The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [131]
“Spit it out, Noel. On seducing your mother? Not in the least. But I am fond of older women …”
You can’t still be on S, thought Noel. What happened to red-haired Simone?
“… and in fact I’ve adopted Byron as my model. He had sex with the Countess of Benzoni of Verona when she was sixty-one.”
“She was from Venice.”
“He then upped the ante with Lady Melbourne, who was sixty-two, and a few days later seduced Lady Oxford’s daughter, who was eleven.”
“He raped her and was caught in the act by her mother. With whom he was having an affair.”
“Really? I did something similar with a mother-daughter duo. The age gap, though, wasn’t as great, and it was a consensual three-way.”
“Is this one of your fabrications for Dr. Vorta?”
“Hardly. It involved his wife and daughter.”56
“High-end port you have here, Burun. How odd that you should serve it in a claret glass.” Norval held the crystal up to the light.
“Screw off.”
“I noticed a pipe on the mantelpiece. A Comoy’s, I believe. You wouldn’t have any tobacco for it, would you?”
“Yes, I’ve got some Latakia.”
“Don’t know it. What’s it like?”
“Middle Eastern, dark and aromatic.”
“Perfect.”
“But I’m not giving it to you. Or the pipe. Smoking a used pipe is like wearing another man’s underwear, my father used to say.”
“Quite rightly. Noel, your mother needs a refill. So do I, for that matter. Is there a bell I can pull?”
“My mother’s already had a glass. I think that’s enough.”
Mrs. Burun was sitting calmly in her favourite blue armchair, silently observing the two men.
“Of course it’s not enough,” said Norval. “You’re not up on the latest research. Alcohol is good for Alzheimer’s. It breaks up, or frees up … well, doesn’t matter what. Something that needs breaking and freeing up.”
“It breaks up blood platelets. And frees up acetylcholine in the hippocampus.”
“Exactly. Which is good for learning and memory, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes. Aromatic alcohols with intact phenolic groups act as neuroprotectants, guarding against oxidative damage and cell death.”
“I rest my case.”
“But other research suggests that it’s not alcohol, but the red grape. And the same research indicates that too much alcohol leads straight to dementia. Which, judging by the amount you’ve had since breakfast, is where you’re headed.”
Norval inspected his nails. “Noel, does that sort of thing pass for wit back in Scotland?”
“And why is my mother chewing gum?”
“JJ gave it to her. He says studies at Northumbria University—”
“Suggest that it improves the memory.”
“Well, yes. Thirty-five per cent improvement, in fact. JJ will tell you all about this, and more, if you’re not careful.”
“And you’ve got my mother smoking again, I see. She hasn’t smoked in twenty-five years. Those cigarettes are for guests.”
“She asked for one, said she always liked a good smoke. Didn’t you, Stella. And besides, tobacco’s good for the memory.57 And especially Alzheimer’s.”
“It more than doubles the risk of getting it.”
“Rubbish. My grandfather’s ninety-three. Smokes like a bonfire. And clear as a mountain stream. Who’s the oldest living North American? A tobaccoholic named John McMorran, who’s 113. And besides, I’m putting my foot down. I’m limiting your mum to a pack a day.”
“I don’t want her smoking.”
“Let her have some fun, for God’s sake. Let her eat, drink and remarry.”
“No. Alcohol doesn’t interact well with the new compounds I’m giving her. Nor does nicotine.”
“Let’s drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,” said Stella, lifting her glass in a Scottish toast. Tipsily, thought Noel. “Slàinte mhath!”
“There you go,” said Norval. “You can’t disobey your own mother.”
“You heard me,” said Noel.
“What is it with everybody around here? I’m surrounded by pleasure police. Sam’s a prissy-ass vegetarian, JJ’s a homeopathic e-quack, and you’re a … factualist. Blinded by science. ‘Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchemy …’58 What is it with today’s society?”
Noel looked at his watch. This, he knew, was the preamble to a long lecture. “Look, Norval, I’ve got to go down—”