The Line of Beauty - Alan Hollinghurst [98]
"It's a Zitt, I see," said Nick, reading the signature dashed across the right-hand corner of the sky.
"He's rather buying into Zitt," said Wani.
"Oh—well, it's absolutely ghastly," said Nick.
"Is it?" said Wani. "Well, try and break it to him gently."
They went down into the dining room, with little Antoine going in before them, lolling his head from side to side and saying "eb-solutely gharstly" over and over to himself. Wani caught him from behind and gave him an enjoyable strangle.
Nick was placed on Monique's right, beside little Antoine, with Uncle Emile opposite. Uncle Emile had the air of a less successful brother, baggy and gloomy rather than gleamingly triangular. But it turned out that in fact he was Monique's brother-in-law, on a visit of indefinite duration from Lyon, where he ran an ailing scrap-metal business. Nick took in this story and smiled along the table as if they were being told a simmeringly good joke; it was only Wani's tiny frown that made him suspect he might be looking too exhilarated by his tour of the house. It was the magic opposite, all this, of the jolted witless hangover state of half an hour earlier. All their secrets seemed to fuse and glow. Though for Wani himself, severely self-controlled, it seemed hardly worth having taken the drug. The little old couple were bringing in elaborately fanned slices of melon and orange. It was clear that citrus fruits were treated with special acclaim in the house; here as in the drawing room there was a daringly stacked obelisk of oranges and lemons on a side table. The effect was both humble and proprietorial. Another Zitt, of the Stock Exchange and the Mansion House, done in mauve, hung between the windows.
"I see you're admiring my husband's new Zitt," said Monique, with a hint of mischief, as if she would value a second opinion.
"Ah yes . . . !"
"He's really an Impressionist painter, you know."
"Mm, and almost, somehow, an Expressionist one, too," said Nick.
"He's extremely contemporary," said Monique.
"He's a bold colourist," said Nick. "Very bold . . ."
"So, Nick," said Bertrand, spreading his napkin, and steadying his swivelling array of knives on the glassy polish of the table top: "how is our friend Gerald Fedden?" The "our" might have referred to just the two of them, or to a friendship with the family, or to a vaguer sense that Gerald was on their side.
"Oh, he's absolutely fine," said Nick. "He's in great form. Wildly busy—as always . . . !" Bertrand's look was humorous but persistent, as if to show that they could be candid with each other; having ignored him for the first half-hour he was turning the beam of his confidence on him, with the instinct of a man who gets his way.
"You live in his house, no?"
"Yes, I do. I went to stay for a few weeks and I've ended up staying for nearly three years!"
Bertrand nodded and shrugged, as if this was quite a normal arrangement.
Uncle Emile himself, perhaps, might turn out to be just such a visitor. "I know where it is. We're invited to the concert, whatever it is, next week, which we'll be charmed to come to."
"Oh, good," said Nick. "I think it should be quite fun. The pianist is a young star from Czechoslovakia."
Bertrand frowned. "I know they say he's a bloody good man."
"No, actually . . . oh, Gerald, you mean—yes, absolutely!"
"He's going to go to the very top of the ladder. Or almost to the top. What's your opinion of that?"
"Oh—oh, I don't know," said Nick. "I don't know anything about politics."
Bertrand twitched. "I know you're the bloody aesthete . . ."
Nick was often pressed for insider views on Gerald's character and prospects, and as a rule he was wafflingly loyal. Now he said, "I do