The Point Read online

  Elinor is wearing red silk, crimson-coloured, with a swirling skirt and a draped top, and her hair quite wildly curling about her face. Clovis likes looking from one to another. The red and swirling, the silvery slender; like the sun and moon he thinks, in the fanciful way that comes quite naturally, these days.

  Afterwards, each person wonders: was the dinner a success? Jerome looks back on it as like a dance, a ritual dance of separate but not necessarily unfriendly tribes circling, observing, taking one another’s measure. The conversation is slow to flow. They talk about names, to begin with, Jerome’s idea, it should be safe. Clovis, he says, a fine name, the name of French kings. Clovis smiles faintly, bows his head. You are lucky, Jerome says, to have such imaginative parents. His name, Jerome, is from the great exegete. He smiles at Gwyneth’s frightened face. It means a person who explains, he says. He explained the Bible. And the patron saint of translators. Maybe of dictionary makers too, says Elinor. She believes hers belonged to a French queen, or not French exactly, from Aquitaine, who went to England and spent a lot of time in prison. And Gwyneth, she says, such a pretty name, and you hardly ever hear it these days, except for Gwyneth Paltrow.

  So? says Gwyneth, in a sharp voice, and everybody watches her flush an angry purple colour. I think it’s lovely having an unusual name, Elinor says. She doesn’t ask where it comes from. Clovis takes a certain wry pleasure in watching Elinor; he believes he sees her thinking up a series of conversational gambits and rejecting them all. After a while, when enough wine has been drunk to make him dare to try some meatier topics, he remarks that it is interesting, when you come to think of it, how much conversation between polite adults depends on what they do: asking one another what it is, discussing it, explaining it, using it to place fellow guests, even to decide whether they will be worth talking to. When that is removed, what is there to say?

  Nobody does say anything for a few seconds, then Jerome speaks in a certain grave and courteous way he has. And if I were to ask you, what do you do?

  You know I’m a homeless person, says Clovis. I don’t have a job. A vagrant, a tramp, a vagabond.

  But I could still ask you what you do.

  Oh Jerome, says Elinor, do you think … But Ivan takes her hand and surprised she stops talking.

  I look at the world, as far as I can see it, which is perhaps a help, that I cannot see too well, and I think about it.

  And then what? Jerome’s question is intense.

  That’s it. So far. I have not got to the end of the looking, and certainly not the thinking.

  Gwyneth says, I’m on the run, and everybody laughs, as though she has made a joke, though they suspect she hasn’t.

  Flora had decided not to offer menus. I shall make a meal that will be their hearts’ desire, she said. How will you know, asked Jerome. I will manage it, a number of small fine things. So that they will have come not knowing what their hearts’ desire is, and finding it here.

  Gwyneth tastes her first morsel, a tiny one-bite tart with furls of salmon garnished with salmon roe. I’ve had this, she says. It’s evil.

  There’s a stiffening around the table.

  Do you not care for fish, asks Jerome.

  No, says Elinor, evil means good. Very nice. Like wicked.

  Good god, says Jerome.

  So, you’ve eaten here before, says Ivan.

  Oh no, not in the restaurant, just the rubbish. I mean, it’s not real rubbish, not out of the bin. Joe puts it out for me.

  Clovis has promised himself that he won’t let himself feel like that chap in My Fair Lady, the professor. Responsible. Nervous. Gwyneth is not his creation. Not his creature. Though he hasn’t done a bad job with the cutlery. Considering the amount needed for all these little courses. She doesn’t hold her knife like a pen, and she cleverly mimics Elinor’s manners, which means a certain amount of fastidious finger-eating.

  When she takes her first mouthful of red wine she says to Clovis, You’re right. This is better wine out of bottles. Let’s always have it.

  Would that we could, he replies. But the logistics.

  What?

  The Château Cardboard is more convenient, my dear. Don’t need a corkscrew, for a start. And the bottles. They’re so heavy.

  I hear you can get quite good wine in casks these days, says Ivan.

  Not really, says Clovis. It’s crap. But you get used to it.

  This feels so nice in your mouth, says Gwyneth.

  Look at its age.

  How do you mean?

  He holds out the bottle, pointing out the date on the label.

  Shit. Is it saying … it’s … twelve years old?

  Twelve velvety years, says Clovis, wondering what on earth has got into him.

  When I was a Franciscan, says Jerome, we only had the youngest of wine.

  Take a little wine, for thy stomach’s sake. Ivan is quoting. That was Bernard, wasn’t it. Bernard of Clairvaux, I think.

  A Dominican.

  They all liked their wine, says Ivan. Who was it said, Who drinks good wine sees God.

  I don’t think the Franciscans had such expectations of the stuff they gave us.

  St Vincent is the patron saint of wine, says Elinor. That’s because he was always being found dead drunk in vineyards, apparently. And maybe a bit of sympathetic magic. The first part of his name, vin, pronounced in the French way, vin, is the word for wine. Vin-son, she mouths carefully.

  Fancy, says Gwyneth, in an elaborate way. Clovis wants to laugh.

  Decidedly, the conversation does not flow.

  Elinor says, I saw a woman walking a goat today. In Limestone Avenue – you know, the grass strip in the middle. She had it on a rope and it trotted along with her, they’d stop while it ate the grass and she picked some, for takeaway, I suppose. Maybe it was especially good grass. I wondered if she was a maker of goat cheese. I wanted to stop and ask her.

  Goat cheese? says Gwyneth.

  Delicious, says Elinor. Provided it’s fresh. One of the best cheeses in the world.

  Goat, says Gwyneth. Goat.

  Do you know, says Ivan, goats have square pupils. They look at you with square yellow eyes. That’s why they make people think of the devil.

  And cloven hooves, says Jerome.

  In the lavatory Gwyneth washes her hands in some deliciously scented soap, twice, so that the perfume will stay with her, and dries them on a small square of fluffy towel. She stands for some time looking at herself in the mirror. The op shop was a try-on. This is the real thing. She studies her appearance, closely, memorising it. A woman comes out of one of the cubicles. She brushes her hand lightly over Gwyneth’s arm. Gwyneth flinches.

  Gorgeous dress. Is it one of Marina’s?

  No, it’s mine.

  When she comes back she stands at the window, cupping her eyes with her hands so she can see through the window’s reflection of the room behind her. The lake is full of light. The buildings of Civic, the lamps along the edge of the park, the Russell offices, the carillon, all cast broad beams of light across the lake so there is hardly any dark water, just light cleanly reflected in its stillness.

  Clovis comes and stands beside her. Now you are inside looking out, he says. Does it feel different?

  Well, it’s not my inside, is it. This is just a visit. Pretend. It’s not me. This dress isn’t me, and people can see that, the woman in the toilet could.

  Yes, that dress is you. It fits you, you look good in it, its beauty and your beauty go together. You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.

  Yeah? She looks around. Well, maybe that isn’t saying a lot. She laughs a bit, her voice catches, she turns away to the window, cupping her hands to the glass again. The tears in her eyes make the smooth bands of light waver and bulge. All this vast still lake, and two little drops of water in the eyes of its beholder make it shift and swim in a complete disorganisation of itself. She blinks, her eyelashes stick together, she feels tired.

  Dessert, calls Elinor, you
mustn’t miss this. In comes Martin, with one of Kate’s bombes Alaska, crowned with a half eggshell of brandy burning.

  Baked ice-cream, Jerome says. Wait till you taste it.

  Bombe Alaska, says Elinor. Also called Norwegian omelette. God knows why, it’s not a bit like an omelette.

  There’s silence while they eat it. Spoons click softly against plates.

  Always a good sign, says Ivan. The silence of eaters. The best respect.

  I expect you observe the day-to-day life of the lake quite closely, says Jerome. It’s evident he’s anxious to talk to Clovis but can’t quite work out how to do it.

  I suppose I do. I do sit and stare at it. But what do I make of it? I don’t actually know anything about it. The bird life, for instance.

  I read when there’s a lot of pelicans it’s because of droughts inland, says Elinor. They come for the water here because their own has dried up.

  That would seem to make sense, says Clovis. I rather like the black swans, myself. So much the opposite of white swans and green and blue English landscapes. Here it’s all indigo and bruised-looking and the swans so sharp and black. Clovis’s face suddenly softens. In fact, he says, maybe you can help me. I keep thinking of this poem, but only a bit of it, whenever I see the poor brides being photographed; I thought it might be Spenser, that wedding poem.

  He recites, self-consciously:

  Sweet day, so calm, so fair, so bright

  The bridal of the earth and sky

  Elinor comes in:

  Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

  The bridal of the earth and sky:

  The dew shall weep thy fall tonight; For thou must die.

  I thought I remembered For thou must die. Seems funny in a wedding poem.

  It’s not a wedding poem, and it’s not Spenser. You’re thinking of his ‘Epithalamium’, probably, it’s got swans in it. This is George Herbert, and it’s called ‘Vertue’. It’s about how everything must die, flowers, spring, everything. Except good people.

  Only a sweet and vertuous soul

  Like season’d timber, never gives;

  But though the whole earth turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

  Elinor recites well, not rhetorically, but in a soft voice that gives the words and the lines they are broken up into a moving poignant shape. It’s quite thrilling, and everyone is quiet for a moment.

  Ah, says Clovis. Thank you.

  I could fax it to you, if you like.

  There’s a pause. Oh, she says, mmm.

  You could fax it to the restaurant, says Jerome. We could get it to him.

  I’d be glad to have it, says Clovis.

  He hears his courteous voice. But does he want a poem? On paper, a possession. Though he is glad to have its words set right, and to know it is a poem about death, not marriage. No, not death, about how to live, so death is not important. The world turning to coal, but the soul living.

  I have heard that the aim of living is to learn how to die, he says.

  I nearly died once, says Gwyneth. It just happened, I didn’t have to learn.

  Oh, says Elinor, what … I mean …

  Heroin. Cut with some crap. Really festy. Lucky I was in gaol, or else I’d’ve been done for. People say you see a light at the end of the tunnel, but I didn’t.

  Out-of-body experiences, says Elinor.

  I was just out of it. She gives a huge yawn. Shit, I’m stuffed, she says. I can’t remember when I ate so much. She presses her concave stomach. I feel so just fat as a pig.

  Virtue for Herbert was a seasoned soul, says Jerome. For us it’s thinness. Virtue is a slender body. Cruel. Almost Calvinist in fact. Giving you no choice: you are born either saved or damned, thin or fat, and can do nothing about it.

  That’s what dieting is all about, says Elinor, the one person given to plumpness.

  Yes, and it doesn’t work, does it. You’re still damned to fat.

  Flora comes to join them. Laurel brings her a glass of white wine and tiny cups of coffee for everyone else, with a bottle of pear brandy. The transparent heavy liquid tastes exactly of pears and very alcoholic as well. There’s a plate of pretty little rich cakes and pastries. Kate’s amazing petits fours, says Jerome.

  Everybody is trying to find ways of complimenting Flora on the food. Fabulous nosh, as usual, says Ivan. No, really, you illuminate what food might be, Flora. It’s a revelation.

  Absolutely, says Clovis, and suddenly remembers what the word means. Absolutely, he says again.

  I liked that tripe stuff, says Gwyneth. I didn’t think I ever would, but it’s wicked.

  I adore those little cups of fish custard, with the shark’s lips, and the mousseline, says Elinor.

  Clay Brent walks past. Flora, my lovely one, he says. May I? But does not wait for permission to pull one-handed a chair from another table and sit on it, back to front. I have to say, Flora, you excel yourself. Every time, you excel yourself. How can it so never end? Nowhere, but nowhere, do I ever get to eat food like yours, and believe me I eat in some pretty magic places. I reckon you’re a witch. He looks at Clovis. Say, aren’t you that guy who sleeps rough round here? I’ve seen you drinking plonk in the ferry shelter. You sure scrub up well.

  Clovis, because he knows that is the question everyone is thinking, offers the satisfaction of an answer, but with a barb for Clay Brent.

  Well, I’ll tell you the secret, it might come in handy, should you ever need to scrub up yourself. I can let you know of a certain disabled lavatory quite close by. Big, as they tend to be, and with a basin that’s rather large, and low, hot water, soap, paper towels, you can pretty well have a bath, and one of those hot-air hand dryers, just the thing when you’ve washed your hair on a cold day.

  Bit hard on the disabled people.

  Possibly. I’ve never kept any out, or held them up.

  And anyway I suppose you could count as disabled, in your way. He turns to Gwyneth. And who’s the gorgeous girl, come on, folks, introduce me. Do you come here often?

  There’s a strangled choke from Gwyneth. She puts her hand over her mouth and runs to the lavatory. The men half stand in consternation, and Elinor follows her.

  Well, looks like I better love you and leave you, says Brent, and slopes off. How’s business, he says over his shoulder to Jerome, in a rude voice, but does not wait to hear the answer.

  If I were feeling charitable I’d say he was drunk, says Flora wearily. But it’s not true enough. Is that girl bulimic, she asks, in a cross voice.

  I don’t think she’s had the opportunity, says Clovis. More like too much rich food, she’s not in the habit.

  I suppose we are none of us in the habit, says Ivan.

  But some less than others.

  Again, the conversation does not flow. Jerome takes Flora’s hand and holds it. Ivan begins to talk about the meal in detail. Its philosophy, he calls it. Flora is listless, sits taking mouthfuls of wine, her eyes large and glassy. It’s like any work of art, says Jerome. The artist makes the work, it is up to the audience to read it. Not the artist to explain it. Art is. And words cannot catch it.

  When Gwyneth comes back, looking cold and jittery, her hair bedraggled, Clovis stands up.

  I think it is time to take you home, he says.

  The word home hangs in the air.

  It was so good of you to come, says Flora.

  It has been a memorable experience, says Clovis. Thank you.

  When they’ve gone Elinor says, Are they an item, do you think?

  A bit crude, that, isn’t it, says Ivan.

  I could say, are they fucking, do you think?

  Silence falls. Jerome says, We have invited them in. Now, how can we shut them out?

  I do not think they will presume.

  I wasn’t thinking of them. I was thinking of us. We are the ones who know that home is a grating over the hot-air exhaust of a great public building. Maybe that is our problem.

  It doesn’t seem to be theirs, says Ivan.


  They are too polite to burden us with it.

  Flora shakes her head. People make choices. I am too tired to think. I have given them a meal, they’ve accepted it. End of transaction.

  A banquet, says Elinor, a feast. It was brilliant. I loved it.

  Elinor did fax the Herbert poem to the restaurant, and one afternoon Laurel walked across to Clovis sitting at the ferry wharf and gave it to him. He learnt it by heart, sitting staring at the swans being fed by the tummy mummy and her little girl, Benison, that was her name. No swans in the poem after all. But he loves the rhyme of soul and coal, there is such a solid sureness in those brief syllables.

  26

  Clovis as is his wont stands looking at the lake. Thinking again of words, not images but names. Lake, water, liquid. No other words for this particular unsolid patch of the landscape came to mind. Why so few, when lakes are so much with us? Why not be like Greenlanders or is it Inuit and their great many words for snow? How many he can’t remember. There ought to be more words for this lake. For it rough and pebbly-looking, in a heavy smooth way, or choppy like waves in the sea, or breaking up into white shreds, or shiny and textured like some polished exotic leather, lizard perhaps, that you could cut and shape into a handbag, or a box for collars. Glittering in a hot bright way like something molten in a crucible and poured in a slow metallic flow into the empty valley. Shining and flat like a mirror, an Egyptian one in polished bronze. Very kind such mirrors are, you see yourself dimly, in smooth planes and shapes, and believing yourself beautiful you can go out and be so.

  Perhaps if he could have bought such a mirror for Lindi she might have been happier.

  It is a failure to pay attention, he says to himself, that we so lack words for things. And finding comparisons to describe them is all very well, but a bit arty. Precious. Probably in both senses, but the sneering one the dangerous. It should be possible to have simple ordinary words, and when you said them to people they would know exactly what you meant. Of what use is the idea of a bronze Egyptian mirror to an Inuit? Or to Gwyneth.