The Lost Art of Gratitude_ An Isabel Dalhousie Novel - Alexander McCall Smith [97]
Her thoughts returned to the picture and to Guy’s call. Things were not what they seemed to be; sometimes that mattered, while other times it mattered not at all. It was not important that the picture of Bonnie Prince Charlie was not what she had hoped it would be; the prince himself was probably not what so many people had hoped he would be. He was a military failure, he was proud and seemingly rather vain—as the later Stuarts tended to be. Minty was palpably not what she claimed to be; nor was George Finesk; nor Jock Dundas. She should not have taken any of these people at face value; she had been naive. But this conclusion, she realised, pointed unambiguously in the direction of cynicism, and she would not be a cynic. It was better to be naive—much better.
The salmon steaks cooked, Jamie served the potatoes and put the salad bowl on the table. “Very delicious,” remarked Isabel. She was looking away as she spoke and Jamie could tell that her mind was elsewhere. He assumed that all philosophers were like that—not only his philosopher.
“I think we should invite Cat and Bruno back for dinner,” she said. “How about next week?” She did not want to do this, but she knew that she had to make an effort. Ill feeling, in whatever quarter it existed, was like a slow and insidious poison, a weedkiller that strangled the life about it. She would make an effort with Bruno, no matter how hard it might be.
He shook his head. “It might be too late,” he said.
“Why?”
He delivered the news in even tones. “Because I don’t think they’re still together.”
Isabel had half expected this. Cat was incorrigible; she was ashamed of her, but she was also pleased. How quickly, she thought, have my good intentions been replaced by delight in the end of Cat’s romance. She was human, made up of a will to do good, but also with human failings. It was the end of Bruno, but she resisted any hint of triumphalism, or evident relief, restricting herself to asking Jamie how he had formed this impression.
“Eddie said something,” Jamie replied.
Isabel felt her pleasure fading rapidly. Eddie was not always to be relied upon.
“Eddie went to a show on the Meadows,” Jamie went on. “It was some sort of sample of what was coming up at the Fringe—the usual thing, actors, jugglers, musicians. And Bruno was doing a tightrope walk.”
Isabel could see it. There would be colour and music and the very faint hint of marijuana smoke mingled with cheap perfume.
Jamie continued with his explanation. “Bruno’s wire was not very high—about twelve feet or so, Eddie said. But he was doing all sorts of tricks on it—he rode a unicycle across and skipped—you know what these characters do.”
Isabel imagined Bruno padding across the wire in his elevator shoes. No, he would take those off and don a pair of soft kid slippers. Did they make elevator slippers? she wondered.
Jamie was watching her. “Are you trying not to laugh?”
She could reply—quite honestly—that she was not. But she sensed that laughter was there, not far away, and that this would spoil all her moral effort, her determination to like Bruno.
“Anyway, he was walking along the wire, and Cat and Eddie were watching from down below. Cat suddenly called out to him and waved—Eddie said that he thought she was really proud of seeing him up there being admired by everybody.”
“I suppose so,” said Isabel. But she thought: I wouldn’t be.
“He looked round, apparently, and then fell off. She had distracted him.”
Isabel gasped.
“He wasn’t hurt, apparently, or not badly,” Jamie went on. “He twisted an ankle a bit, but picked himself up and went over to Cat.”
“And?”
“And he yelled at her,” said Jamie. “Ranted and raved in front of everybody. Then apparently he stormed off. Eddie said that Cat was in tears and nothing’s been seen of Bruno since then. No apology. Nothing.”
Isabel sat in silence. It was a painful discovery to make, but one very much better made before she married him.