The Quiet Side of Passion

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “They get very stringy if you cook them for too long,” Jamie continued. “You find out the weight, and then you cook them according to that. It doesn’t take long.”

  Isabel nodded. She was looking at an item further down the menu—a seafood platter for two people. The provenance of the food was set out in detail: the scallops, from the Sound of Mull, were hand-dived; the prawns came from the Isle of Skye, where they had presumably been happy enough; the smoked fish from Pittenweem, in the Kingdom of Fife.

  Jamie had more to say on the subject of lobsters. “They don’t have a central nervous system,” he continued, “and so some people say they don’t feel pain. I don’t believe that. I think they must, because every creature needs a way of recognising danger. Otherwise they wouldn’t survive.”

  “I’m sure they feel pain,” said Isabel. “If they’re cooked alive, they’ll feel pain.”

  The discussion was deterring her from choosing lobster.

  “That’s why you should freeze them first,” said Jamie. “If you put them in the freezer, that numbs them. It’s more humane than putting them into the pot while they’re at room temperature. Once frozen, they’re unconscious. I hate the thought of that, but I know they deal with lobsters humanely here.”

  Isabel laid the menu aside. She had flirted with vegetarianism when she was younger, and it still held a strong appeal. But she had never taken the step of committing herself to it, and now it all seemed too complicated to her, as any rethinking of a fundamental position tends to be.

  “I’m going to have sea bass,” she said. “I’ll ask them to do it without the caper sauce.”

  “Just with butter,” said Jamie. “I don’t see what’s wrong with butter. There’s no need to add anything else.”

  The waitress was hovering, and Jamie picked up the wine list.

  “New Zealand?”

  Isabel smiled. “Of course. Although, as this is a special occasion, I might go a little bit off-piste. Is there a Chablis?”

  “There is.” He signalled to the waitress and pointed to a wine on the list. “And half a dozen oysters too. Each.”

  “Delicious,” said the waitress, noting the choice on her pad.

  “Sinful,” whispered Isabel. Oysters, like any self-indulgence, made her feel guilty; it was part of being Scottish, she thought—a tendency to disapprove of the sybaritic.

  The waitress left, and Isabel said, “Have you ever known a waiter to express disgust at your choice? They say things like ‘Delicious,’ as she just did, or ‘Good choice,’ but you never hear them say anything critical.”

  “Not their job,” said Jamie. “Waiters want you to feel good. Which is quite right, don’t you think? They want you to enjoy yourself and come back.”

  “And yet that involves their having to say things they don’t believe.”

  Jamie shrugged. “What job doesn’t involve that?” He laughed. “Being pope?”

  “I think it’s clear enough that the Pope believes in what he says.”

  Jamie looked doubtful. “Most of the time, yes. But don’t you think it possible that some popes have had their doubts? There must have been moments when they wondered whether there really was a God. They must have.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Jamie sat back in his chair. “Do you think the Pope goes out for dinner? To a restaurant, I mean. Do you think he sometimes says, ‘I’m going to go out tonight and treat myself to a steak,’ or whatever it is that popes like. Do you think he can do that?”

  Isabel thought it unlikely. “He’d be pestered if he went to a restaurant. People would spot him and bring babies in for him to bless and kiss. His food would get cold.” She thought of something else. “Or they might come and try to confess their sins. Imagine trying to work your way through a plate of spaghetti carbonara and somebody from a neighbouring table is trying to tell you about how he’s been having lustful thoughts, or whatever it is he feels the need to confess.”

  Jamie’s eyes lit up; he loved Isabel in fantasy mode. “So he sits there in the Vatican every evening, all by himself.”

  “I imagine he has plenty of people fussing round him,” said Isabel. “And there are cardinals to talk to if he wants conversation.” She pointed out that the current pope lived in a Vatican guesthouse. He must take his meals with other people staying there at the time; an admirable, democratic thing to do.

  “And the Queen?” asked Jamie. “I suppose she’s never been able to go out to a restaurant.”

  “Sometimes, I think,” said Isabel. “But it can’t be easy for her.”

  Jamie had an idea. “Perhaps very grand people get around the difficulty of going out by having people go out for them. Perhaps they say, ‘Please will you go out and have a meal on my behalf?’ Something like that.”

  Isabel laughed. “You may joke about that, but I read about an Indian maharajah who was so rich, and so grand, that he had somebody whose job it was to wear his jewellery for him. He had so much of it, you see. So the maharajah would appear, all bedecked in jewels, and then, walking a few paces behind him, would be the lackey wearing all the stuff that the maharajah couldn’t pin on himself.”

  Isabel reached for a piece of bread. There was a bowl of olive oil, and she would dip it in that—a small treat, but a delectable one. Her hand moved, and then stopped. The door out onto the street had opened, and a man and a woman were coming in. The woman was Patricia.

  They did not catch each other’s eye. Isabel and Jamie were seated in an alcove, and there were several tables between them and the door. Patricia was looking in the opposite direction as she entered, but Isabel had a clear view of her. She saw her hand her coat to the waiter who had opened the door, and she saw her touch her hair, which had been dishevelled by the wind outside. Then she saw the man, who turned briefly in her direction. At first she noticed the jacket he was wearing, which was one of those raffish striped blazers that people wore to regattas; then she looked at his face.

  Patricia and her friend were shown to their table. There was no direct view of this from where Isabel and Jamie were, but once the other couple was seated, there was a mirror in a neuk on the other side of the room affording a view of their table. Patricia had her back to the mirror, but the man was visible enough.

  “What?” asked Jamie.

  Isabel leaned forward. She broke the bread roll and dipped a piece into the olive oil. “Patricia,” she said, her voice lowered, although in the hubbub of the restaurant there was no need. “Over there. Look in that mirror.”

  Jamie looked. “That’s her?”

  “Yes,” said Isabel. “Back view.”

  “She’s had a busy day, then,” said Jamie. “Rehearsal, then dinner. Just as well she had Grace to help her.”

  “Look at the man,” whispered Isabel.

  “You don’t need to whisper.”

  “Just look at him.”

  Jamie stared at the image in the mirror. “Smart blazer,” he said.

  “Look at his face,” said Isabel.

  Jamie threw another glance at the mirror. “Freckles,” he said. “Lots of them.”

  Isabel dipped another piece of bread into the olive oil. “You have your phone with you, I assume.”

  Jamie felt his pocket. “Yes, it’s there. Why?”

  “Could you take a photograph of the mirror? Pretend you’re looking at emails. Nobody will notice.”

  Jamie frowned. “Isabel, what are you up to?”

  A droplet of olive oil had fallen from the bread onto her chin. She dabbed at it with her napkin. “He’s the image of Basil. You know, Charlie’s friend—Patricia’s son.”

  “So?”

  “Please, just take the picture.”

  Jamie complied reluctantly. As he finished, the waitress appeared with the bottle of Chablis and the oysters. The wine poured, Isabel rai
sed her glass. “To my new, stress-free life.”

  Jamie touched her glass with his. “Your new life will be stress-free as long as you don’t get involved in things that don’t concern you.”

  It was a familiar refrain in their marriage. Isabel helped people; it was what she did. Jamie knew that. He knew, too, that she found it difficult, if not impossible, to say no to a request from anybody who needed her help. He had urged her time and time again to be careful; the world was full of need and there was a limit to what one person could do. Isabel agreed; she knew that in theory we only had to do so much, and that it was reasonable for us to keep enough time and energy for our own projects. But that was the theory; in practice, it was much more difficult and her attempts to disengage from the world had all failed.

  He tried again. “Don’t get involved in Patricia’s affairs,” he said. “I thought you’d agreed that with Grace. You said that the two of you were going to keep her at arm’s length from now on.” He paused. “You did say that, you know. You told me yourself.”

  She listened, but did not respond directly. Instead, she said, “What if that man is Basil’s father?” The possibility had just occurred to her. It struck her as outrageous, and yet...

  Jamie sighed. “It’s none of our business who Basil’s father is.”

  But it is, thought Isabel, it simply is. The things that happen to people we know are our business. John Donne had said that every man is a piece of the continent...the unfamiliar, seventeenth-century analogies were as true now as they had been when Donne uttered them. Isabel’s voice took on the urgency of an appeal. “Just think...what if Basil Phelps, the organist Basil, is being made to pay for young Basil’s upkeep in the mistaken belief he’s the father?”

  “That would be unfortunate,” said Jamie. “But I suppose that sort of thing happens.”

  Isabel struggled to keep her voice even. “I know Basil Phelps,” she said. “And so do you. We can’t ignore this.”

  In her mind, that was enough to create the obligation to do something. And Jamie, after a moment’s thought, came to the reluctant conclusion that she could be right. Basil Phelps was a much-appreciated member of Edinburgh’s musical community. He was a mild man, who gave a lot of his time to various charitable causes. He played the organ free for young couples who were getting married on a budget. Last year he had undertaken a much-publicised organ marathon—six hours at the keyboard—for the city’s homelessness appeal. He was widely liked.

  “All right,” said Jamie. “But what now?”

  Isabel became calmer. “We enjoy our meal. But we’ll have to think about it later.”

  Jamie wondered just what that meant. “You’re going to go and talk to Basil Senior? You’re going to tell him, ‘We saw your ex-lover with a man who had freckles just like young Basil. We saw him in a restaurant and we have a photo to prove it’?”

  Isabel had no plan, but made light of it. “Not necessarily,” she said.

  Jamie, who did not want to spoil the meal with an argument about involvement, decided to change the subject. The waitress was now ready to take their order. There was a crab salad starter that they both liked the sound of, and then there was the sea bass for Isabel and, after the briefest final indecision, the lobster for Jamie.

  “Terrific choice,” said the waitress.

  * * *

  —

  THEY BOTH KEPT OFF the subject of Patricia for the rest of the meal. Isabel stole an occasional glance at the mirror, but it had little to reveal, other than the sight of a man and a woman seated at a table in the warm light of the restaurant. They found they had much to talk about, including the new au pair, whom they had yet to meet. Isabel was planning her duties. She could take Charlie to nursery school, which would free both of them at a time of the morning that tended to be hectic anyway. There were various housekeeping tasks that she could take over from Grace—the ironing of Jamie’s shirts, for instance, was a chore that Isabel thought Grace might willingly hand over.

  “It might be a way of winning Grace round,” Jamie suggested.

  “If she needs to be won round,” said Isabel. “You never know with Grace; she might take to Antonia.”

  Jamie had a strategy in mind. “The best way of getting Grace to endorse something,” he said, “is to imply that it was her idea in the first place. That works, you know. Remember that business about my shirts being folded rather than left on the hanger?”

  Isabel did remember it. It had been the cause of one of Grace’s huffs; a period of painful silences as the shirts, pointedly and punctiliously folded, were left on the bed in silent accusation.

  “I spoke to her about it,” said Jamie. “I told her what a great system it was that she had introduced and how well it was working.”

  Isabel smiled at the memory. “She can’t resist you. You walk on water as far as she’s concerned.”

  Jamie was embarrassed. “Nonsense.”

  They returned to the subject of Antonia. Would she be expecting to cook for herself? Would she have to entertain her friends in her bedroom, or could she bring them into the kitchen? Could she use the living room whenever she wanted, or was that to be their private space?

  Isabel felt that they should treat her as a member of their household—in the same way they would treat a long-term guest. “You can’t tell your guests which parts of the house they can use,” she said. “That would be rude, don’t you think?”

  “But most guests don’t stay for a year.”

  “No, true. But...

  “I think we should feel our way through it,” she continued eventually. “Let’s see how it works out.”

  They reached the coffee stage, and it was while the waitress was serving it that Isabel noticed that Patricia and her companion were readying to leave. She signalled to Jamie with a movement of her head, and then, turning to the waitress, she said that they needed their bill and would have to go. Jamie was surprised, but Isabel was firm.

  “I just want to see where they go,” she said.

  He rolled his eyes. “They’ll probably get into a taxi. What’s to see about that?”

  “Just let me satisfy my curiosity,” said Isabel. “Please.”

  Jamie gave in. He had sometimes said, jokingly for the most part, that Isabel saw herself as some sort of sleuth; now it would seem she was proposing to follow somebody. She had never been that overt before. He decided to smile and join in. He was never going to change the way she was, and if she had got it into her head to follow somebody through the streets of Leith, then he would be unlikely to be able to dissuade her.

  The waitress was quick with the bill, and Isabel had her card at the ready. Their finances were conjoint—a true marriage of funds—and it did not matter who paid. That most of the money was Isabel’s had never been an issue; Jamie spent very little, anyway, and had to be encouraged by her to make what purchases he did.

  “I take it everything was all right,” said the waitress.

  “More than all right,” said Isabel. “But we really do need to be on our way.”

  She glanced in the direction of the door. The man had ushered Patricia out and was now halfway through the door himself. Isabel had left a coat with the waitress, who now retrieved it for her.

  “Wait just a moment,” Isabel whispered to Jamie. “Let them get out into the street.”

  Jamie grinned. “I feel vaguely ridiculous,” he said. “Scottish noir?”

  “Be natural,” said Isabel, taking her coat from the waitress.

  “And how exactly do you do that?” asked Jamie.

  Isabel was not paying attention to what he was saying.

  Jamie was suddenly taken with the absurdity of the situation. “Do you really think we should be doing this?” he muttered. “We’re two grown-ups proposing to follow two other grown-ups out of a restaurant...and what for?”

&
nbsp; Isabel continued regardless. “Right,” she said. “We can go out now.”

  He followed her. One of the restaurant staff opened the front door for them; outside, even at ten-thirty at night, this far north there was still light in the sky, although the streetlights, yellow and fuzzy, had flickered into life. The Quayside was on the water, and directly on the other side of the road was a small white-painted ship, now converted into a floating restaurant tied up at the quay. A man stood on the deck, slouching, caught in a beam of light from the ship’s interior, smoking a cigarette. He raised a hand to Jamie and Isabel—a casual, unsolicited greeting—before stubbing out his cigarette, turning on his heel, and retreating down the ship’s companionway.

  Isabel looked about her. There were a few cars parked on the street, but no people.

  “There you are,” said Jamie. “They’ve jumped into a taxi. I thought they would. We can go home now.”

  Isabel looked down the street. When taxis came to the restaurant, they hovered outside the front door; that meant they could be seen from within. There had been no taxi since she had first noticed Patricia leaving; she was sure of that.

  “I think they walked,” she said. “They must have gone along there.” The end of the street was only a short distance away. There it joined the road that crossed a bridge over the canal basin, leading, in one direction, to Granton and the Firth of Forth, and in the other, to the heart of Leith.

  “Come on, Isabel,” said Jamie. “Time to go home.”

  But she was not going to give up. “Let’s just take a look up there,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll see them.”

  “I don’t know what you imagine we’ll see,” he said.

  “Since they’re on foot, I suspect he lives around here,” she said. She could see that Jamie was not convinced, but she continued, “I’d like to know where they went.”

  “And then?”

  “We could find out who he is. Anyway, come on.”