Bearded Ladies: long extract
This
extract is the short story "No Such Thing as a Free Lunch" from
the book Bearded Ladies. It is about 3 printed pages long
No
Such Thing as a Free Lunch
IT'S
A FANCY PLACE in the way places
are fancy here. Dim yellowish walls which anywhere else you might take the
liberty of calling shabby. Ah - but the paintings! One doesn't like to
look naive and peer too Closely, but clearly they're originals, little
gems dashed off by the masters, signed with a flourish. My compliments to
the chef and to Claude for his wonderful restaurant. The lights are dim
but of course no mere vulgar pink. This, my dear, is the dimness of
quality. Among the sparkling white linen and the shadowy old chairs - old
but good - large elegant men sit back at ease with a bottle of de
Rothschild still half full in front of them. Poised women sparkle
discreetly, leaning languorously, laughing in streams of silver bells.
Oliver does not, of course, expect me to
exclaim aloud my awe or to shame him by clumsy colonial enthusiasm. Super
cool now behind the black cummerbund of the maitre de. Skirt round
this chair, don't brush the tablecloth as you pass and for heaven's sake
try not to knock those flowers over. Chin up, back straight, now. No
scurrying. Well done.
The chair is being pulled out for me and
the oily face inclining with bogus respect. Madame? Slide in slowly now.
Weight on the balls of the feet so that he can slide the chair in under
me. Well done. What a team.
Oliver is of course totally au fait
and absolutely au courant with this place. Evening Luigi, how are
you this evening glad to hear it. Where's Claude tonight I don't see him.
A few new faces I see. Well now what do you recommend tonight Luigi? The
plovers' eggs in sauce de la maison? Plovers' eggs it shall be. That is,
unless, of course . . . he inclines his smooth polished Public School face
towards me . . . no that will be fine Luigi, two plovers' eggs. And I
think a bottle of the '68 don't you? Yes. Fine. Of course I come here
pretty often you know. The odd business lunch and pleasurable um dinner.
Nice quiet place. Bit pricey of course but utterly worth every penny.
At the next table a young man with pale eyes like a blind fish in a
dead-white hairless face is talking steadily, calmly, without the
slightest shadow of a doubt, to his companion who is elegant in black silk
and blond coiffure. Her perfect face framed in the bell of her hair stares
at him. She nods, murmurs. Absolutely oh yes. Quite. How amusing. Quite.
Her dark eyes never leave his decomposing-flesh face. Oh how splendid. How
absolutely. She leans forward to him, one hand supporting an elegant
cheekbone, the other resting, forefinger pointing, on the table. Oliver
unfolds his napkin and arranges it in his lap.
Now we were talking were we not
about Lear, without a doubt the greatest play ever written. Genius
with a capital G. That strange quality not so very far from madness which
we like to call Genius.
His voice is properly reverent in the face
of Genius with a capital G.
I venture to differ. Hamlet,
perhaps?
Oh no dear. You're quite wrong about that.
Without any argument his masterwork, his chef d'oeuvre as it were.
Definitely his greatest. No. I was just talking to Hall about this very
subject last week and he was telling me. No, I'd say you'll have to look
at it again. Ah the wine thanks Luigi.
The correct half-inch in the glass. Lift it
to the light and peer at it with one eye. Swill it round in the glass.
Sniff. Close eyes the better to appreciate this really remarkably fine
aroma. Tilt the head back, toss it in and swill it around the back teeth
before finally swallowing. Purse the lips. Yes lovely. Not quite up to the
'65 naturally but what would you expect?
At the next table the food has arrived. The
long slender fingers delicately grasp the knife and fork and convey dainty
morsels to the perfect mouth. Chewing discreetly, she nods and leans
forward, swan-like, between mouthfuls, all intelligent interest. Her
companion picks petulantly at his food and lifts a disdainful forkful to
the blank hole of his mouth.
Well now what were we saying yes the
Theatre. Of course the Theatre is without a doubt the highest form of art.
No doubt that a fine piece of theatre played by truly professional actors
well there's nothing can touch it in terms of sheer artistry. Now the
films. I know you work in the films. Well I'm sure there's a lot of merit
in certain films but you won't convince me that it's a medium in which art
can flourish. Fine for a night's simple entertainment of course
absolutely. Quite hits the spot at certain times. And of course for the
mass of people, the bulk of the population, well I don't of course want to
sound snobbish or in the slightest degree elitist but I'm sure you'll
understand when I say that some pleasures require an educated palate.
Another swig of wine hits his educated
palate and he closes his eyes and leans back.
Now what would you call a really good film, I mean a film that's not
simply a piece of entertainment now I did see a good film a while ago,
what was the name of it now. Remarkably fine film within the limitations
of the medium. Now a film like that takes the medium to its highest point
and there's no doubt there's a lot of merit in it, without a doubt that
film is one of the masterworks of that particular medium. But compare it
with a piece of true theatre and you'll just have to agree with me.
The plovers' eggs arrive and look
distinctly nasty.
I think you'll find that these are really
remarkably fine. You'll enjoy these, no question of it.
Now you're obviously an intelligent girl
I'd be interested to hear your views on this. Clearly you're not just a
run of the mill type of person. Obviously you're more intelligent than
most and I'll be interested in your opinion. Now the way I see it is this,
you've got two distinct and separate things going on and only one of them
can rightly be called Art. And of course there's not a shadow of a doubt
in my mind about that.
The plovers' eggs are like the insides of
golf balls.
Yes the chef here really is remarkably fine
no-one to touch him in the whole of London. Now I was talking to Claude
last week and I said Claude your chef is a treasure. I think you'll agree
that this is the finest food of its kind you've ever tasted.
Absolutely tip top Luigi up to the usual
high standard do convey my felicitations to Pierre. I think you'll have to
agree that burp. Pardon me.
Now if you'll just excuse me a moment. Bows
slightly the embodiment of breeding.
The dead fish at the next table is also
making his way to the door at the back. When he's out of sight the
immaculate blond slumps forward at the table and covers her face with her
hands. Under the table I see her kick off a shoe and scratch the back of
her leg with her toes. She sits for a few moments with her face in her
hands hidden by the bell of her hair. She looks up at last, straightens
her back, resumes the graceful listening attitude, takes a sip of wine.
She catches my eye. Without cracking the perfect symmetry and beauty of
her heart-shaped face, she gives me a slow patient wink from one brown
eye. Then with a wide pink cat's mouth she yawns - tremendously, tonsil-exposingly,
eloquently.
(end)