Bertie's Guide to Life and Mothers

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Irene remembered that she had noticed a shop in the hotel lobby—or boutique, as it announced itself. She had noticed, too, that there had been some items of clothing in its window display—scarves and the like—and it was possible, she imagined, that they would have more clothing within. After all, people must often find themselves in her predicament and need to make temporary arrangements.

  Dressed in the Emirates uniform, Irene took the lift down to the lobby, thirty-two floors below. The boutique was open, and she saw in the back, to her relief, a small rack of clothing that looked like dresses.

  A saleswoman came up to greet her, but spoke in Arabic.

  “Actually …” said Irene.

  The woman smiled. “Of course, sorry. What can I do for you?”

  Irene explained about the uniform and the suitcase and the woman smiled sympathetically. “You poor thing,” she said. “But of course we can help you. We only have fashions for Arab ladies, but I’m sure we’ll find something suitable, even if our stock’s a bit low.”

  Irene followed her to the rack, and thought: from one identity to another.

  The saleswoman turned and smiled. “Black’s in this year, you know. You do know that, don’t you?” She paused, before adding, “I do hope that you’re conservative. But, you know, I have a strong sense that you are.”

  61. A Change of Clothing

  Had there been a better selection of women’s wear in the hotel boutique, Irene would undoubtedly have declined the entirely encompassing traditional desert outfit that the helpful assistant selected from the rack. She would not have chosen to have her face entirely obscured, with the exception of a small slit to allow her to look out, nor would she have chosen something that covered her hands and ankles. But she was not in a position to choose: the cabin attendant’s outfit was now much in need of dry-cleaning and was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. This new outfit, by contrast, was voluminous to the point that it could easily have accommodated two, rather than one woman. Indeed, as Irene looked at herself in the mirror, the assistant observed that this particular dress was designed for the use of up to three ladies, simultaneously. “I sold one to three sisters the other day,” she remarked. “They went out of the shop wearing it and you would never have noticed that there were three people inside.”

  “Remarkable,” said Irene. She had not heard of this before, but had read somewhere about Scottish two-man kilts, designed to be wrapped round two men at the same time, thereby saving money. These kilts were uncommon, but had gone down well in Aberdeen, she understood.

  With some relief, Irene abandoned the cabin attendant’s outfit, which the assistant promised she would have dry-cleaned and then returned to the airline. Then, clad in the traditional outfit and concealed from view, Irene stepped out into the hotel lobby and made her way towards the hotel dining room, where breakfast was being served.

  The buffet table was set out with appealing things: peeled oranges, figs, yoghurt, honey, an array of cheeses and so on. Irene filled a plate, thinking of her normal breakfast at home—a bowl of reduced-sugar muesli and two slices of thinly cut toast; and of the boys’ breakfasts too: Bertie’s of bread, malt spread, and carrots, and Ulysses’ of liquefied prunes and beetroot. Those were good healthy breakfasts, even if somewhat less varied than the breakfast she now took for herself, and they would stand both children in good stead as they grew up. Of course there were complaints, and requests for entirely unsuitable things—like sausages—but she had always resisted those, and they would thank her one of these days. There had been no sign of that, just yet, but it would come; Irene was sure of it.

  She sat down at her table and reached for a spoon to tackle the large helping of honey-and-date yoghurt that she had ladled onto her plate. But then, as she lifted the spoon, it dawned on her that the traditional desert dress covered her mouth, and that there was no apparent opening for food. She put down the spoon and considered her predicament. How on earth did traditionally minded women cope with eating? Perhaps they ate before they put on the outfit, and therefore did not need access to their mouth once they were fully dressed. Perhaps there was some other trick of which she was culturally ignorant that made the whole process possible. As it was, all that she could think of was to pull the headdress part of the dress downwards, so that the slit for the eyes was now in front of her mouth. That worked as far as access was concerned, but the problem then was that she could not see anything. She felt for her spoon, and eventually located it, but then she had to find the bowl of yoghurt, and that took quite some time.

  Eventually, after a good half-hour of laborious eating, Irene finished her breakfast and prepared to leave her table. As she was marshalling the folds of cloth that surrounded her, she saw, through her eye-slit, that a lively group of people were taking their seats nearby. One of them, in her direct line of vision, was a woman carrying a copy of the Literary Festival programme.

  Intrigued, Irene moved her head slowly in order to be able to peer at the rest of the party. She stopped. Yes! It was him. It was that famous writer on Indian history. She looked about the others, deciding that there were one or two faces she thought she recognised but was not sure about. She felt a distinct thrill of excitement. She could join their table—and their conversation; it was perfectly acceptable for those attending literary festivals to talk to the participants.

  She rose to her feet, gathering up the yards of black material that flowed about her. Her opening gambit, she thought, would be to congratulate the writer on his new book—which she had not exactly read yet, but of which she was otherwise fully informed. Then she could ask if she could sit down.

  As she neared the table, looking out of her eye-slit in much the same way as a tank commander peers through his vehicle’s tiny letterbox-like sights, Irene saw the literary faces all turn to look up at her.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” she said. “I wanted to say …”

  Unfortunately, because of the nature of the cloth about her mouth, Irene could not be heard. There was a sound, of course—a sort of muffled groaning—but no recognisable words, in any language.

  The woman she had seen holding the programme now stood up and addressed Irene—in Arabic. What she said was: “Please do not disturb our distinguished foreign guests.” But Irene, of course, could not understand this.

  “But,” she protested. “I wanted to …”

  Being in no position to object, Irene was led quickly from the dining room. Now she was in the lobby; although she could not see anything at all clearly, she could tell from the glow through the cloth that she was standing under one of the large chandeliers she had noticed earlier on.

  Then a voice said something in English. “I think this lady was going to be collected by somebody.” And then, after a pause, the voice continued. “Yes, here they are.”

  Irene decided that the time had come to remove her headdress and make it known who she was. She reached up within the folds of material, but could not find any way of escaping the embrace of her new outfit. Now she was being shepherded in the direction of the door. She tried to protest, but nobody heard her. There was heat—the sudden furnace heat of the open air—and then she was half-pushed into the air-conditioned interior of some sort of vehicle. An engine started; there was movement.

  62. Auras, Chakras, Halos

  Angus was pleased with the way that Domenica had handled the arrival of Antonia and her friend, Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. Of course there had been every provocation on Antonia’s part, in spite of the evidence that there had been earlier on of a change of heart. When she first went to live with the community of nuns near Montalcino her tone had changed from the confrontational to the conciliatory; now it seemed that her tongue had sharpened again. Domenica, however, had shown great patience, and had simply remained silent when faced with some cutting remark, some finely honed put-down. These would have infuriated a lesser woman, but not Domenica.

  “I shall rise right above her,” she confided to Angu
s. “Every time Antonia makes one of her barbed remarks, I shall simply sit on the moral high ground, which is situated a short way behind her left shoulder. From there I shall look down on her with amused tolerance.”

  Angus closed his eyes and tried to imagine the moral high ground. It would look, he thought, rather like some of the higher ground in a Renaissance painting—an idealised, Italianate landscape of cypress trees and distant blue hills. Of course, the moral high ground would be somewhat crowded by now, given the number of people who sought to occupy it. He smiled at the thought. And smiled again when he thought of what a good name it would be for a house. Retired philosophers, for instance, could name their villas that, and certain, but not all, politicians might do the same. It might also be a good name for the headquarters of certain political parties: Moral High Ground House. He stopped himself. That was an unworthy thought, and he would not dwell on it.

  At least Antonia required no entertainment, as she had spoken of her intention of spending most of her time engaged in research for her book on the early Scottish saints.

  “I shall be in the National Library for most of the time,” she announced at breakfast. “There is much to be done.”

  Domenica eyed her from the other end of the table. “I’m sure there is,” she said. She was not sure, in fact, as she doubted whether there could be many, if any, new sources for information on the lives of such people. Many of them, as far as she could make out, did not even exist, although she was prepared to accept the historicity of the likes of Ninian and Kentigern.

  “They were often rather ordinary, were they not?” said Angus. “If you were the local priest you were more or less certain to be called a saint, weren’t you?”

  Antonia nodded. “Yes, that’s true. And your wife was called a saint too. And your children were saints.”

  “How nice,” said Angus. “A whole family of saints.”

  Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna had been following this conversation with some interest. “Saintliness is a very special quality,” she observed, as she spread marmalade on her toast. “It is the quality that one finds in saints.”

  Angus thought about this for a moment. “True,” he said.

  Domenica said nothing.

  “One of the ways in which we can recognise the existence of saintliness,” went on Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, “is the halo that appears above a saint’s head. That is a very powerful sign.”

  “Indeed,” said Antonia. “The halo, also called a nimbus or aureole, has a very clear meaning.”

  “But surely that’s only a convention,” said Domenica. “It’s an iconographical convention. Artists put in halos when painting the saints. This had nothing to do with reality.”

  Antonia shook her head. “Wrong,” she said, simply. “I’ve seen it myself.”

  “You’ve seen a halo?” asked Domenica incredulously.

  “Yes,” said Antonia. “Shortly after my unfortunate illness …”

  “Your Stendhal Syndrome?” interjected Angus.

  “Yes, shortly after I had been unfortunate enough to go down with that in the Uffizi Gallery, I was placed in the care of the wonderful sisters. And I can tell you this: I am convinced that some of the women who looked after me were candidates for saintliness themselves.”

  At first this remark was greeted with complete silence. Then Domenica said, “You mean you saw …”

  “I saw what some people might describe as an aura,” said Antonia. “That’s the term that’s used these days by New Age people. We all have an aura. Some people mix them up with chakras. That’s the Indian term for centres of energy. Auras are an altogether wider field of energy.”

  “Interesting,” said Domenica.

  Antonia nodded slowly. “Indeed. It’s a question of sensitivity,” she said. “We all have the power to detect the moral nature of those with whom we come into contact. It is really just a question of whether one is sufficiently receptive.”

  “Do I have an aura?” asked Angus suddenly.

  Antonia looked at him over the table. “You do,” she said. “You are vaguely benevolent. It is not a very powerful aura, I’m afraid, but that is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “We all shine in different ways,” said Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna. “But there is light in every one of us, even the least of men.” She gave Angus a sympathetic look as she spoke, making him wonder whether this was because he was the least of men.

  “Of course,” continued Antonia, “auras and halos are slightly different things. Everyone may have an aura, but only those who follow the ways of the Church can have a halo.”

  Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna nodded in confirmation. “Yes,” she said. “That is true. It may seem a bit hard on some, but a line has to be drawn.”

  Antonia now delivered her bombshell. “I do not wish to embarrass anybody,” she said, “but as I said, the sisters who, in their goodness, looked after me were of a very saintly disposition—and none more so than dear Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna.”

  The nun made a gesture of modesty. “Please, Antonia, I am flawed, like everybody else.”

  “And I would go further,” said Antonia. “I have noticed—and I really don’t think I’m mistaken—a certain glow about her head. Look, can you see it?”

  Domenica peered from the other end of the table. “I might need to fetch my glasses …”

  Angus held up a hand. “No flippancy, please,” he said. “You know, Antonia, I think you may be right.”

  63. Materialism, Belief, et cetera

  While Antonia made her way off to George IV Bridge to pursue her research in the National Library, Angus helped Domenica with the washing-up of the breakfast plates, Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna having returned to her room to complete her morning devotions.

  “I do hope that the need to complete devotions will not totally preclude all help in the kitchen,” said Domenica. “What with research and devotions, you and I might have to do all the work, Angus.”

  Angus smiled. “I’m sure that she’ll pull her weight, even if Antonia won’t. Nuns are very hard-working in my experience.”

  “In your experience?” asked Domenica.

  “Well, so I’ve heard,” said Angus. “They get up terribly early in the morning and scrub the floors and the like. By eight o’clock they’ve been up for hours, and done a great deal of work.”

  “I suppose so,” said Domenica. “Perhaps Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna will scrub our kitchen floor for us some day. I can’t recall when I last scrubbed it—in fact, I’m not sure if I’ve ever done such a thing. Mopped it, perhaps, but not scrubbed.”

  “We certainly don’t scrub things enough,” said Angus. “I remember my father telling me that it was important to scrub one’s back once a week. We had a long-handled brush in the bathroom and you scrubbed your back with that while sitting in the bath. But now …”

  “I suspect virtually nobody scrubs their back any more,” said Domenica. “There may be some, I suppose, who keep up the old ways, but most people, no, they don’t scrub their backs.”

  “Perhaps we should make some sort of New Year resolution next year. We might both resolve to scrub our backs.” He paused. “Does one’s back get particularly dirty? One’s neck does, I suppose. If you look at your collar when you take off your shirt, you can see that the neck is somewhat inclined to dirt. But I’m not so sure about the back.”

  Domenica handed him a tea towel. “Let’s not talk too much about people’s backs; it’s somewhat too intimate a subject for morning conversation. Would you care to dry the dishes?”

  Angus set to work. “I must say that I rather take to Antonia’s friend,” he mused. “She has a rather appealing way of making very obvious remarks sound full of significance. I rather like that.”

  Domenica nodded. “I rather like her, too,” she said. “But when Antonia implied that she had a halo … well, I thought that was a bit much. I’ve
never had a guest with a halo … never.”

  Angus laughed. “I’ve always taken the view that Antonia is a bit odd,” he said. “I’m not surprised that she’s gone off to live in a convent. I always thought it was on the cards that she’d do something extreme. Commit murder, or rob a bank, or marry somebody from Glasgow. Something like that. Only joking.”

  Domenica chuckled. “Très drôle. Well, it’s all harmless enough. Mind you, I have difficulty in imagining her scrubbing floors … or carrying out devotions, for that matter.”

  Angus looked thoughtful. “Do you think she believes?”

  “Believes what?”

  Angus shrugged. “In God?”

  “As a general rule,” said Domenica, “those who live in convents believe in God. I suspect that in Antonia’s case, she’s persuaded herself to believe in him. People do that. They make themselves believe in something that they otherwise would not believe in. There’s comfort in that.”

  “Is there?”

  While Angus had been drying the plates, Domenica had been preparing them another cup of coffee. Now she handed a cup to Angus.

  “Yes, there is comfort,” she said. “Because what’s the alternative? A belief that life is without meaning, without purpose? If we consider our position—our real position—what are we? A life form on this tiny rock hurtling about in space—perhaps even a hologram, if some theories are to be believed.” She paused to take a sip of coffee. “But, however small and insignificant we are in a cosmic context, one thing that we do understand is that we have consciousness and that we are capable of certain emotions. We like some things and dislike others. We feel happy or unhappy. We experience pain and pleasure. These are facts.”