Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [41]
He entered a softly lit restaurant with a low blue ceiling and thick blue carpet. The tables were empty with their cloths removed, except for one on the far side where Ozenfant sat. He wore a light grey suit with yellow waistcoat and tie; the corner of a white napkin was tucked between two buttons of the waistcoat. He was cutting a small morsel on his plate with obvious pleasure, but he looked up and beckoned Lanark over. The light came from two candles on his table and from low arches in the walls, arches of a moorish pattern which seemed to open into bright rooms at a lower level. Through the nearest, Lanark saw a section of dance floor with black trouser legs and long skirts waltzing over it. Ozenfant said, “Come, join me. The others have long finished, but I am somewhat addicted to the joys of the feeding trough.”
A waitress came from among the shadowy tables, pulled out a chair and handed Lanark a menu. The dishes were named in a language he didn’t understand. He returned the menu and said to Ozenfant, “Could you order for me?”
“Certainly. Try Enigma de Filets Congalés. After the slops of the invalid ward you will appreciate stronger meat.” Ozenfant gulped from a tulip-shaped glass and pulled his mouth down at the corners.
“Unluckily I cannot recommend the wine. Synthetic chemistry has much to learn in that direction.”
The waitress placed before Lanark a plate with a cube of grey jelly on it. He cut a thin slice from a surface and found it tasted like elastic ice. He swallowed quickly and the back of his nose was filled by a smell of burning rubber, but he was surprised by a sense of friendly warmth. He felt relaxed, yet capable of powerful action. He ate another slice and the smell was worse. He laid down the knife and fork and said, “I can’t eat more than that.”
Ozenfant dabbed his lips with the napkin. “No matter. A mouthful gives all the nourishment one needs. As you learn to like the flavour you will come to take more, and in a few years you will be overeating like the rest of us.”
“I won’t be here in a few years.”
“Oh?”
“I’m leaving when I find a suitable companion.”
“Why?”
“I want the sun.”
Ozenfant began laughing heartily then said, “I beg your pardon, but to hear such a sober fellow declare such a strange passion was a little unexpected. Why the sun?”
Lanark was irritated beyond normal reticence. He said, “I want to love, and meet friends, and work in it.”
“But you are no Athenian, no Florentine, you are a modern man! In modern civilizations those who work in the sunlight are a despised and dwindling minority. Even farmers are moving indoors. As for lovemaking and friendship, humanity has always preferred to enjoy these at night. If you wanted the moon I could sympathize, but Apollo is quite discredited.”
“You talk like Sludden.”
“Who is he?”
“A man who lives in the city I came from. The sun shines there for two or three minutes a day and he thinks it doesn’t matter.”
Ozenfant covered his eyes with a hand and said dreamily, “A city on the banks of a shrunk river. A city with a nineteenth-century square full of ugly statues. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me but the temptation is too great.”
Ozenfant reached for Lanark’s plate, placed it on his own empty plate and ate slowly, talking as he did so.
“That city is called Unthank. The calendar in Unthank is based on sunlight, but only administrators use it. The majority have forgotten the sun; moreover, they have rejected the clock. They do not measure or plan, their lives are regulated by simple appetite varied by the occasional impulse. Not surprisingly nobody is well there. Politically, too, they are corrupt and would collapse without subsidies from healthier continents. But do not blame its condition upon lack of sunlight. The institute has none, yet it supports itself and supplies the staff with plenty of healthy food and exercise. The clock keeps us regular.”
“Have you a library?”
“We have two: one