It Takes a Thief

by Niels Hammer

  “No, I wis born in Nairn, but then I married an my husband’s frae Inverness.”

  “Would you mind telling me just approximately how old you are?”

  Looking uneasy he conveyed the impression that he found the question impertinent.

  “No, there’s no use in hidin it. I’m aboot forty.”

  “And do you speak any other language, like Gaelic or French?”

  “Jist enough Gaelic tae mak masel understood, my grand dad’s frae Skye.”

  “Now, would you please repeat these three words ‘Oh Heaven, no!’ just as you would say them and try to imagine that when you say them you are very astonished, annoyed and dismayed.”

  He switched on the tape recorder –

  “Number one. Inverness.”

  And gave her the microphone. Smiling she looked suddenly altogether younger. The affective state determined mood and hence real age.

  “Oh heaven, no!”

  He nodded and she repeated the words but seemed to be distracted by the traffic.

  “Just once more please and with as much force of expression as you can muster.”

  The way she took hold of the microphone showed that she felt able to put all of her soul into it.

  “Oh Heavens! No!”

  There was indeed a touch of the doubling of the /v/ and he nodded enthusiastically. So she tried again encouraged by his impression of being on the right track.

  “That was indeed spectacular. I must thank you ever so much; and as a small token of my appreciation I would like to give you this little bottle of Sauterne, which you should drink slightly chilled either on its own or with a cake or a fruit maybe.”

  “Oh that’s too much. Jist sayin three words, an I wonder whit my husband will say when I tell him this. A complete stranger gave me this bottle cause I said a couple o words for him?”

  “The man whom you accepted in marriage would, I think, be bound to be very sensible.”

  “Thanks, I must say, ye’re liberal wi your compliments.”

  “As far as I can see I am just stating the self-evident.”

  “Then I must aince more thank ye baith for the wine an for the compliments.”

  “The pleasure of hearing your voice eclipses both the wine and my statement of the obvious.”

  As the solemnity of his words was contradicted by his smile she gave him her hand and he enjoyed the firm impression of her womanhood. That was a good omen – she was eminently sensible but would nevertheless insist on getting exactly what she wanted. However – he was becoming hungry all of a sudden. The fresh air of the Sea? So he went back to the wine shop.

  “Yer bottles are over here, sir.”

  “Thanks, but could I wait a while before picking them up? I wanted merely to ask you for a piece of advice. Where would I stand a chance of getting a fairly reasonable lunch?”

  “At The Red Lion. Then come along wi me. I’m jist goin tae have lunch there masel.”

  “Splendid! Good food, good wine and good company, that’s what it’s all about.”

  “It’s just round the corner. Are ye here on holiday?”

  “Yes, in a way, first of all I am planning a fishing trip, angling. A friend of mine is coming up here to catch a couple of trouts or Salmons, but if you had looked out of your front window five minutes ago you would have seen me interviewing a charming young woman. I am also here to sample a variety of Scottish accents for linguistic research.”

  Pushing the door open to ‘The Red Lion’ he was confronted by a staid smell of beer and warm food garnished by loud voices or laughter – and felt immersed in a dark wooden and gregarious ambiance – such as that Jan Steen or de Boulogne had found it well worth to paint – though here it was somewhat less free and easy – more conventionally bourgeois – as a result of the plain polish of the last four centuries.

  “Here we are. This wey.”

  Through the glass doors they went into a more quiet room where – seated around small square tables groups of guests were eating and talking. The gossip of business and the business of gossip. They sat down and a waiter brought them the menu in an imitation folder.

  “Fou’s yer dous, John?”

  “Nae bad, an yersel? But whit’s happened tae George?”

  “He’s balancin the books. Whit can ye recommend to-day? It has better be guid. ”

  “The Shepherd’s Pie’s fine. I’ve jist had a bite masel.”

  “Awright then, let’s have twa glasses of Clos de Combes Rouges. So ye’re a scientist?”

  “I had better admit it.”

  He laughed and shook his head.

  “An why shouldn’t ye?”

  “No, the truth is great and will prevail regardless of whether anyone really cares or not.”

  “Do ye really think so?”

  Thoughtful and sceptical. There was something in the past. His eyes became veiled – sad.

  “In a way I do, but only in the very long run. I mean whatever follies or stupidities Humans may do, Nature will in the long run, twenty or thirty millions years, make amends, but I’m as sceptical as I think you are concerning the immediate future.”

  The waiter came with two glasses and two steaming plates. He hoped it would be rustic and good but began with the wine.

  “It will, I think, match the pie. Do you eat here every day?”

  “Almaist, my wife only eats plants, so I hae nae ither option.”

  “Then you’re not too fond of vegetables?”

  “Weel, I am, I am, if they’re accompanied wi a wee bit o venison, beef or chicken.”

  “Has your wife become a vegetarian recently?”

  Sympathy and genuine interest picked all hearts. It was tasty – rustic – hot and plain – but good if honest hunger added zest.

  “Aboot ten years ago when she began to be testy an have stomach troubles.”

  “Prolonged problems with the stomach are often quite difficult to diagnose or cure.”

  “Oh yeah, an she’s tried everythin, but it has only made it worse.”

  “That’s usually the case, I suppose.”

  “Would ye know anythin aboot stomach troubles?”

  “Hardly anything apart from the bits and pieces I have picked up here and there by chance, but enough to indicate that in many cases they are caused by a psychosomatic imbalance.”

  “That’s quite probable. She has her moods, ye ken.”

  “That’s the prerogative of the female of the species. We just have to carry on and suffer.”

  “To carry the can, ye mean?”

  “Exactly, and in silence. That’s our dreary lot.”

  “Weel, here I am spoilin yer luncheon by discussin my wife’s ailments.”

  “No, certainly not. I appreciate a sincere personal conversation; but if you one day should find your wife willing to try to better the situation, you might suggest massage or body therapy.”

  “Thanks for the advice. Weel, that wis it. I had better go back to the shop now.”

  They settled their present worldly debts and went out into the fresh bright air of the afternoon.

  “And I had better continue with the next interviews.”

  The light had mellowed and there were far less pedestrians now. Two tall and buxom girls – about eighteen – nearly tempted him but they were far too young – on the other side of the street – however – a stout woman of about forty strode along in the opposite direction. As well her as another. He escaped the criss-crossing traffic to stop in front of her – but she seemed slightly startled by his determined approach and pushed her well-worn hat a little back to prepare herself for the ordeal of giving a froward stranger an honest piece of her mind.

  “Excuse me, madame, but I am doing research concerning the accents of English here in Scotland and would appreciate if you could do m
e the favour of saying a couple of words – ”

  “An why do ye want to do that?”

  Her look was steely as she took his measure – her eyes pale blue – her hair Spanish black. She must have come out into the blessed daylight from a nagging den of dissatisfied gossips.

  “There are about five thousand languages left on Earth, and all the minor languages and dialects are disappearing quickly. Likewise, because of increased communication, local accents, for example, in Scotland, are also disappearing. Each local accent has its own peculiarities, its own life, so to speak, and for the sake of comparative linguistics it is of the utmost importance that we can record as many different accents as possible before they disappear.”

  Haughty with distrust she surveyed him and his motives from the summit of her ignorance – but was nevertheless eager to see if he would expose himself enough to give her a chance of putting him in his proper place.

  “Awright. Whit do ye want me to say. I jist have a few minutes.”

  “First, I would have to know if you have been living here in Inverness all your life.”

  “Of coorse I have.”

  “Do you speak any foreign language, such as Gaelic or French, for example.”

  “Gaelic’s not a foreign language here an I speak Gaelic.”

  “I did not intend to imply that Gaelic really can be called a foreign language, but I was merely using the expression because it seems that many English-speaking people regard it as foreign. Now I would just like you to say three words, namely ‘Oh heaven no’ as you would say them yourself but with as much astonishment, annoyance and fury as you can muster.”

  Her age was pretty obvious and she was definitely rather touchy so her natural inclination ought to add plenty of zeal to her performance.

  “Number two, Inverness.”

  “It wis ‘oh heaven no.’”

  He nodded enthusiastically. She would need warm smiles galore and undiluted goodwill to avoid turning sour permanently.

  “Oh heaven – no!”

  But she had an excellent grip on how to convey annoyance.

  “Once again, please. That was very good.”

  “Oh heaven, no!”

  The /no/ was quite explosive and her accent almost as significant as in the other sample.

  “May I ask if you regularly participate in dramatic performances here, for you did that well and it was very impressive.”

  A fleeting smile passed her sharp lips but her eyes only softened like the tundra would in July. He had first felt unwilling to give her a bottle of wine but changed his mind.

  “As a token of my appreciation of your efforts I would like to give you a bottle of wine.”

  “O would ye? I didn’t expect anythin like that.”

  But she was honest. She took the bottle as her due and stowed it away in her midwifery-like bag of creamy canvas to go on her way – for she was in a hurry to continue her daily routine or even to finish the irksome business of staying alive. The developing puzzle of character and circumstance. He might as well wait here as anywhere else. Children – impulsive artists of the present moment – were coming home from school – feeling utterly dejected or flying high on endocrine opiates. Joy or despair – but he felt no nostalgia – just an appreciative nudge in the ribs. There – coming against him – she was about thirty – le nez en l’air – and quite stunning in her own right – wearing a tile-red bonnet and taking small brisk steps.

  “Excuse me, madame, but may I ask you to do me the favour of recording your Scots accent? I am doing linguistic research for the University of Milwaukee.”

  “Are you? You’d better try to solicit some one else. I’m not so easily deceived as all that.”

  “My good woman, the beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. So if you perceive deception where there is none it is because you deceive yourself and I can only regret that I cannot do anything to alleviate your symptoms let alone cure you of your disease.”

  But she walked away without answering him and even without looking back. A recent eruption of disappointments or maybe iron links in a close causal chain. To what degree would she be responsible? Anyway – he had two good samples that both seemed to confirm his conjecture – at least peripherally and he would listen to them later and try to recall the pitch and the timbre of her words – to see how they matched with or differed from his recordings. The pair that came walking there – arm in arm – towards him seemed to be deeply engaged in an exchange of opinions about their most recent adventures or conquests. Sisters? No – the difference was too pronounced – but both were neatly dressed with a certain measure of taste.

  “Excuse me, but I would like to ask you if you could do me the favour of letting me hear you say a few words. I am conducting research into the vanishing accents of Scotland for the Linguistic Faculty at the University of Milwaukee, and it will only take two or three minutes.”

  Being polite and attentive but with humour just beneath the surface gave the best result.

  “I wouldnae mind givin ye a helpin hand or a word ither, fit aboot ye, Jessie?”

  A quick mutual look to coordinate the response. Comrades in arms acting in unison – social accept at that age –

  “Awright, but fit are we supposed tae say?”

  “First I must ask you if you have lived all your life here in Inverness?”

  “I have, but Jessie’s frae Aberdeen.”

  “Let me introduce myself, my name is Aubrey Saint-Clair, and your name is Jessie?”

  “Yeah!”

  “An my name’s Jane, but does that matter?”

  “No, not at all, and it’s of course anonymous. But I would also like to know if you speak any other language, like Gaelic or French, for example?”

  “Yes, I speak a little French.”

  “An I don’t.”

  The dark letters – disfiguring the blank page – and words – the silence.

  “All right, could you say the words ‘Oh Heaven, no!’ but with as strong a degree of astonishment, indignation and annoyance as possible?”

  “But why these three words an not any other words?”

  He ought to have expected such a degree of spontaneous curiosity. A sudden predicament. Gaining a little time to improvise –

  “That’s a very reasonable question. This particular part of the investigation is concerned with the rich modulation of the tone or the pitch of the voice that comes about in exclamations of surprise, anger, annoyance and dismay.”

  “I see, but let’s start wi ye, dear.”

  “All right. Number three.”

  He gave Jessie the microphone but she was distracted by the noise of a lorry snaking its way backwards to park on the opposite side of the road.

  “Oh hevven, nae!”

  He nodded and she repeated the words with half-closed eyes to add emphasis – and could no doubt sense that he felt attracted. It added the colour red – burnt carmine – to her slightly lisping voice. The best yet so far – Aberdeen – a characteristic doubling of /v/.

  “Once more, please!”

  The smell of her perfume was heavy but her breasts were alive enough behind her blouse to challenge the touch of his fingertips – as she forced the air out of her lungs through her throat and down into the microphone.

  “Oh hevven, nae!”

  “That was impressive and expressive. Thanks! And Jane, now it’s your turn. Number four.”

  A dense cloud hid the Sun and it became chilly. Touching his hand she took hold of the microphone to see if she could do it better than Jessie. The windfall of a chance encounter.

  “Oh! Heaven, no! Oh heaven no!”

  Her voice was loud and clear – almost too loud – and she repeated the words several times – till she felt satisfied with her own performance.

  “Excellent, that was very good
indeed. Did you imagine any particular situation in which you might have said something like that?”

  “Findin your boy friend drunk when he’s supposed tae be sane an sober.”

  “Like Jamsie!”

  They both burst out laughing and he looked from one to the other and back again. Black-haired and red-haired – brown- and green-eyed. The rhythm of the Sea – and both –

  “As a small appreciation of having taken your time I hope you will accept a bottle of sweet French wine, Sauterne. It should be served slightly chilled and either on its own or perhaps with a cake or a dessert.”

  Pulling the last two bottles he had decided to use in Inverness out of his pockets he enjoyed their surprise.

  “Gee! How nice.”

  “Thanks! A real treat.”

  He waved good-bye too well aware of how easily he might have been tempted to invite them to dinner – but her presence in his memory had not been obscured by their presence in front of his eyes – only intensified – especially by Jessie – so the sooner he found her the better – though still only a white hind in the horizon – maybe though looking back over her shoulder but invigorated by the scent of blood he retraced his steps till he came to the wine merchant’s shop. What was not a vain attempt to find peace of mind – to reach a short lull of homoeostasis?

  “So there ye are. I wondered whit ye were doin.”

  “These interviews take time, and I have to find someone who has been born and bred here.”

  Having picked up half of the bottles and placed them safely in the booth of the car he went back to get the other half – probably never again to see the brave vintner of Inverness.

  “I’m off now. Thanks for your help and farewell.”

  He drove North – to the Bridge of Kessock – and its wide-spread wings carried him across the mouth of the River Ness which flowed down from the loch that epitomised the longing for probable mysteries – a longing that was either strengthened by a sense of something pertinent but unknowable or doomed to fade out on the flat sands of excogitation. The slanting light of the afternoon – marked by growing shadows – ripened more slowly here. The palette of Autumn already? It would be best to avoid repeating the words to recapture her accent and the timbre of her voice till he could hear the recordings – otherwise the sound image might become indistinct or blurred or even changed. Green fields – circumscribed dark forests or groves on low sullen hills. Rust-red and shaggy they grazed there to their heart’s content without running away as they could not imagine any alternative. The wide sweep of their horns suggested the size of the horns of wild Water Buffaloes – but here all the fields were cultivated though further West there would be a little less Verschlimmbesserung. Jacques’s point of view – broader than both Duke Senior’s and Audrey’s. Human traffic – life blood in the veins of a country if seen through Utopian spectacles. Tunnel vision. Kṛpaṇāḥ phalahetavaḥ – so only the miserable were motivated by the results of their actions – here as always everywhere. He concentrated on reaching Thurso as quickly as possible – maybe in time for an interview or two – if not he could try to-morrow – coming back. The Cromarty Bridge was so long and low that it would be able to float on a high tide – but of course it was deceptive – a fine Scottish mist then? The road went ever on and on but there was no way back from where he had begun. No way back ever – mile after mile. He yawned and escaped a lumbering lorry. The population density became a pleasant feature in the landscape. There was space now around the houses – the only clustering occurred in the villages – and yet hier liegt man nicht eng – in the hard and stony earth. What a life that must have been. Totally unimaginable in its naked horror. Hier gibt es kein warum. So undeserved and justice? Always so rare – Tibetan Blue Poppies and hail sparkling in the sudden piercing sunlight. Then Tain with not more than four thousand people – but several castles – systematic exploitation – all feudal inhumanity and yet Marie – marquise de Sévigné – spontaneous empathy – to alleviate the hardships of women or Caterina Sforza – naked on the rampart – defying the besieging army though her children were hostages. Dornoch Firth. The Sea would be cold yet. Yachts – sunning their bright white sails in the distance. A strange fate – but better a strange fate than no fate at all. One’s proper dharmaḥ could be so hard to find. A fragment? Golspie – another small village with a distinct atmosphere – and Sheep grazing here and there – like August thistles – if seen at a distance. A kiss or touching a thistle in the dark? Brora was another small town bravely facing the north-easterlies – Sea-kings – Land-wasters. Beside the railway here and the weatherworn houses – the road of exchange – transfer of goods and gossip – death and life – still led him on and on in this land of grey cliffs – green moss – pale lichen and castles of crumbling human stones or crumbling old men with beautiful manners – con gli occhi honesti e tardi – but Sentimentalism was such a cosy prison. Again fields and scattered forests – but without the biological diversity found further east – Scandinavia – the Baltic coasts. Too windy and too rainy for most insects – plants and birds. Rough – stormy and cold but with a distinct rugged beauty. Latheronwheel – to follow the northward path towards freedom – that most deceptive of all illusions. The freedom of being enamoured by another human being – would that be freedom from fate or the freedom of fate? Astrologues noyés dans les yeux d’une femme? The landscape was flattened – grassland with low farms as molehills. Though once it had been well-wooded – like Ithaka. Five or six hundred Lynxes would make a great difference when the trees grew up and it would also give the place some honest soul. But for all its apparent loneliness there were too many fences – agriculture and exploitation – and unspeakable windmills – industry and exploitation – in large clusters – destroying the wide space of the horizon. Flat land and large fields – on both sides of the road – battered by centuries of colonisation. Hardly the romantic mystery of an Alexander Nasmyth – anyway such mysteries would have flourished further West or South. Here – the most crucial aspect – the aesthetic – had become superfluous. He drove into Thurso or Thjórsá – turned left across the river and followed the plain road to Scrabster. In the parking facility he paid a rectangular metal machine to let his car occupy the ground beneath it for twenty-four hours – took four bottles – his toothbrush – a clean shirt – the tape recorder and walked down to the ferry. Rain to-morrow? Hardly. It would be enough to hear the accents of Stromness – so at the latest he would be back here around midday – ’in šā’ Allāh – as they say who put more trust in God or chance than in themselves so as to shirk personal responsibility. The interplay of people around him followed an age-old pattern – plus ça change plus c’est la même chose – and during the crossing he could interview a couple of women – but he would have to sift the flimsy tourists from the sturdy islanders.