Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [205]
“If at the church they would give us some ale, and a pleasant fire our souls to regale, we’d sing and we’d pray all the livelong day, nor ever once wish from the church to stray,
“And God, like a father, rejoicing to see, His children as pleasant and happy as He, would have no more quarrel with Devil or barrel, But kiss him and give him both drink and—”
“What the hell am I eating?” shouted Lanark.
“Enigma de Filets Congalés. Is it underdone? Try this pink moist crumbly stuff. I can heartily recommend it.”
Lanark groaned. A stink of burning rubber was fading from his nostrils and his limbs were invaded by a familiar invigorating warmth. He said, “This is institute food.”
“Yes. The Quantum group delivers nothing else to us nowadays.”
“We left the institute because we hate this food.”
“I admire you for it!” cried Ritchie-Smollet enthusiastically. “And you’ve moved in the right direction! We have two or three millennialists on the committee and who’s to blame them? Has not the prayer of humanity in all ages been for innocent and abundant food? Impossible, of course, but wer immer strebend sich bemüht et cetera. And one has to eat, unless one feels with Miss Weil that anorexia nervosa is a sacred duty.”
“Yes I will eat!” cried Lanark savagely. “But please stop bombarding me with funny names and meaningless quotations!” He finished all the plates that Rima and Ritchie-Smollet left untouched and in the end felt bloated, drugged and horribly tricked. A voice cried, “Rima!” A plump woman of about forty wearing tarty clothes came in. Rima laughed and said, “Frankie!”
Frankie dropped a huge embroidered handbag on the floor, sat on the bed and said, “Sludden told me you were here—he’s coming later. So the mystery man has put a bun in your oven, has he? Actually you don’t look too bad—quite surprisingly winsome, really. Hullo, mystery man, I’m glad you’ve grown a beard. You look less vulnerable.”
“Hullo,” said Lanark ungraciously. He was not pleased to see Frankie.
CHAPTER 36.
Chapterhouse
Ritchie-Smollet led them to the far end of the attic, through a small kitchen where Jack was washing dishes, and down another spiral stair in the thickness of the wall. They came into a square room with vaulted ceiling upheld by a great central pillar. A row of stone chairs with wooden backs were built into the length of each wall. Lanark thought this an awkward arrangement: if all the seats were occupied everyone would find the central pillar hiding three or four people opposite. A small, fit-looking man stood with feet apart and hands in pockets warming his back at an electric fire. Ritchie-Smollet spoke with less than usual enthusiasm.
“Ah, Grant. This is Lanark, who has news for us.”
“Council news, no doubt,” said Grant with a sarcastic emphasis,
“I’ve been waiting over an hour.”
“Remember the rest of us haven’t got your knack of timing things. The provost may be in the crypt; I’ll go and look.”
Ritchie-Smollet left by a door in a corner. Grant and Lanark stared at each other. Grant seemed about thirty though there were some deep vertical wrinkles on his cheeks and brow. His short crisp hair was carefully combed and he wore a neat blue suit and red necktie. He said, “I know you. When I was a lad you used to hang around the old Elite with Sludden’s mob.”
“Not for long,” said Lanark. “How do you time things? Have you a watch?”
“I’ve a pulse.”
“You count your heartbeats?”
“I estimate them. We all developed that talent in the shops when the old timekeeping collapsed.”
“You keep a shop?”
“I’m talking abut workshops. Machine shops. I’m a maker, not a salesman.”
Lanark sat on a seat near the fire. Grant’s voice offended him. It was loud, penetrating and clearly used to addressing crowds without help from the equipment which lets a man talk softly to millions.