| but conceivably quite enjoyable. And someone may listen to you. They won’t in this arena. Nor, frankly, should they.’ ‘A novel. I’ll be damned.’ Munro St Claire smiled. His eyes were still strangely noncommittal. community. They’re sensitive; they should be. They’re mediocre.’ ‘I’m pleased.’ There was a pause from London. ‘What was his reaction?’ ‘What 1 expected. He’s right and he knows it; therefore he’s frustrated. He had no intention of stopping.’ ‘Does he now?’ ‘1 believe so. The idea’s firmly planted. If need be, I’ll follow up indirectly, put him in touch with people. But 1 may not have to. He’s imaginative; more to the point, his outrage is genuine.’ ‘You’re convinced this is the best way?’ ‘Certainly. The alternative is for him to pursue the research and dredge up dormant issues. 1 wouldn’t like that to happen in Cambridge or Berkeley, would you?’ ‘No. And perhaps no one will be interested in what he writes, much less publish it. 1 suppose we could bring that about.’ St Claire’s eyes narrowed briefly. ‘My advice is not to interfere. We’d frustrate him further, drive him back. Let things happen naturally. If he does turn it into a novel, the best we can hope for is a minor printing of a rather amateurish work. He’ll have said what he had to say, and it will turn out to be inconsequential fiction, with the usual disclaimers as to persons living or dead. Interference might raise questions; that’s not in our interest.’ ‘You’re |
enormous jaws, drawn-out mouth, and partially thyroid eyes, had disintegrated. The jaws were sagging jowls; creased, blemished flesh overlapped the slits that had been eyes; the touched-up strands of hair attested to the ferocious ego that was intrinsic to the aggressively negative expression. His usual companion was not in evidence. Declining health and two strokes prevented his elegantly dressed presence. The soft, pampered face - struggling for masculinity - had for decades been the flower to the bristled cactus. The man about to have lunch looked across the table as if he expected to see his attractive alter ego. That he saw no one seemed to trigger a periodic tremor in his fingers and a recurrent twitching of his mouth. He seemed enveloped in loneliness; his eyes darted about, alert to real and imagined ills surrounding him. A favourite waiter was indisposed for the day; it was a personal affront. He let it be known. Fruit salad with a dome of cottage cheese in the centre was marked for table ten. It was processed from the open, stainless steel shelf in the kitchen to the service counter. The blond haired second assistant chef, temporarily employed, marked off the various trays, appraising their appearance with a practised eye. He stood over table ten’s fruit salad, a clipboard in his hand, his gaze directed at the trays in front of it. Underneath the clipboard a pair of thin silver tongs were held horizontally. In the tongs’ teeth was a soft white capsule. The blond-haired |
