Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [274]
A displeased-looking girl in red shirt and jeans appeared between the black-clad men and said, “I’m surprised to see you here, Lanark. I mean, everything’s finished. Even the food.” It was Libby. He muttered that he had come for the speeches.
“Why? The’ll be horribly boring, and you look as if you hadn’t washed for a week. Why do you want to hear speeches?”
He stared at her. She sighed and said, “Come inside, but you’ll have to hurry.”
He followed her through the door. The hubbub grew deafening as she led him along between the inner wall of the tent and a line of waiters carrying out trays laden with used dishes. He glimpsed the backs of people sitting at a table which curved away to the left and right. Libby pointed to an empty chair saying, “That was yours.”
He slunk into it as quietly as possible. A neighbor stared at him, said “Good God, a ghost!” and started chuckling. It was Odin. “It’s very, very, very good to see you,” said Powys, the other neighbour. “What happened? We’ve been terribly alarmed about you.”
The table formed a white-clothed circle filling most of the tent. There was a wineglass to each chair and a sign with the guest’s name and title facing outward. Red girls carried bottles about inside the circle, filling glasses. Lanark explained what had happened to him.
“I’m glad it was only that,” said Powys. “Some people whispered you’d been shot or abducted by the security guards. Of course we didn’t really believe it. If we had we’d have complained.”
“That rumour did the assembly a power of good,” said Odin cheerfully. “A lot of cowardly loudmouths were afraid to say a word during the big energy debate. Bloody idiots!”
“Well, you know,” said Powys, “I don’t mind admitting I was worried too. These guards are ugly customers, and nobody seems to know what their precise instructions are. Yes, the business of the last few days has been settled with unusual promptness, so you did not piss in vain. But it was reckless of you to pollute their river. They’re very fond of it.” Solveig came along the table filling wineglasses. He stared down at the tablecloth, hoping not to be noticed. There was a sound like a colossal soft cough then a perfectly amplified voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you will be glad to hear that after an absence of three days one of our most popular delegates has returned. The witty, the venerable, the not always perfectly sober Lord Provost Lanark of Greater Unthank is in his place at last.” Lanark’s mouth opened. Though total silence had fallen he seemed to hear a great roar go up. The multitude of glances on him—mocking, he was sure, condescending, contemptuous, amused—seemed to pierce and press him down. Someone yelled, “Give the man a drink!”
He sobbed and laid his head on the tablecloth. The hubbub of voices began again, but with more speculation than laughter in it. He heard Odin murmur, “That wasn’t necessary,” and Powys said, “No, they didn’t need to rub it in like that.” There was another soft cough and the voice said, “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for Sir Trevor Weems, Knight of the Golden Snail, Privy Councillor of Dalriada, Chief Executive Officer of the Greater Provan Basin and Outer Erse Confederacy.”
There was some applause then Lanark heard the voice of Weems.
“This is a strange occasion for me. The man sitting on my left is the twenty-ninth Lord Monboddo. He has been many things in his time: musician, healer, dragon-master, scourge of the decimal clock, enfant terrible of the old expansion project, stupor mundi of the institute and council debates. I have known him as all these things and opposed him as every one of them. A rash, rampant, raving intellectual, that’s what I called him in the old days. Everyone remembers the unhappy circumstances in which his predecessor retired. I won’t tell you what I thought when I heard the name