The Quiet Side of Passion

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She thought all this, and had decided to ignore the high-handed summons, but then she stopped herself. She had never liked Lettuce, and she had never approved of his machinations, in particular those conducted with his sidekick, Christopher Dove. Lettuce was a plotter, a schemer. Lettuce was interested only in gain and glory for Lettuce—and perhaps the award of the MBE was for self-interest. She smiled at the thought, imagining the citation: For service to self: Robert Lettuce.

  But then she remembered her conversation with Clementine Lettuce in the Scottish National Gallery on the Mound, when Lettuce’s wife had suddenly opened up with the heart-rending story of the loss of their daughter. The young woman had been killed in a car accident on the way to a university open day, and since then, Clementine explained, Robert Lettuce had lived with a broken heart. That had brought Isabel up short, and she had reflected on her lack of charity towards him. He was not the scheming, manipulative professor; he was a man who had lost that which he most loved in this life. In his sorrow, he was just a person like anybody else; an ordinary, vulnerable person, whose life could be shattered by grief.

  The loss of another’s life, Isabel reminded herself, was a cause for sympathy, and one effect of sympathy was to prompt us to cherish, if not love, those on whom our sympathy was focused. And that had been its effect in this case: although she and Lettuce had not sought one another out since his move to Edinburgh, her antipathy to him had largely disappeared, and indeed she had not thought much about him. But now this letter had arrived and it had all been stirred up again.

  Yet she had to respond to his letter. Even extreme rudeness should not be answered by the same token. She knew that, and she knew that she would go to see Lettuce—even at a time that suited him—and would find out what it was he wanted. She was sure he had invited her for that reason—Lettuce always wanted something—and the only way of finding out what it was would be to go and discover the lactucian agenda.

  * * *

  —

  SHE MADE HER WAY across the Meadows shortly before noon. Her appointment with Professor Lettuce was at twelve-twenty—a time that had been proposed by Mrs. Balvenie when Isabel had telephoned her. Isabel had been surprised by the twenty minutes; most arrangements were made for more obvious times—for the quarter or half hours, or for the simple hour itself. Why would Lettuce not have chosen twelve o’clock, rather than twelve-twenty? Lettuce was trying to intimidate her; he wanted to show that he was someone who could suggest a meeting at twenty past the hour; he was trying to show that his day was so finely calibrated that twenty-past meetings were inevitable.

  The Meadows, a large park that separated the South Side of Edinburgh from the Old Town, was thronged with people taking advantage of one of the first warm days of summer. Like most of Scotland, Edinburgh moved from spring into summer with a gradualism that could sometimes be taken for reluctance, as if the weather were frightened to abandon the ambivalence of spring for the certainty of summer. Now the change seemed unequivocal, and groups of young people—students, for the most part—had trustingly taken to the grass and the sun, lying scantily clad, sprawled out in the warmth of the sunlight; or clustered in small groups around somebody with a guitar; or playing an informal game of cricket with tennis balls and bundles of clothing as stumps. Somebody not far off was playing music, and it drifted across the grass—Carmina Burana, of all things. She stopped for a moment to listen to it, and smiled. Carmina Burana was not music for a summer’s day; it was no pastoral, but it was certainly music for nineteen- or twenty-year-olds, who felt the passion of youth. Olim, sang the anguished tenor; Olim lacus colueram / olim pulcher exstiteram / dum cignus ego fueram...Once I lived on lakes, once I looked beautiful, when I was a swan.

  It was obviously too much for the person playing it and it was switched off suddenly. Isabel continued with her walk. There was laughter from a group of four young people—two men and two women; somebody chanted the word olim, and there was more laughter. Isabel sighed. In a different, more interventionist universe she could have gone over to them and said, “But that’s a heart-rending song,” but she could not do it, because you did not talk to complete strangers about the music they were playing, and they were also too young to realise that olim could be the saddest of words, not something to laugh at. Olim was full of regret once you had something to regret, but not before.

  She thought about Carmina Burana all the way to George Square. A singer friend of hers had told her that he hated singing it. “Nasty, fascist music,” he’d said. “Aggressive stuff.”

  It had made her think of the moral flavour of music. Could music really have a moral quality in itself, or was it given this by the circumstances in which it was played—and by the reasons behind its performance? Music could be pressed into military service: a triumphal march would be good if played by the right side, and wrong if played by those in the wrong. But that was martial music, which was a special case. What about other forms of music? What about rap? There was positive rap, no doubt, but it sometimes seemed to glorify things that were distinctly negative—violence, drug use, the strutting mistreatment of women. The message was spelled out in the words, of course, but did the music itself, the insistent, monotonous rhythms, have anything to do with it?

  And the issue became more complex when one linked music to nation; could Madama Butterfly or Aida have been written by anybody but an Italian? Or the “Song of the Volga Boatmen” be the product of anything but a people who have suffered long under one cudgel or another; that was music best sung by the Red Army Choir if at all possible. River Volga, you are our mother...It could come from nowhere else. Then there was Wagner. Could the Ring Cycle have been written by a Canadian composer? The Canadians, surely, were too considerate, too polite, to write Wagnerian music; not that the Germans were not polite—they generally were, scrupulously so. Wagner, though, had not been a man of typically Canadian modesty. He had been famed for his arrogance—the very opposite of Richard Strauss, who, summing up his own career, described himself, with admirable humility, as a “first-class second-rate composer.”

  With these thoughts in mind she arrived at the university building that housed members of the department of philosophy. A notice directed visitors to the office of the departmental secretary, Mrs. Balvenie, who glanced at her watch as Isabel entered. Twelve-twenty might have been her idea, thought Isabel.

  She was told that Professor Lettuce would be ready to see her in a few minutes, once he was off the telephone. Isabel smiled politely. “I wouldn’t want to disturb him unduly,” she said.

  Mrs. Balvenie looked appreciative, even if still reserved. “The professor’s very busy.”

  “I can imagine he is,” said Isabel.

  Mrs. Balvenie seemed to relax. “He has so much to do,” she said. “And this is a busy time for us. The students are finishing their examinations, you see.”

  “Marking exam papers is a thankless task,” remarked Isabel.

  Mrs. Balvenie hesitated, as if unsure whether to divulge a piece of important information. Then she said, “Oh, Professor Lettuce doesn’t do that. There are others...”

  “Junior staff?”

  “Yes. But he keeps an eye on things.”

  Isabel took the seat offered her by Mrs. Balvenie. “Your name,” she ventured. “Balvenie: It’s a whisky, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Balvenie smiled. “And a castle,” she said coyly. “Up in Morayshire—near Dufftown.”

  “Of course. I’ve heard of it.”

  “My husband’s people are from up there. They’re Douglases, you see.”

  Something chimed in Isabel’s memory. The Douglases were a well-known family in Scottish history, known as the Black Douglases. One of them had been murdered by King James II. Another was called Archibald the Grim, and then there was James the Gross...They were a troubled—and troubling—family.

  “And your name,” said Mrs. Balveni
e suddenly. “Dalhousie. That’s an interesting one, isn’t it?”

  “Not in our case,” said Isabel. “We were very ordinary. I don’t think we did anything.” She paused. “Which may be no bad thing, actually. All the distinguished names in Scotland can be traced back to murderers and brigands of one sort or another.” She stopped. “Although not in the case of the Balvenies, of course.”

  They both laughed. And that was the point at which a door at the side of the room opened and Professor Lettuce appeared.

  “Murderers and brigands?” he said. “This is a very interesting conversation.” He took a step towards Isabel, hand extended. “My dear Miss Dalhousie.”

  She took his hand. It was limp—like a lettuce leaf, thought Isabel; an unexpected handshake for a man as well built as Professor Lettuce was. She glanced at him; he had put on weight since she last saw him, and had developed slightly fleshy jowls.

  “Do come in,” he said, gesturing to the room behind him. Then, to Mrs. Balvenie, he said, “Mrs. Balvenie, please don’t put any telephone calls through for the next ten minutes.”

  Isabel smarted. Ten minutes; she was worth ten minutes of the great man’s time. Ten minutes.

  “It’s very good of you to see me.” She found herself saying this without any note of irony. She did not believe it, but she said it.

  Magnanimous, Professor Lettuce waved a hand in the air. “No, it’s a real pleasure to see you—and you’re so kind to call in.”

  “I know how busy you are,” said Isabel.

  “Yes, it’s a busy time of the year.” They sat down, Lettuce behind his large, paper-strewn desk, and Isabel in the visitor’s chair in front of it.

  “I hope you don’t mind my not offering you a cup of coffee,” said Professor Lettuce, “but our kettle’s broken.” His tone became vaguely petulant. “Mrs. Balvenie was going to bring another one in, but she hasn’t got round to it yet.”

  “It’s a fraught time of the year,” said Isabel. “She must have a lot to do.”

  Lettuce thought for a moment before replying. “I suppose so. We’re so understaffed, you know. I’m under pressure to give up some of her time to colleagues—it’s most vexing. A chair should have a secretary—they always did in the past.”

  Isabel wondered whether her ten minutes were going to be used up in small talk about the staffing problem of the department of philosophy. She refrained from comment, but waited for Lettuce to continue.

  Lettuce cleared his throat. “I mustn’t keep you too long,” he said. “I was looking forward to seeing you because I have a proposition to put to you.”

  Isabel tried to hide her satisfaction in having guessed correctly that Lettuce wanted something from her. “Oh yes?” she said.

  “Yes. I’m instituting a series of lectures—high-profile ones—and I wondered whether you might be prepared to be our first speaker.”

  She frowned. “Public lectures?”

  “Oh yes, very much so. The idea would be to come up with lectures of a philosophical nature, but of relevance to the financial and business community. You, of course, are very much involved in applied ethics—and that would be a perfect fit.” He waved a hand airily. “There’s all this interest in business ethics, isn’t there? I’m sure we could attract a large audience from all the fund managers and bankers we have in this city.”

  Isabel was cautious. “Possibly. Although I don’t think one can count on it.”

  Lettuce assured her that he would count on nothing. “But I still have reason to believe we would attract a large and influential audience.” He paused. “And that, of course, would help us with our own financial plans.”

  Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Which are?”

  “We need funds to enable members of staff to go off to more conferences. A truly successful department of philosophy needs to be seen at the big meetings—the American Philosophical Association conference, for instance, or the World Philosophical Congress. We need to be represented at all these functions.”

  Isabel nodded. “So you would hope that the financial firms would support all that?”

  “Indirectly,” said Lettuce. “They would give a donation but it wouldn’t necessarily be tied to a specific event. Everything would be very flexible.”

  Isabel thought for a moment; it was becoming clear to her who would attend these international jamborees. She decided to confirm her suspicions indirectly.

  “It will be a great boost for your junior colleagues to get the experience,” she said. “Exposure to these international meetings would be wonderful for their careers.”

  Lettuce hesitated. “Well...” He looked out of the window, avoiding her gaze. “Well, I’m not sure whether junior members of staff are the best people to represent the department. In due course they would be, but I think, on balance, it would be better to send senior people.”

  “So you’d be prepared to go,” prompted Isabel.

  Lettuce smiled. “It’s my responsibility,” he said.

  Isabel pursed her lips. “I see.”

  “Good,” said Lettuce. “And the reason I thought of asking you is that you have deep roots in this city. Your father, I believe, was well known in Edinburgh, and I imagine that some of these financial people will remember him. Is that right?”

  “They may,” said Isabel.

  “Well, there we are,” said Lettuce. “Perfect fit. Your name as the first speaker might persuade many of them to attend.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Isabel. “Many of these people are fully occupied making money—it’s what they do. They may not have time for philosophy lectures.”

  Lettuce made light of the objection. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “I’d be prepared to bet we get a fair amount of interest.”

  Isabel shrugged. “Perhaps. When would you want an answer?”

  Lettuce looked puzzled. “To what?”

  “To the invitation you’ve just extended.”

  Isabel realised that it had not occurred to Lettuce that she might decline; it was yet more lactucian arrogance.

  He looked flustered. “Well...”

  She took control. “I’ll think about it,” she said firmly. “I’ll let you know in due course.”

  He thanked her.

  “What will the lectures be called?” she asked.

  For a few moments Lettuce said nothing. She saw him look down at his hands, which were soft and effeminate. They were not the hands of one who had done any manual work about the house, or anywhere else.

  Then he said, “Actually, we were thinking of calling them the Robert Lettuce Lectures.” He stared at her, as if nervous about her reaction. He added, hurriedly, “That was a colleague’s idea, of course. I agreed only because it would give them a strong identification with my chair. There’s nothing personal involved.”

  Isabel felt the laughter welling up within her. With a supreme effort she quelled it. “Very appropriate,” she said, her voice trembling on the edge of a giggle.

  Lettuce seemed relieved. “I’m glad you think so.”

  Isabel rose to leave, but Lettuce gestured for her to stay. “There’s one further thing,” he said. “I wondered if I could prevail on you to read something I’ve come across.” He reached into a folder on his desk and took out a thin sheaf of papers. “This is a quite remarkable paper I happened to discover. I don’t know the author, I’m afraid, but I think it’s extremely interesting—indeed, I wondered whether it would suit your Review.”

  Lettuce handed the paper to Isabel. She glanced at the title page: “The Duty to Lie.” The author’s name appeared immediately below the title: Professor Calderwood Kale. Kale. The coincidence struck her immediately. Kale was a popular vegetable: Jamie had a particular soft spot for curly kale. Why would Lettuce espouse the cause of a paper written by somebody called Kale?

 
Isabel looked up. “How do we know that he wrote this?” she asked.

  A puzzled frown crossed Lettuce’s face. “But why would we imagine that anybody else did?”

  “With that title?” said Isabel.

  Again Lettuce frowned. “I have no reason to believe it’s not the work of the person on the title page. None at all.”

  Isabel rose to her feet. “Well,” she said, “I must let you get on. I’ll read this and let you have my views. We’re a bit full at the moment, but there may be a slot if Professor Kale doesn’t mind waiting.”

  She said goodbye to Lettuce, and then to Mrs. Balvenie. Once outside the room, she took a deep breath. Talking to Professor Lettuce always had this effect on her—she felt stifled, as if the only thing to do was to have a brisk walk in the open, unpolluted air. “The Robert Lettuce Lectures!” she muttered to herself. And then, once again, “The Robert Lettuce Lectures!”

  Halfway along the corridor, there was a board on the wall. Isabel stopped and looked at the notices pinned on it. Please take notices down after they have ceased to have effect, said a sign at the top. She smiled as she saw the extent to which this advice had gone unheeded, in spite of being signed Professor R. Lettuce. She itched to write in MBE after his name, but resisted the temptation. An advertisement for a student party, dated the previous March, still invited people “to come and have a seriously good time,” and next to it, on a faded piece of paper, was a small note from a postgraduate student looking for a new flat to move into “round about Christmas.” Her eye moved on. There was something compelling about the notices that people pinned on boards: they provided a snapshot of the life of a community. So she saw that there was a reading group devoted to Heidegger; she saw that somebody was offering a copy of Plato’s Republic and Camus’s The Myth of Sisyphus for three pounds (for both books); she read the plea for somebody who had removed a light brown jacket from one of the tutorial rooms to return it to its owner. “I’m pretty sure I know who you are,” said this notice, which ended with the imprecation “Have you no conscience?” Presumably not, thought Isabel, as the notice was still there—as must be the rumbling suspicion that the rightful owner harboured.