The World According to Bertie (20 page)

53. She Could See the Attraction–It Was the Eyes

Domenica peered round Antonia's door into the hall. She would normally have knocked, but her sense of grievance over the ruined philodendron made her feel disinclined to extend to Antonia that courtesy; wanton destroyers of philodendra must expect some consequences. The hall light was on, and a portable workbench had been set up, with pieces of timber stacked against it; there was sawdust on the floor and the smell of cut wood. A large metal box lay open beside the bench, with various tools displayed–a power saw, a jumble of cable, clamps.

Domenica cleared her throat. “Antonia?”

She waited a few seconds for a reply and then called out again. It now occurred to her that Antonia was out and that the door had been left open by the workmen. More than that, the workmen appeared to have left the flat unattended for some reason, as there was no response from them. She realised now that she had jumped to conclusions: the damage to the plant would not have been Antonia's doing, but must have been caused by the builders. Manipulating a piece of timber around a small landing would not be easy, and any philodendron that should find itself in the way was bound to be damaged. She sighed. It would have been easy for somebody to have spoken to her about this in advance and to have suggested that the plant be stored in her flat until the work was over. That would have been so simple and straightforward, but nobody had thought of that–including herself, she concluded, which gave a different complexion to the whole matter. It was an accident, she decided; Antonia, I forgive you.

She moved further into the hall. A light was coming from the bathroom, and she looked into that. The floorboards were up, revealing the joists and copper piping below. The sides of the bath enclosure had been removed too, and everything was covered with a layer of dust. She moved away. Dust, or at least dust in such quantities as that, made Domenica's eyes water–an allergy with which she had struggled when she had lived in India, where the dust had settled every day, no matter how assiduously the house servants had swept and polished.

“Domenica?”

She spun round. Antonia had emerged from a door on the other side of the hall and was standing there, her hair slightly ruffled.

“Oh.” It was all that Domenica could manage initially, but then, after a few seconds of hesitation, she added, “I knocked.”

She had not intended to say that, because she had not knocked, but it came out nonetheless.

“I didn't hear you,” said Antonia. “I was…I was busy.”

“Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to barge in like this.” She paused. It did not seem to her that Antonia was angry over the intrusion; in fact, it seemed to her that her neighbour looked defensive, as if it was she who had been discovered in the other's flat.

Domenica continued. “It's just that I noticed that the plant outside,” she gestured in the direction of the landing. “The plant was damaged. It must have been the workmen. Easily done, of course, with all this stuff being brought in.”

She stopped. A man had appeared in the doorway behind Antonia, a tall man wearing jeans and a checked shirt. He glanced at Domenica, and then looked at Antonia, as if expecting an explanation.

“This is Markus,” said Antonia. “Markus. Domenica.”

The man took a few steps across the hall and shook hands with Domenica. She felt his hand, which was warm, and roughened by work.

“Markus is Polish,” said Antonia, straightening her hair with her right hand. “He's my builder, as you see. We've been looking at the plans. That's why I didn't hear you.”

Domenica knew immediately that this was a lie, and she knew immediately what had been happening. She was amused. That was why Antonia had been almost defensive at the beginning; she had been caught in the arms of her builder. Of course, there was nothing wrong with that, she thought. One might fall in love with a Polish builder as readily as one might fall in love with anybody else, but it all seemed a bit sudden. Building work had only started a day or two ago; one would have thought that one might wait…what, a week?…before one fell in love with the builder.

She turned to Markus. “So, Markus,” she said brightly. “Are you enjoying living in Scotland?”

Markus looked at her gravely. “Brick,” he replied.

“Markus doesn't have much English yet,” said Antonia. “I'm sure that he'll be learning it, but at the moment…”

Domenica nodded. She turned back towards Markus and, speaking very slowly and articulating each word with great care, she said: “Where are you from in Poland, Markus?”

The builder looked at her again, and Domenica noticed his eyes. She could understand why Antonia had fallen; it was the eyes.

“Brick.”

Domenica turned to Antonia. “Markus says brick a lot, doesn't he?”

Antonia waved a hand in the air. “It's all he says,” she answered. “But then, how many words of Polish do we know? Could we even say brick in Polish?”

Markus now bowed slightly to Domenica. “Poland,” he said.

“Ah yes,” said Domenica. “Poland.”

There followed a silence. Then Markus bowed his head again slightly in Domenica's direction and walked over to the toolbox from which he extracted an electric drill.

“Well,” said Antonia breezily, “work must get on. How about a cup of tea, Domenica?” She paused, and then added, “Since you're here.”

Domenica had not intended to stay, but she felt that in the circumstances she could not very well leave, and so she accepted. They moved through to the kitchen.

“A nice man,” said Domenica.

“Very.”

Domenica waited for Antonia to say something else, but she did not. The electric kettle, switched on without an adequate amount of water inside it, began to hiss in protest. “Will you teach him English, do you think?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” said Antonia. “I suspect that he will prove a quick learner.”

“Well, he's already learned brick,” said Domenica. “That's a start.”

“Yes.”

“And the novel?” asked Domenica. “Are you managing to write with all this building going on? Surely it's a bit difficult to get yourself back into the minds of those Scottish saints of yours while there are electric drills whining away in the background.”

Antonia looked out of the window.

“Their own times were noisy enough,” she said. “I imagine that they had to contend with all the noises that humanity makes when it's in close proximity with itself. Crying babies. People groaning because they were in pain. That sort of thing. Remember that people didn't have much domestic room in those days. Our flats would have been considered palaces. They lived in hovels, really.”

She turned and fixed Domenica with a stare–as if in reproach.

54. It Did Not Do to Think About Sex on Heriot Row

Domenica felt unsettled when she went out into Scotland Street. The encounter with Antonia had been unsatisfactory from her point of view: she had entered the flat in a spirit of righteous indignation over the damage to the philodendron. She had expected that Antonia would at least make some attempt at an excuse, even if she did not actually apologise, but none of that had been forthcoming. Indeed, after Domenica had broached the subject, nothing more had been said about the plant, as Markus had appeared in the hall in highly suggestive circumstances. This had completely thrown Domenica; after that, it had been impossible to raise the issue of the plant, which she would now simply have to move into her own flat for a while in protest at her neighbour's attitude towards its safety. Not that Antonia would necessarily notice, but at least it would be a gesture.

She was not sure how to take Markus. The question of having an affair with somebody with whom one could not communicate in language was an interesting one, and as she walked up Scotland Street, she turned this over in her mind. If one could not say anything to the other, and he could say nothing to you, what remained? All close relationships between people–unless they were purely instrumental–were based on some feeling for the other. That feeling required that one should know something about that person and that one should be able to share experiences. If one could say nothing about the world to one another, then what precisely was the shared experience upon which the relationship was founded? Only the carnal, surely; or could there be spiritual and emotional sharing without language? Human vulnerability, human tenderness–the understanding of these required no words, but could be achieved through gestures, through looking, through mute empathy; a bit boring, though, Domenica thought, once the initial excitement of the physical side of the relationship wore off; if it was to wear off, and sometimes the pulse remained quickened, she understood, for years…

But that was another question altogether which she would have to come back to, as she had now reached the corner of Heriot Row, and it did not do to think about sex on Heriot Row. She smiled at the thought. It was another Barbara Pym moment. Of course, one could think about sex while walking along Heriot Row–these days. That tickled her, although not everybody, she thought, would be amused about that: the words “these days” did a lot of work there. It all depended on an understanding of Edinburgh as a city of cultivated, outward respectability beneath which there lay of world of priapic indulgence. But was that still the reality? Perhaps it was. One had only to look at Moray Place, that most respectable of addresses and reflect on how many nudists lived there. That was very strange: Jekyll clothed, and then, after a quick disrobing, there was Hyde unclothed!

Domenica had agreed to meet her friend James Holloway for coffee at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, where he was the director. By the time she arrived at the Gothic Revival sandstone building on Queen Street, she had put out of her mind all thought of Antonia's torrid affair–at least she assumed it was torrid and, anyway, she wondered if there was any point in having an affair which was not torrid. Now, as she sat in the coffee room, waiting for James to come down from his office upstairs, she looked up at the Bellany portraits on the wall above her table. Sean Connery looked out of one of them rather forbiddingly, but then he was perhaps a touch disapproving, which was why people in Scotland were so proud of him. Scots heroes were not meant to be benign in their outlook; they needed to be at least a little bit cross about something, preferably an injustice committed against them, individually or nationally, some time ago. Sean Connery certainly looked rather cross about something. Perhaps he was cross at having his portrait painted, in the way in which such people often looked cross at having their photographs taken. Perhaps, thought Domenica, there were paparazzi portraitists, who lurked with their easels outside hotels and fashionable nightclubs and painted quick likenesses of well-known people as they left the building–absurd thought.

James arrived and fetched the coffee. “I need your advice,” he said as he sat down. “We've been offered an exhibition of the photographs of famous anthropologists. Pitt Rivers, Mead, and the like. I'd like to show you the names. Some of them are unfamiliar to me. There's one who spent some time among headhunters in the Philippines…”

“Probably R.F. Barton,” interjected Domenica. “He spent some time with head-hunting tribes there back in the nineteen-thirties, although there was an anthropologist who lived among headhunters as late as the late nineteen-sixties. That was Renato Rosaldo, if I remember correctly.”

“Did they come back?” asked James, adding, “In one piece?”

“Oh yes,” said Domenica. “The headhunters were usually very good hosts. They tended to go for heads belonging to their enemies, not their friends. Friends' heads were left in situ, so to speak.”

James looked thoughtful. “I see,” he said. “I suppose this very gallery is full of heads. Pictures, of course, but heads nonetheless. Does that make us headhunters?”

“Virtual,” said Domenica. “Virtual headhunters. But enough of that, James, what about your travels?”

“Since I last saw you,” said James, “there's been India. Again.”

“On your motorcycle?”

“Not my Ducati,” said James. “That stayed in Scotland. But I got hold of a very nice hired bike. A Royal Enfield Bullet, 650cc. Made in Madras. I went up to the Himalayas and down into Rajasthan.”

Domenica frowned. “Is Madras still Madras? Isn't it…?”

“Chennai,” supplied James. “For some people it may be, and that's fine, but we're talking English, aren't we? And we have English words for certain places. Those words exist irrespective of what the people who live in the place in question may call it. So why change the name?”

He paused. “Take Florence,” he said. “Would you ever say I'm off to Firenze? You would not, unless you were extremely pretentious, which you aren't. Or Milan. Who goes to Milano? And the French have Édimbourg and Londres. Would you insist on their using Edinburgh and London? No, you wouldn't. In fact, one can't insist that the French do anything–everybody knows that.

“So I go to Bombay,” he continued, “rather than to Mumbai, and I must say that when I'm there I find that most people I talk to say Bombay rather than Mumbai.”

Domenica thought for a moment. There was a scrap of a poem coming back to her. What was it? Yes, that was it.

“Under Mr de Valera,” she ventured inconsequentially, “Ireland changed herself to Eire / England didn't change her name / And is still called England just the same.”

“What odd things one remembers,” said James.