eyes, deeply kohled. Close-up of lips.
Martini
. A slicedlemon. A cherry. Martini, in a glass bell, poured in slow motion. Ice. Nail-varnished fingers on the glass. His bow tie, dinner jacket, pink rose. My bare back. Breeze ruffling table-cloths.
Martini
. A glimmer of a smile. A touch.
“Cheers,” I said, lifting the glass and sampling a mouthful.
Luis Buñuel said that the perfect martini was pure gin pierced by a ray of sunlight, or something like that. This one had about 1% vermouth to 99% gin, the ratio of inspiration to perspiration Edison deemed genius to be.
Mr. Prain imbibed the taste like a connoisseur, lifting his eyes to me all the while. I swallowed my gulp of almost pure gin with as much grace as God would allow, and decided to take the rest slowly.
“So—we’re going to talk about my writing now,” I rasped, “are we?”
“You’re so earnest, Stella.”
My heart sank. What did he mean by that?
“I mean, you honestly believe I am going to say something very important. My opinion is just my opinion. You must realise that. I am not the Delphic oracle. That I am a publisher is pure chance. I have very precise ideas about what makes good writing, but I am not infallible. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if my elder brother had inherited Coymans rather than I. What kind of fiction would he have published? Would it have made a difference?”
“Why … why didn’t he inherit the business?” I asked, a little hoarsely, thinking this was because of the speck of dust still lodged in my throat. Perhaps I should turn interrogator, and probe, before judgement.
“I don’t know,” he said, after a short pause for consideration. “I was probably being groomed for the part from the beginning. I would get books when Charles would get a tennis racquet. Or is it that one just wants to please one’s parents? One of us had to be the dutiful son. If my elder brother had no intention of filling that role, perhaps there was no choice.”
“So Charles was the black sheep?”
“And I was the white goat,” he said.
“But didn’t you do the right thing, in your parents eyes?”
“In some ways. In others, Charlie was the darling, at least my mother’s darling. My mother’s family were all horse-mad, polo-mad, sporty types. The stables over there,” he nodded his head towards the east, “used to be full, all through my childhood. My father was keen on—very disreputable to you I’m sure—fox hunting. It was his exercise. I must say, I didn’t care for it, or for polo. They would go off—”
“They?”
“Mother, Father, Charles. I would sit at home reading and listening to Brahms. Charles couldn’t bear to sit down at a desk and work. I knew from as far back as I can remember that I would inherit the business, not Charles. He had to be free. His character demanded an outdoor, active life, not armchairs, typescripts and sherry.”
“How old were you when you went into your father’s firm?” I asked, realising I was stalling when he was probably now ready to talk about my work. I suddenly really wanted to know more about him, personally.
“Oh … I had completed my MA at Cambridge, and spent a year in Toulouse … I suppose I must have been twenty-two. My father taught me the ropes, as it were. Then I had a year in New York organising our division there. Then my father died.” He sipped again. “Would you like to sit down?” He indicated two of the Bauhaus chairs by the game of chess, by my black box. We moved towards them slowly.
“How old are you now?” I said.
“Forty-three.”
“Twenty-one years at Coymans,” I said.
“Twenty-one years.” A whiff of regret?
“Did you ever want to do anything else, even if your family decided that the mantle would fall on your shoulders?” We hovered at our chairs, not sitting.
A banned question. “One doesn’t contemplate the impossible.”
“I do. Every day.”
A quick smile. A swift inhalation. A new start at
Martini
. A slicedlemon. A cherry. Martini, in a glass bell, poured in slow motion. Ice. Nail-varnished fingers on the glass. His bow tie, dinner jacket, pink rose. My bare back. Breeze ruffling table-cloths.
Martini
. A glimmer of a smile. A touch.
“Cheers,” I said, lifting the glass and sampling a mouthful.
Luis Buñuel said that the perfect martini was pure gin pierced by a ray of sunlight, or something like that. This one had about 1% vermouth to 99% gin, the ratio of inspiration to perspiration Edison deemed genius to be.
Mr. Prain imbibed the taste like a connoisseur, lifting his eyes to me all the while. I swallowed my gulp of almost pure gin with as much grace as God would allow, and decided to take the rest slowly.
“So—we’re going to talk about my writing now,” I rasped, “are we?”
“You’re so earnest, Stella.”
My heart sank. What did he mean by that?
“I mean, you honestly believe I am going to say something very important. My opinion is just my opinion. You must realise that. I am not the Delphic oracle. That I am a publisher is pure chance. I have very precise ideas about what makes good writing, but I am not infallible. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if my elder brother had inherited Coymans rather than I. What kind of fiction would he have published? Would it have made a difference?”
“Why … why didn’t he inherit the business?” I asked, a little hoarsely, thinking this was because of the speck of dust still lodged in my throat. Perhaps I should turn interrogator, and probe, before judgement.
“I don’t know,” he said, after a short pause for consideration. “I was probably being groomed for the part from the beginning. I would get books when Charles would get a tennis racquet. Or is it that one just wants to please one’s parents? One of us had to be the dutiful son. If my elder brother had no intention of filling that role, perhaps there was no choice.”
“So Charles was the black sheep?”
“And I was the white goat,” he said.
“But didn’t you do the right thing, in your parents eyes?”
“In some ways. In others, Charlie was the darling, at least my mother’s darling. My mother’s family were all horse-mad, polo-mad, sporty types. The stables over there,” he nodded his head towards the east, “used to be full, all through my childhood. My father was keen on—very disreputable to you I’m sure—fox hunting. It was his exercise. I must say, I didn’t care for it, or for polo. They would go off—”
“They?”
“Mother, Father, Charles. I would sit at home reading and listening to Brahms. Charles couldn’t bear to sit down at a desk and work. I knew from as far back as I can remember that I would inherit the business, not Charles. He had to be free. His character demanded an outdoor, active life, not armchairs, typescripts and sherry.”
“How old were you when you went into your father’s firm?” I asked, realising I was stalling when he was probably now ready to talk about my work. I suddenly really wanted to know more about him, personally.
“Oh … I had completed my MA at Cambridge, and spent a year in Toulouse … I suppose I must have been twenty-two. My father taught me the ropes, as it were. Then I had a year in New York organising our division there. Then my father died.” He sipped again. “Would you like to sit down?” He indicated two of the Bauhaus chairs by the game of chess, by my black box. We moved towards them slowly.
“How old are you now?” I said.
“Forty-three.”
“Twenty-one years at Coymans,” I said.
“Twenty-one years.” A whiff of regret?
“Did you ever want to do anything else, even if your family decided that the mantle would fall on your shoulders?” We hovered at our chairs, not sitting.
A banned question. “One doesn’t contemplate the impossible.”
“I do. Every day.”
A quick smile. A swift inhalation. A new start at
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