A Closed Book by Gilbert Adair Page B

about ten-past ten.’
    â€˜Ten-past ten, eh? You know what time that is?’
    â€˜Sorry? I’m filling your glass, by the way. Chambolle-Musigny 1990.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜The wine. You were saying?’
    â€˜Was I? What about?’
    â€˜Ten-past ten?’
    â€˜Oh yes. Yes, it’s the time you’ll always find on advertisements for wrist-watches. Always.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜It has the effect of making the watch-face “smile”, you see. Thereby rendering the watch more attractive to a potential purchaser. So the argument runs.’
    â€˜Really? However did you find that out?’
    *
    â€˜Paul? Is there –’
    â€˜Is your notepad on the table?’
    â€˜Naturally. Why? Have you thought of something?’
    â€˜The watch-face. Ten-past ten. Like a blind man’s face, don’t you get it? What I told you before? About ablind man having to turn himself into the salt of the earth? Always smiling – always smiling – his face is always set at ten-past ten, just like a watch-face – making it easier for him to – to – ingratiate himself with those – with those acquaintances whose help he might have to rely on one day. Jot it down, will you.’
    *
    â€˜Done.’
    â€˜Thanks. It’s not bad, don’t you think? And I fancy I know just where I can put it.’
    *
    â€˜You’re smiling, John.’
    â€˜Sorry, it was the way you said, “I fancy I know just where I can put it.” It sounded almost ribald.’
    â€˜Yes, yes, I get that.’
    â€˜You really are amazing, though. You’re like Sherlock Holmes. You catch me out every time.’
    â€˜Well, you know, John, I probably ought not to be divulging the tricks of my trade, but I have to tell you there’s nothing supernatural about it. When you smile, you crease your lips and you smack your tongue – very faintly, very faintly, but you do – and you release a sort of funny nasal sigh. To a blind man it’s all perfectly audible. I really can
hear
you smile.’
    â€˜Rather a scary thought.’
    â€˜That depends on why you’re smiling, doesn’t it? Now, I’m sorry, but I’ve been so very absorbed by thisdelirious chit-chat of ours you’re going to have to tell me again what time it is on my plate.’
    â€˜Pheasant at noon. Potatoes at three. French beans at seven. And bread sauce at ten-past ten.’
    â€˜Thank you. Incidentally, that’s quite an opulent aftershave.’
    â€˜
Jazz
. Saint-Laurent. Not too overpowering, I hope.’
    â€˜Not at all. Discreetly pungent is how I’d describe it. It might have overwhelmed one of Mrs Kilbride’s insipid concoctions but this – well, my congratulations, John, this pheasant is delicious, yes, really very delicious.’
    â€˜My pleasure. Literally. It’s been so long since I’ve cooked for two.’
    â€˜So you already said. But –’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Why, John?’
    â€˜Why what?’
    â€˜Why is it so long since you’ve cooked for two?’
    â€˜You know why. I live alone.’
    â€˜But that’s what I mean. Why do you live alone?’
    *
    â€˜You’re still young. You appear to be relatively well-off. And you’re clearly personable, more than personable. You told me yourself, on our first day together, that you’d admit to being good-looking. Now I don’t wish to pry, but I can’t deny I’m curious and you afterall have come to know rather a lot about me. So why is it you’ve never married?’
    â€˜I don’t know the answer to that.’
    â€˜Don’t you like women?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Don’t you like women?’
    â€˜Do you mean, am I queer?’
    â€˜â€œGay” I think is the word nowadays.
Is
that what I meant? I imagine it was. You understand, it wouldn’t make the slightest