little plate of dark red salad arrives at Liz’s left hand. She rearranges it with her fork, and chews a bitter leaf.
‘Fame is the spur,’ she says, after a while, ‘that the clear spirit doth raise, the last infirmity of noble minds . . . A very honest statement that, on Milton’s part, I’ve always thought. But for some reason Esther and I don’t seem to suffer from it. No doubt because we are nice, modest, unassuming women. We don’t need to see our names in print every week. As you do.’
‘Well, yes, I do, I admit it,’ says Ivan. ‘It’s like a disease with me.’
‘An infirmity.’
‘Yes. An infirmity.’
‘Actually,’ says Liz, ‘what I
do
suffer from is curiosity. I want to know
what really happened.’
‘When?’
‘At the beginning. When human nature began. At the beginning of human time. And I know I’ll never know. But I can’t stop looking. It’s very frustrating. When occasionally it comes over me that I’ll never know, I can’t quite believe it. Surely, one day, I will find out?’
‘We don’t even know what happened in our own lives. Let alone the life of the species.’
‘No. I know that’s true. But I can’t help waiting for the revelation.’
‘When you’ve had it, will you publish it?’
Liz laughs. ‘No, no, it will be the end of the world, there will be no more publishing and delivering of lectures,’ she says.
‘You are in an apocalyptic vein, suddenly.’
‘It is your fault, Ivan. You encourage me.’
‘So apocalyptic are you that you are failing to see what is sitting in front of your own nose. You say you suffer from insatiable curiosity, but you let me ask all the questions. Ask me a question, Liz.’
Liz looks at him, sharply. Is he teasing her? Is it a trick?
‘What question shall I ask you, Ivan?’
‘No, no, you are the clever one, you are the diviner. You must guess.’
‘Not the answer, but the question?’
‘That’s correct. You must guess the question.’
Liz, comically exercised by guilt and conscience (for it is true that she never asks Ivan about himself, always lets him make the running), peers at him, as though hoping to read his face, his mind. He smiles back, shrugs his shoulders, crinkles his eyes at her, taps his chin with his thumb, and raises his glass.
‘Well,’ says Liz, you’re looking very pleased with yourself. So I guess something good has happened to you. Have you got a new job? No? Have you been promoted? No? Ah, I know what it must be—are you in love?’
Ivan nods, encouragingly.
‘Yes? But there’s more to it than that? Are you getting
married?’
‘Yes,’ says Ivan. He is beaming satisfaction at her, and of course, now she sees that this must be why he has been so amiable, so benevolent, so well disposed, he has been hugging this secret all the way through lunch, waiting to astonish her with it. And she is astonished.
‘Good Lord, Ivan, how amazing! I thought you never would, I thought you were the only real bachelor left in London! Congratulations! Am I allowed to ask the name of the other party, or do I have to wait for the official announcement?’
‘If you read the serious information in gossip columns, as everybody else does, you’d know it already. So I might as well tell you. I’m going to marry Alicia Barnard.’
‘Good heavens. Are you really? Good Lord!’
Liz is silenced by this coup, silenced and delighted. No wonder Ivan is looking so smug. Alicia Barnard is not only a beauty, she is also a distinguished classical guitarist of impeccable provenance and reputation—how can it be that Ivan has persuaded her to
marry
him?
‘Congratulations,’ repeats Liz, rallying. ‘That
is
romantic. What a happy story! What wonderful news!’
‘The story,’ says Ivan, twiddling with the stem of his wineglass, and quite unable to stop smiling, ‘is called Beauty and the Beast.’
‘Oh Ivan, I hope you’ll both be
very very
happy. Tell me about her. Tell me what she’s like.
‘Fame is the spur,’ she says, after a while, ‘that the clear spirit doth raise, the last infirmity of noble minds . . . A very honest statement that, on Milton’s part, I’ve always thought. But for some reason Esther and I don’t seem to suffer from it. No doubt because we are nice, modest, unassuming women. We don’t need to see our names in print every week. As you do.’
‘Well, yes, I do, I admit it,’ says Ivan. ‘It’s like a disease with me.’
‘An infirmity.’
‘Yes. An infirmity.’
‘Actually,’ says Liz, ‘what I
do
suffer from is curiosity. I want to know
what really happened.’
‘When?’
‘At the beginning. When human nature began. At the beginning of human time. And I know I’ll never know. But I can’t stop looking. It’s very frustrating. When occasionally it comes over me that I’ll never know, I can’t quite believe it. Surely, one day, I will find out?’
‘We don’t even know what happened in our own lives. Let alone the life of the species.’
‘No. I know that’s true. But I can’t help waiting for the revelation.’
‘When you’ve had it, will you publish it?’
Liz laughs. ‘No, no, it will be the end of the world, there will be no more publishing and delivering of lectures,’ she says.
‘You are in an apocalyptic vein, suddenly.’
‘It is your fault, Ivan. You encourage me.’
‘So apocalyptic are you that you are failing to see what is sitting in front of your own nose. You say you suffer from insatiable curiosity, but you let me ask all the questions. Ask me a question, Liz.’
Liz looks at him, sharply. Is he teasing her? Is it a trick?
‘What question shall I ask you, Ivan?’
‘No, no, you are the clever one, you are the diviner. You must guess.’
‘Not the answer, but the question?’
‘That’s correct. You must guess the question.’
Liz, comically exercised by guilt and conscience (for it is true that she never asks Ivan about himself, always lets him make the running), peers at him, as though hoping to read his face, his mind. He smiles back, shrugs his shoulders, crinkles his eyes at her, taps his chin with his thumb, and raises his glass.
‘Well,’ says Liz, you’re looking very pleased with yourself. So I guess something good has happened to you. Have you got a new job? No? Have you been promoted? No? Ah, I know what it must be—are you in love?’
Ivan nods, encouragingly.
‘Yes? But there’s more to it than that? Are you getting
married?’
‘Yes,’ says Ivan. He is beaming satisfaction at her, and of course, now she sees that this must be why he has been so amiable, so benevolent, so well disposed, he has been hugging this secret all the way through lunch, waiting to astonish her with it. And she is astonished.
‘Good Lord, Ivan, how amazing! I thought you never would, I thought you were the only real bachelor left in London! Congratulations! Am I allowed to ask the name of the other party, or do I have to wait for the official announcement?’
‘If you read the serious information in gossip columns, as everybody else does, you’d know it already. So I might as well tell you. I’m going to marry Alicia Barnard.’
‘Good heavens. Are you really? Good Lord!’
Liz is silenced by this coup, silenced and delighted. No wonder Ivan is looking so smug. Alicia Barnard is not only a beauty, she is also a distinguished classical guitarist of impeccable provenance and reputation—how can it be that Ivan has persuaded her to
marry
him?
‘Congratulations,’ repeats Liz, rallying. ‘That
is
romantic. What a happy story! What wonderful news!’
‘The story,’ says Ivan, twiddling with the stem of his wineglass, and quite unable to stop smiling, ‘is called Beauty and the Beast.’
‘Oh Ivan, I hope you’ll both be
very very
happy. Tell me about her. Tell me what she’s like.
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