My Italian Bulldozer

by Alexander McCall Smith

  By his thirty-sixth birthday, which was when Becky ran off with the personal trainer, Paul had embarked on his tenth book, which was to be Paul Stuart’s Tuscan Table. By now the success of the enterprise meant that he could employ a part-time researcher to undertake much of the preparatory work, collating the facts that Paul would then seamlessly weave into his conversational narrative. If he wrote knowledgeably—and effortlessly—about trésors de cuisine such as a means of preserving meat glaze, it was because his assistant had ferreted out a copy of Mique Grandchamp’s Le cuisinier à la bonne franquette, published in 1884, and discovered just how one might heat a slightly depleted bottle of Madeira in a pan of hot water, pour in the meat glaze, and then recork the bottle. Similarly, Paul himself would not have had the time to extract the recipe for Soupe au Pistou from Eugène Blanchard’s Mets de Provence, but his assistant had. Every recipe, though, and every wine, was tried and understood before Paul wrote about it; Gloria knew that and knew that she could rely on him.

  “Italy next,” she said when they met for lunch one day. “What about Tuscany? I know it’s the obvious choice, but there’s nowhere to beat it. At least not in my view. Cypress trees along ridges, as in a Renaissance painting. Dusty roads. Abbeys tucked away in the folds of hills. Bean stew…”

  Paul nodded. “All right,” he said.

  She looked at him. There was a lack of enthusiasm in his tone that she had not heard before. “You don’t want to do another Spanish book, do you? I thought you said you wanted something different.”

  He shrugged. He was not looking at her directly, but seemed to be gazing out of the window. “Tuscany’s fine. It’ll do.”

  She looked at him again. “Is something troubling you?”

  This brought a further shrug. And then he laid down his knife and fork with the air of one with something to announce.

  Plaintively, he told her what had happened. “Becky’s gone off with her personal trainer.”

  For a while Gloria stared at Paul blankly, not saying anything. At last, she thought. At long last.

  Now Paul broke the silence. “You were never too keen on her, were you?” He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone; he did not sound accusing.

  Gloria blushed. Her distaste for Becky’s selfishness would have to be put carefully. “I just thought that the two of you were rather different people.”

  Paul took time to weigh this. “Maybe,” he said. “I obviously didn’t do it for her. I tried, you know.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Gloria thought of Somerset Maugham’s Painted Veil. It was the classic theme: good man, worthless woman—and, of course, the other way round, the moral failure reversed.

  “I did my best to make it work,” he sighed. “But I suppose she’d just had enough. You can’t blame somebody for that, can you?”

  “No,” she said, although without conviction. “Some relationships work—others don’t. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I suppose so, but still…”

  “You needn’t reproach yourself.”

  She found her dislike for Becky growing, now that she could admit it to herself. Paul was everything most women would ever want: he was good-looking, personable, kind, amusing; Becky had obviously failed to appreciate any of this. The personal trainer was exactly the sort of person whom somebody like Becky might fall for, at least in the short term.

  Would it last? Gloria was not sure that purely physical attraction could keep a relationship going for long. Personal trainers, like the rest of humanity, lost condition, put on weight, lost their vigour. That was undoubtedly true, but then it was possible that Becky had found a soul-mate, and that the outsider’s view of the relationship was all wrong. Perhaps they were simply compatible. Perhaps each had found that the other saw the world in the same way. Perhaps they had just fallen in love, which is not always a matter that can be attributed to looks or sex or some shared enthusiasm. That might even have been the trouble with Paul and Becky—they had never actually loved one another—for all of those four years together. That sort of thing happened; the inertia that for years keeps people doing jobs they do not like, or living in houses they feel uncomfortable in, can keep them in relationships with those they do not love, or sometimes do not even like.

  But something else was beginning to worry Gloria. She had experience of writers who suddenly lost their way when their personal lives became unstable. Paul made money for his publishers and that effectively paid a large part, if not all, of her salary. Gloria was far from selfish: her first concern was Paul’s welfare, but there were other things at stake here too. A disaster for Paul would be painful for quite a number of others. More was at stake here than Paul’s personal happiness.

  Gloria saw Paul for a catch-up lunch every month. Now she decided that she would increase the frequency of these meetings, at least until the Tuscan book was safely in production.

  “I’m always here for you, Paul,” she said at one such lunch, which took place a couple of weeks later. “I know how you must be feeling.”

  He looked at her doubtfully. Gloria was kind—he had always known that—but had she ever been rejected by anybody? There had never been any mention of boyfriends; she had never said anything about an unhappy love affair in her past. And if you had never experienced that, would you really understand?

  He looked at her doubtfully. “Do you?”

  “Yes, as it happens I do.” She paused. “There are few things worse than the thought that the person with whom you live no longer wants to be in your company. I know that.”

  “Sorry,” said Paul. “I’m sure you do.” He sighed. “I know I have to try to get over her.”

  “Then you must.”

  “It’s just that I keep thinking of her. I miss her. I wake up in the morning and I imagine she’s there. But then I turn round and I’m by myself. Corny, isn’t it?”

  “No, not in the slightest bit corny. Not in the slightest.” She reached out to take his hand. It was not how things usually were between them; they never touched. He looked down at her hand, almost with surprise. He gave it a squeeze, and then withdrew his hand from hers, not abruptly, but gently, and slowly. She glanced down, but then looked up again, as if she had surprised herself with the gesture.

  “Make an effort,” she said. “Think of other things.” She paused. “You were going to invite people over. We’re waiting, you know.”

  He smiled at her weakly.

  This is potentially very bad, she thought. And the solution that she would most have liked was not, it seemed, remotely possible.

  —

  She helped him plan the evening.

  “Only old friends,” he said.

  “Agreed.”

  “And not too many people. Eight?”

  “Ten.”

  He conceded. “The usual crowd? Jenny and Bill? Bob? Fran? And I can sit next to you?”

  She reassured him. “Of course you can. And Fran on the other side, and Jock beside her.”

  He looked away. “I haven’t really got the heart for this, you know. Somehow I feel just…just fed up with everything.”

  “Which is precisely why you need to do something about it.” She wanted to shake him, and for a moment her impatience showed.

  He looked taken aback. “You’re cross with me?”

  She swallowed hard. “No…well, yes. Yes, I am. You have everything going for you—everything. People like you. They like your books. They buy them. They write to you. You have this nice flat. You’ve got enough money to live comfortably. You’re not at all bad-looking. So why…” She stopped. She knew that there was no point: misery was nothing to do with objective good fortune. Misery was like bad weather; it was just there, and no number of optimistic comments could make the weather better.

  But for some reason her words had resonated with him. He closed his eyes briefly, as if summoning up resolve, and then nodded. “You’re right. Everything you say is right.”

  She was unprepared for this. “Really? Do you
mean…”

  “I mean that I need to do exactly as you say. I need to stop thinking of Becky. I need to look…”

  “Forward?”

  “Yes, forward.”

  “Well, I must say that I’m relieved. I thought we were losing you, you know. I thought you were…sinking, so to speak.”

  “Well, I won’t. I won’t sink.”

  “Good.”

  He looked at her, clearly waiting for her to say something more.

  “So…” She trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  “So you have this party. You get everybody together. It’ll be a sort of announcement that you’re starting again. The beginning of the post-Becky era.”

  “And then?”

  She saw her chance. “And then you get back to work on your Tuscany book. It’s already six weeks late.” She did not mention that the food photographer was waiting for his instructions and had already threatened to cancel.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She was quick to reassure him. “No great disaster. You can catch up. I suggest that you go to Italy. Finish it there. Do some on-the-ground research.”

  He looked thoughtful. “Next month. July?”

  “Perfect.”

  “It’ll have to be organised. Reservations made and so on—”

  She cut him short. “I’ll do all of that. I’ll book you into that place you told me about, that hotel in Mont-something.”

  “Montalcino.”

  “Yes. And I’ll arrange the flights, car hire, and so on. Everything. You needn’t lift a finger.”

  He was caught up in her enthusiasm. “It’s best to fly to Pisa. I can pick up a car there and drive down. It’s only a few hours.”

  “There you are. Simplicity itself.”

  “And I’ll finish the manuscript. I’ve only got five or six chapters to go. I’ve been sitting on them.”

  “I know.” For a moment she imagined all the authors who were sitting on chapters—the piles of paper neatly stacked on their chairs, with the authors sitting on top of them, slightly uncomfortable, and certainly feeling guilty. She smiled at the thought.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Gloria shook her head. “A ridiculous thought. Authors sitting on their chapters.”

  Paul was earnest. “But you’ll get them. I’ll deliver.”

  “I know that too.”

  He turned his attention to the dinner. “What am I going to give them? I haven’t thought about it.”

  “You decide. You’re the famous cookery writer. I’ll do the inviting for you—but the food and so on is up to you.”

  He suggested duck, as it was the first thing that came to mind, and she agreed. “And we’ll have Brunello di Montalcino. It’s probably the best Italian wine there is. It’s my favourite, as it happens.”

  “My mouth is watering,” said Gloria.

  —

  She knew all the guests—her circle intersected with Paul’s, and she had encountered all of them socially before this.

  “His confidence has taken a real battering,” she explained when she telephoned with the invitation. “This is his putting a toe back into the water. Gingerly. But we’ll need to be careful. We need to keep things upbeat. So no mention of Becky…or of unfaithfulness in general. Keep it positive.”

  Everybody had been understanding, and had assured Gloria that not a single gloomy observation would come from them. “You want Polyanna?” said one of the friends. “You’ll get Polyanna in spades!”

  When they arrived, the bonhomie was tangible. Don’t overdo it, thought Gloria, as the ten of them stood in the living room, each with a glass of prosecco in hand.

  “Paul’s going off to Italy,” Gloria announced. “Next week, Paul?”

  Paul nodded. “Yes. Next Wednesday.”

  “Bravo!” said Fran.

  Paul shrugged. “Hardly heroic,” he said.

  “But to go off all by yourself…,” said Fran.

  There was a silence.

  “To Tuscany,” said Gloria quickly. “Montalcino.”

  This triggered a memory in Bob. “We went there on our honeymoon,” he said. “We were in Siena and Florence, but wanted to get away from the crowds. It’s a great place for a honeymoon.”

  This brought a further silence and another discouraging glance from Gloria. “It’s where they make Brunello di Montalcino,” she said. And then, looking disapprovingly at the offender, repeated, “Brunello di Montalcino. Paul’s going to serve that this evening with his duck à l’orange, aren’t you, Paul?”

  Paul nodded. “When you’re ready,” he said, putting his glass down.

  “Duck à l’orange!” said Jenny. “I love your cooking, Paul. I shall have to go to the gym after this…” Her voice trailed away before she resumed. “I mean, to lose weight…”

  There was nervous laughter during which Gloria glanced at Paul, who grinned back at her. Seeing his enjoyment of the situation, she relaxed. Now she said the first thing that came to mind.

  “Has anybody ever thought about the way in which cats look at the world?”

  The laughter died away. “Not recently,” said Paul. “Why do you ask?”

  She took a sip of wine. “A story I heard about a cat who lived in New York. It makes one think of how cats understand things.”

  The guests looked at her expectantly.

  “Carry on,” said Paul.

  “These people lived in a building with ten floors. They lived on the third floor—what we’d call the second floor.”

  “Counting the ground floor as the first floor,” said Paul. “Which is entirely logical, after all.”

  “Yes, the third floor to them. And so the cat was used to going down two flights of stairs to get to the first floor, where there was a window from which it could get out into the garden.” Gloria paused. “Then they moved to another apartment block, one that had rather more floors. They now lived on the fourth floor.”

  “They went up in the world,” remarked Paul.

  “And so did the cat,” said Fran. “Cats like to be socially mobile.”

  “It wanted to get out,” said Gloria. “Once you let cats out, they’ll never be content with staying in. So every morning it kept going down two floors, looking for an exit to the garden.”

  Nobody said anything. Then Paul laughed. “Reasonable enough.”

  Gloria nodded. “Perhaps. But what it shows is that even if cats remember some facts, they may be unable to apply the knowledge.” She looked at the guests.

  “Ah!” said Fran.

  “But there’s more,” Gloria continued. “The cat found a window on the second floor—two storeys down, you see—and he leapt onto the sill. He sat there for some time and then jumped out, thinking, of course, that he was on the first floor. He had quite a fall, landing heavily, and painfully, on the sidewalk below.”

  Jenny, a cat-lover, winced. “He was all right?”

  “Quite badly traumatised,” said Gloria. “And thereafter he had a real fear of New York sidewalks. He was fine with windows, but sidewalks worried him.”

  She looked around the table. Paul met her gaze. Slowly a smile spread across his face. “A distinctive view of causation,” he muttered.

  Gloria returned his smile. “Yes. Very distinctive.”

  Bob frowned. “So?” he muttered, and then, to his neighbour, “I’m not wild about cats. Faithless creatures. Disloyal.”

  The silence, dispelled by the stories, returned.

  “So much for cats,” said Paul. Then, looking round the table, he announced, “Let’s talk about elephants.”

  They stared at him.

  “Elephants in the room, that is. Listen everybody: I’d like to say something. Relationships end—it happens. It’s nobody’s fault and you get over it. I have. I hope that Becky’s happy, and I’m sure she will be. And as for me…I want you to know that I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me. You don’t have to pretend that four years of my life just aren’t there. I ca
n take it. I’m just fine. I wasn’t, but I am now, and now that I’m going to Italy, I want you all to know that I’m going to have a great time and…and, well, I have a feeling, you see, that something rather unusual is going to happen. I just feel it.”

  This brought a general murmur of relief.

  “It’s so difficult,” whispered Fran to Bob. “It’s so difficult not to talk about things you’ve been asked not to talk about.”

  “Like personal trainers…Have you seen him, by the way?”

  “What was she thinking of? To leave somebody like Paul for Mr. Universe, or whatever he’s called.”

  “Tommy.”

  “Well, there you have it. Tommy Universe. How could she?”

  “Let’s not be unkind. We don’t know him, do we? He’s probably got his good points.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly.” And then a pause, followed by, “No, you’re probably right. One shouldn’t judge people by appearances. But after a while, wouldn’t you get a bit…a bit bored?”

  “Probably. But what about Paul? He’s such a catch.”

  “He’ll be caught in Italy. They’re already lying in wait for him—the women.”

  “I hope he doesn’t make the same mistake twice. People do.”

  There was a nod of agreement. “All the time. People go for the wrong person time and time again.”

  “Oh well…”

  “Yes, as you say: oh well.” A pause. “You know something? I think Paul’s right. Something’s going to happen in Italy.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Extremely good?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Because it could be the opposite, couldn’t it? Look at Keats, going off to Italy to die. Those fatal shores. What did the Romantic poets die of when they went to Italy? Malaria?”

  “Rupert Brooke died of a fly bite, didn’t he? Although that was in Greece, rather than Italy—one of the islands, I think. And von Aschenbach succumbed to cholera. He was fictional, of course.”

  “Fictional deaths can make us cry real tears.”

  “The allure of Italy is all about beauty—fatal beauty.”