The World According to Bertie 4ss-4

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Irene waved a hand airily. “I did not interpret it in that way at all,” she said. “Have you been seeing patients?”

  Dr Fairbairn waited until Irene had sat herself down before he continued. “No, not at all. I’m working on a paper, long-distance, with Ettore Esteves Balado,” he said. “He’s an Argentine I met on the circuit, and we found ourselves interested in much the same area. We’re writing on the Lacanian perspective on transference.” He paused, smiling at Irene. “And it’s going very well. We’re practically finished.”

  Irene looked at his blue linen jacket. Linen was such a difficult material, with its propensity to crumple. She had a white 288 A Dangerous Turn in the Conversation linen blouse with a matching skirt which she loved to wear, but which crumpled so quickly that after five or ten minutes she looked like, well, Stuart had put it rather tactlessly, like a handkerchief that had been left out in the rain. It was an odd analogy, that, and she wondered what the Lacanian interpretation might be. We did not choose our words simply for their expressive power; our words were the manifestation of the conflicts of our unconscious, indeed, they themselves formed the unconscious itself. Lacan had made that quite clear, and Irene was inclined to agree. She did not think that we could find a stable unconscious; our unconscious was really a stream of interactions between words that we used to express our desires and conflicts.

  So when Stuart had made those remarks about a handkerchief in the rain, he did not mean that her linen outfit was a handkerchief left out in the rain, or indeed even looked like one.

  What his words revealed was that he feared disorder (or rain) and that he wanted her, Irene, to be perfect, to be ironed. And that, of course, suggested that he looked to her for stability to control his sense of impermanence and flux, his confusion. No surprises there, she thought: of course he did. Stuart might have many good points, but in Irene’s view, strength – what people called backbone, or even bottom – was not Stuart’s strong suit.

  Mind you, it was strange that people should use the word

  “bottom” for strength or courage. What was the Lacanian significance of that?

  Her eyes returned to Dr Fairbairn’s blue linen jacket. He had said something, she recalled, about the combination of fibres in the jacket, and that must be the reason it looked so uncrumpled. The question in her mind, though, was: at what point did the insertion of other fibres deprive the material of the qualities of real linen? If it was merely a treatment of the linen, then that was one thing; if, however, it involved polyester or something of that sort, could one still call it linen?

  Dr Fairbairn, aware of her gaze, fingered the cuff of his A Dangerous Turn in the Conversation 289

  sleeve self-consciously. “I’ll give you a copy of the paper,” he said. “When it’s finished. I know of your interest in these things.”

  “Argentina?” said Irene.

  “Yes, Buenos Aires. My friend Ettore is one of their best-known analysts there. He has a very extensive practice.”

  Irene nodded. She had heard that there were more psycho-analysts in Buenos Aires than anywhere else in the world, but was not sure why this should be. It seemed strange to her that a country associated with gauchos and pampas should also have all those analysts. She asked Dr Fairbairn why.

  “Ah!” he said. “That is the question for Argentine analysts.

  They’re immensely fortunate, you know. Everyone, or virtually everyone, in Buenos Aires is undergoing analysis. It’s very common indeed.”

  “Surprising,” said Irene. “Mind you, the Argentine psyche is perhaps a bit . . .”

  “Fractured,” said Dr Fairbairn. “They’re a very charming people, but they have a somewhat confused history. They go in for dreams, the South Americans. Look at Peronism. What did it mean? Evita? Who was she?”

  For a moment, they were both silent. Then he continued. “I think the reason Freud is so popular in Argentina is, like most of these things, explained by a series of coincidences. It just so happened that at the time that Freudian ideas were becoming popular in Europe, the Argentine public was in a receptive mood for scientific ideas. You must remember that Argentina in the twenties and thirties was a very fashionable place.”

  “Oh yes,” said Irene. She was not going to let him think that she knew nothing about all that. “The tango . . .”

  “Hah!” said Dr Fairbairn. “The tango was actually invented by a Uruguayan. The Argentines claimed him, but he was born in Uruguay.”

  “Oh.”

  “But no matter,” he went on. “The point is that La Jornada, one of the most popular newspapers in Buenos Aires, actually

  290 A Dangerous Turn in the Conversation started a daily psychoanalytical column in the early thirties. It appeared under the byline ‘Freudiano,’ and readers were invited to send in their dreams for analysis by Freudiano. The paper then told them what the dreams revealed – all in Freudian terms.”

  “But what a brilliant idea!” said Irene. “Perhaps The Scotsman could do that.”

  “Are we not perhaps a little too inhibited in Scotland?” asked Dr Fairbairn.

  “But that’s exactly the problem,” said Irene heatedly. “If we were to . . . to open up a bit, then we would all become so much more . . .”

  Dr Fairbairn waited. “Like the Argentines?” he ventured.

  Irene laughed. “I’m not sure,” she said. “They’ve had a tendency to go in for dictators, haven’t they?”

  “Father figures,” said Dr Fairbairn.

  “And generals too,” added Irene.

  “Military figures,” said Dr Fairbairn.

  “But they do dance so marvellously,” mused Irene. “And there’s something deeply appealing about a Latin American type.

  They’re so tactile.”

  Dr Fairbairn watched her. This conversation was fascinating, but it was straying into dangerous territory. He should bring it Bertie and the Baby: an Expert Explanation 291

  back to the topic in hand, which was not the history of Freudian theory in Buenos Aires, nor Latin American sultriness, but Bertie.

  How was Bertie doing? And, in particular, how was he getting on with his new brother, Ulysses? But that triggered another thought in his mind: where exactly was Ulysses? He asked the question.

  86. Bertie and the Baby: an Expert Explanation

  “Ulysses is in the waiting room,” said Irene. “In his baby buggy.

  Sound asleep.”

  “I see,” said Dr Fairbairn. “And how is Bertie reacting to him?”

  Irene was always ready to see psychological problems, but she had to admit that in his dealing with his brother, Bertie showed very little sign of resentment.

  “He’s very accepting,” she said. “There appears to be no jealousy, although . . .” She hesitated. She had remembered Bertie’s comments on the baby that had been mistakenly brought back from the council nursery. That had been slightly worrying.

  Dr Fairbairn raised an eyebrow. “Although?”

  “Although he did make a curious remark about exchanging Ulysses.”

  This was greeted with great interest by Dr Fairbairn, who leaned forward, eager to hear more. “Please elucidate,” he urged Irene. “Exchange?”

  Irene had not intended to discuss the incident in which Ulysses had been parked in his baby buggy outside Valvona & Crolla –

  she was not sure how well either she or Stuart emerged from that tale – but now she had to explain.

  “It was a most unfortunate slip on my husband’s part,” she said, almost apologetically. “He left Ulysses outside Valvona & Crolla.”

  292 Bertie and the Baby: an Expert Explanation

  “A handbag?” said Dr Fairbairn and smiled; he thought this quite a clever reference and was disappointed when Irene looked at him in puzzlement.

  “The Importance . . .” he began.

  “Of being Ulysses!” capped Irene. She had understood all along of course, and had merely affected puzzlement.

  Dr Fairbairn had to acknow
ledge her victory with a nod of the head. “But, please proceed. What happened?”

  “Well, he was found,” said Irene. “Somebody must have called the police and they took him off to the council emergency nursery. We went there very quickly, of course, and retrieved Ulysses, or the baby we thought was Ulysses. In fact, it was a girl.” She paused. “And unfortunately, Bertie made the discovery.

  He saw that this baby didn’t have . . . well, he thought that the relevant part had fallen off.”

  Dr Fairbairn made a quick note on his pad of paper. “That’s most unfortunate,” he said. “But it clearly reveals castration anxieties. As you know, most boys are worried about that.”

  “Of course,” said Irene. And she wondered for a moment about Stuart.

  “And the interesting thing is this,” went on Dr Fairbairn.

  “As you’ll recall, one of the main concerns of Freud’s famous patient Little Hans was that he would suffer this unfortunate fate through the agency of dray horses.” He paused and looked at Irene with bright eyes. “Isn’t it extraordinary how real life mimics the classic cases. Don’t you agree, Dora?”

  Irene frowned. “You called me Dora.”

  Dr Fairbairn shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re mistaken.”

  “No, you made the mistake. And a classic one, if I may say so. Surely you don’t regard me as Dora?”

  Dr Fairbairn smiled urbanely. “Of course not. Perish the thought. But I didn’t call you Dora, anyway, and so let’s return to this issue of baby exchange.”

  “He suggested that we keep the girl,” said Irene. “For Bertie and the Baby: an Expert Explanation 293

  some reason, he seemed quite happy that Ulysses had been mislaid.”

  “Well, there you are,” said Dr Fairbairn. “He obviously feels that a girl would be no threat to him in his mother/son relationship with you. He’s Oedipus, you see, and you are Jocasta, mother of Oedipus and wife of Laius. Bertie resents his father – obviously – because he, Bertie, wants your unrivalled attention. Ulysses is a rival too, and that’s why Bertie secretly wishes that Ulysses did not possess that which marks him out as a boy.

  “When he saw that the baby whom he took to be Ulysses did not have that, then it was the fulfilment of his wildest dream.

  Now there was no danger for him – and that, you see, is why he would have wanted to keep the other baby.”

  Irene had to agree with the perspicacity of this analysis. He was really very clever, she thought, this doctor in his crumple-free blue linen jacket; so unlike virtually all other men she had ever met. Men were such a disappointing group, on the whole; so out of touch with their feminine side, so rooted in the dull practicalities of life; and yet here was Dr Fairbairn, who just understood.

  She sighed. Stuart would never understand. He knew nothing of psychodynamics; he knew nothing of the unconscious; he knew nothing, really.

  “Of course,” she said suddenly. “There’s always Ulysses.”

  Dr Fairbairn said nothing. He picked up his pen and stroked it gently. “Oh yes?” he said noncommittedly.

  “Ulysses will have identity conflicts, will he not? When he’s old enough to question who he is?”

  “We all wonder who we are,” said Dr Fairbairn distantly.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “So Ulysses will look at his family and think: who are these people? Who’s my mother, who’s my brother, who’s . . .” She broke off. She had almost said “Who’s my father?” but decided not to.

  Dr Fairbairn was staring down at his desk. Then he looked 294 A Fantasy Sail on That Slow Boat to China at his watch. “Gracious! Is that the time?” He looked up. “I have somebody coming, I’m afraid. Is there anything else you need to tell me about Bertie before I see him tomorrow?”

  There was. “He’s had a bit of trauma at school,” said Irene.

  “That will probably come out. His class teacher has been suspended, and he’ll no doubt lose her. She pinched one of the girls. A nice child called Olive.”

  “Goodness me!” said Dr Fairbairn.

  “Yes,” Irene continued, “I heard about it from Bertie, and of course I had to raise it with the school.”

  “You reported it?”

  “Yes,” said Irene. “I couldn’t stand by.”

  He thought for a moment. “But Bertie was very fond of that teacher, wasn’t he? He always spoke so warmly of her. Don’t you think that he might blame you for the fact that he’s losing her?”

  Irene was silent.

  Dr Fairbairn, realising that Irene seemed unwilling to pursue the matter, gave a shrug. “No matter. These losses are an inevitable part of life. We lose so much, and all we can hope is that our separation anxiety is kept within reasonable bounds. I have lost so much. You, no doubt, have done so too.”

  He looked out of the window. He was a lonely man, and he only wanted to help others. He wanted to help them to recover a bit of what they had lost, and it gave him great pleasure when he did that; it was like making something whole again, mending a broken object. Each of us, you see, has a secret Eden, which we feel has been lost. If we can find it again, we will be happy, but Edens are not easily regained, no matter how hard we look, no matter how desperately we want to find them.

  87. A Fantasy Sail on That Slow Boat to China The break-up with Matthew was a great relief to Pat. She had been worried by Matthew’s completely unexpected proposal at A Fantasy Sail on That Slow Boat to China 295

  the Duke of Johannesburg’s party; she was too young for that, she knew, and yet she was unwilling to hurt Matthew, who was, she also knew, in his turn unwilling to hurt her. She would never settle down with him; she would never settle down with anybody, or at least not just yet. She stopped herself. That was simply untrue. If somebody came who swept her off her feet, who intoxicated her with his appeal, well, it would be very pleasant to settle down with such a person. If one is really in love, really, then the idea of spending all one’s time in the company of the person one loves, tucked away somewhere, was surely irresistible. That was the whole point, was it not, about slow boats to China – they provided a lot of time to spend with another. And would she have wanted to get on a slow boat to China with Matthew? The answer was no. Or with Wolf? The thought was in one sense appalling – Wolf was bad – but, but . . .

  For a moment, she thought of the cabin on this slow boat, in which she and Wolf were sequestered, and she saw herself and Wolf in this cabin, and there was only a half-light and the engine of the boat was throbbing away in the distance somewhere and it was warm and . . . She stopped herself again. This was a full-blown fantasy, and she wondered if it was a good thing to be walking down one side of George Square, fantasising about a boy such as Wolf, while around her others, whose minds were no doubt on higher things, made their way to and from lectures.

  Or were they fantasising too?

  She had reached the bottom of the west side of George Square, the point where the road dipped down sharply to a row of old stables on one side and Basil Spence’s University Library on the other. She had not been paying much attention to her surroundings, and so she was surprised when she found herself drawing abreast of Dr Geoffrey Fantouse, Reader in the History of Art at the University of Edinburgh, expert in the Quattrocento, and the man whose seminars on aesthetics she attended every Wednesday morning – together with fifteen other students, including Wolf, who sat, smouldering, on the 296 A Fantasy Sail on That Slow Boat to China other side of the room and who studiously averted his gaze from hers; as well he might, given his history of deception and attempted seduction.

  “Miss Macgregor?”

  Pat slowed down. “Dr Fantouse. Sorry, I was thinking. I wasn’t looking.” And she had been thinking, of course, though he would never guess about what.

  Dr Fantouse smiled. “As an aesthetician,” he said, “I would be inclined to suggest that one should first look, then think.”

  Pat thought for a moment. She did not immediately realise that this was a joke, b
ut then she understood that it was, and she laughed politely. Dr Fantouse looked proud, in a modest sort of way.

  It was clear that they were both walking in the same direction – across the Meadows, that broad, tree-lined expanse of park that separated the university area from the semi-Gothic nineteenth-century tenements of Marchmont – and so Pat fell into step with the aesthetician.

  “You’re enjoying the course?” he asked, glancing at her in his mildly apologetic way.

  Pat suspected that nobody ever told Dr Fantouse that his course was enjoyable, and yet she knew how much effort he put into his work. It must be hard, she thought, being Dr Fantouse and being appreciated by nobody.

  “I’m really enjoying it,” she said. “In fact, it’s the best course I’ve ever done. It really is.”

  Dr Fantouse beamed with pleasure. “That’s very good to hear,”

  he said. “I enjoy it too, you know. There are some very interesting people in the class. Very interesting.”

  Pat wondered whom he meant. There was a rather outspoken, indeed, opinionated girl from London who was always coming up with views on everything; perhaps he meant her.

  “Your views, for example,” went on Dr Fantouse. “If I may say so, you always take a very balanced view. I find that admirable.” He paused. “And that young man, Wolf. I think that he has a good mind.”

  A Fantasy Sail on That Slow Boat to China 297

  Pat found herself blushing. Wolf did not have a good mind; he had a dirty mind, she thought, full of lascivious thoughts . . .

  like most boys.

  Dr Fantouse now changed the subject. “Do you live over there?” he said, pointing towards Marchmont.

  “I used to,” she said. “Now I live at home. In the Grange.”

  It sounded terribly dull, she thought, but then Dr Fantouse himself was very dull.

  “How nice,” he said. “Living at home must have its appeal.”