant. That was in mid-October, which would be about a quarter of the way through the volume, she assumed.

  She slid a finger into the bound pages and turned over the heavy wad of paper. October the tenth: she had come in too early. She fingered the paper, preparing to turn another week’s worth of papers. But before she did so, she saw the headline: “Teacher Dies.” It was the same man, the one who had been suspended from duties pending the investigation of an allegation against him. He had been found dead at the edge of the Pentland Hills, just outside the city. A note had been recovered, and the police were not treating the death as suspicious. He was survived by a wife and two children.

  Isabel read the report with a heavy heart. A friend was quoted as saying that he was an innocent man who had been hounded to his death. The police confirmed that a teenager, who could not be named for legal reasons but who was connected with the case, had been charged with a separate offence of attempting to pervert the course of justice. That meant the making of a false allegation.