Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [163]
At nine o’clock, Domenica led her guests through to the dining room, where they sat about her large mahogany table while she and Pat went through to the kitchen to collect the first course.
“That wine is quite delicious,” said Domenica. “Willy seemed to imply that it was something special.”
Pat felt a momentary pang of doubt. Bruce had told her that she could help herself; she clearly remembered his saying so, and he had himself taken two bottles of her Chilean Merlot on one occasion. So she had nothing to worry about, and she put the thought out of her mind.
The risotto was perfect, acclaimed by all, and after the plates had been cleared away, Angus Lordie tapped his glass with a spoon. The glass, which was empty, the Chateau Petrus having 344 Farewell
been consumed to the last drop, rang out clear across several conversations and brought them to silence.
“Dear friends,” he said, “we are coming to the end of something here. When I was a little boy I hated things to end, as all children do, except their childhood – no child, of course, wants his childhood to go on forever. And when I became a young man, I found that I still hated things to end, though now, of course, I was learning how quickly and hard upon each other’s heels do the endings come.
“Today, our dear friend, Domenica, told us that she was proposing to go away for some time. She is a scholar, and she obeys the tides of scholarship. These tides, she told us, now take her to the distant Malacca Straits, to a particularly demanding piece of fieldwork. I have my own views on that project, but I respect Domenica for her bravery in going to live amongst those whom she intends to study.
“We who are left behind in Edinburgh can only imagine the dangers which she will face. But tonight we can assure her that she goes with our love, which is what we would wish, I’m sure, to any friend about to undertake a journey. You go off clad in the clothes of our love. For that, surely, is what friendship is all about – about the giving of love and the assurance of love.”
Angus stopped, and there was silence. He looked at Domenica, across the table, and she smiled at him.
“Dear Angus,” she said. “A poem is called for.”
“It is,” said James Holloway.
Angus looked down at his plate, at the crumbs that lay upon it; all that was left.
“Very well,” he said. “A poem about small things, I think.”
He stood up, closed his eyes briefly, and then opened them as he began to speak.
Dear one, how many years is it – I forget –
Since that luminous evening when you joined us In the celebration of whatever it was that we were celebrating – I forget –
It is a mark of a successful celebration
Farewell
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That one should have little recollection of the cause; As long as the happiness itself remains a memory. Our tiny planet, viewed from afar, is a place of swirling clouds And dimmish blue; Scotland, though lodged large in all our hearts Is invisible at that distance, not much perhaps, But to us it is our all, our place, the opposite of nowhere; Nowhere can be seen by looking up
And realising, with shock, that we really are very small; You would say, yes, we are, but never overcompensate, Be content with small places, the local, the short story Rather than the saga; take pleasure in private jokes, In expressions that cannot be translated,
In references that can be understood by only two or three, But which speak with such eloquence for small places And the fellowship of those whom you know so well And whose sayings and moods are as familiar As the weather; these mean