But for the moment, Matthew had no desire to find anybody else; not now that he had Pat living in India Street. It was a wonderful feeling, he thought, this going home to somebody. Even if she was not in, then at least her things were there. Even Pat’s things made Matthew feel a bit better; just the thought of her things: her sandals, those pink ones he had seen her wearing; her books, including that large book on the history of art; her bookshop bag that she used to carry her files up to the university. All of these were invested with some sort of special significance in Matthew’s mind; they were Pat’s things.
He walked back along Cumberland Street, past the St Vincent Bar and its neighbouring church, and then round Circus Place to the bottom of India Street. It was a warm evening for the time of year and the town was quiet. Matthew looked up at the elegant Georgian buildings, at their confident doors and windows. Some of the windows were lit and disclosed domestic scenes within: a drawing room in which a group of people could be seen standing near the window, talking; down in a basement, a kitchen with pans steaming on the cooker and the windows misting up; a cat asleep on a windowsill. These were people with ordered, secure lives–or so it seemed from the outside. And that was what Matthew wanted. He wanted somebody who would be waiting for him, or for whom he could wait. Somebody he could share things with. And wasn’t that what everybody wanted? he thought. Wasn’t it? And how cruel it was that not everybody could find this in their lives.
He reached his front door and went in. He had hoped that she would be there, and his heart gave a leap when he saw the light coming out from under her door. He went through to his room and changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then he went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. He had stocked up with dried pasta; that would do. And there was a good block of parmesan in the fridge and some mushrooms.
He put the pasta on to boil and started to grate the parmesan. Then Pat came into the kitchen while Matthew’s back was turned, so that he was surprised when he saw her.
“I’m cooking pasta,” he said. “Would you like some? I’ve got plenty.”
He had hardly dared ask the question. He was afraid that she would be going out, and that he would be left by himself, but she was not.
“That’s really kind,” said Pat, perching herself on a kitchen chair.
Matthew told her of what Angus had said about Big Lou, and Pat listened, horrified.
“That horrible man,” she said, shuddering at the thought of Eddie.
“Poor Lou,” said Matthew. “But there was somebody there who said that he might be able to help her.”
Pat listened as Matthew explained about Stuart’s suggestion. It seemed unlikely to her that anything could be done, but they could try, she supposed. Poor Lou. She rose to her feet and offered to prepare a salad. “I can’t sit here and do nothing,” she said.
“Yes, you can,” said Matthew. “Let me look after you.”
The words had come out without really being intended, and he hoped that she would not take them the wrong way. But what was the wrong way? All that the words meant was that he wanted to make her dinner, and what was wrong with wanting to make somebody dinner?
Laughing, Pat said: “No, you do the pasta. I’ll do the salad.” Matthew opened the fridge and took out a bottle of white wine. He poured Pat a glass and one for himself. The wine was probably too chilled, as the glass was misting. He thought of the misting panes in the basement kitchen he had seen round the corner, and of the people standing in their window.
Pat told him about a seminar she had attended that day. He listened, but did not pay much attention to what she was saying. The seminar had been on Romantic art and somebody had said something very stupid, which had made everybody laugh. Matthew did not listen to the stupid remark as she retold it; he was thinking only of how nice it would be to be in a seminar with Pat. He wanted to be with her all the time now. He closed his eyes. I can’t let this happen to me, he thought. I can’t fall so completely for this girl, because she won’t fall for me. I’m just a friend. That’s all. I’m just her friend.
And then, suddenly, Pat passed behind him, and brushed against him, her arm against his, and he gave a start and half-turned. She was right behind him and he looked at her and she said: “Oh, sorry…”
He took her hand. She looked at him, and then lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said Matthew, reckless now. “I really am. I didn’t mean to fall for you. I didn’t actually make a decision. It’s not like that. That’s not the way it works.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Pat.
“But it does.”
There was a brief silence. “But I like you too.”
“You do?”
A further silence. The pasta bubbled.
“How much?”
“Lots.”
Matthew sighed. “But…but not like that.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said.
And it seemed to Matthew that all the bells of Edinburgh, and beyond, were ringing out at once, in joyous, joyous peals.
92. Alone in Paris
When he woke up that morning and realised that he had slept in, Bertie felt intensely alarmed. But he was not a boy given to panic, and so he dressed carefully, brushing his hair with attention to the fact that he was, after all, in Paris. Then he made his way downstairs, allowing himself at least to hope that somebody from the orchestra might have stayed behind for him or possibly left a note. But the woman at the desk informed him that the Edinburgh group had left. She assumed that Bertie belonged to a British couple staying upstairs and it did not enter her head that he was now entirely on his own.
Bertie sat down in the lobby and wondered what to do. They had obviously forgotten all about him, he decided, but they would remember their mistake when they arrived in Edinburgh and his parents asked where he was. He looked at his watch; that should be happening about now. And then they would come back to fetch him, but would probably not arrive until tomorrow morning. So that, in his reckoning, gave him a whole day and night in Paris, which would be rather interesting. He had quite a bit of his spending money left over, as nobody had allowed him to pay for anything, and he could use that to tide him over. It might even be enough to get a ticket for the Moulin Rouge, should he come across that establishment during the sightseeing that he proposed to do.
Paging through his guidebook and map, Bertie decided that he would set off to the Louvre. He liked galleries, and he thought that he would possibly spend the entire morning there. Then he would have lunch somewhere nearby…He stopped. Although he was sure that he had enough money to tide him over, he did not think that it would run to two meals (not including breakfast) as well as the tickets for the various places that he wished to visit. Would the woman at the hotel desk lend him some, he wondered, if he promised to send it back to her when it came to next pocket-money day? He glanced in her direction. No, he did not think that she looked the type of person from whom one could ask for a loan. Tofu would have had no hesitation in asking, of course, as he was always demanding money from people. But Bertie was not Tofu, and Tofu was not in Paris.
Then Bertie had an idea. When the group had gone to Notre Dame on their sightseeing, they had passed through the Latin Quarter and seen a number of people playing their instruments in the street–busking, explained one of the violinists.
“I did that outside Jenners last Christmas,” he said. “I made twenty-four pounds in one morning. Twenty-four pounds! And all I played was ‘Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer’ over and over again. It was dead easy!”
The saxophone which had been borrowed for him was still in his room, and it occurred to Bertie that there was no reason why he should not spend the morning busking in the Latin Quarter. He could play ‘As Time Goes By’ from Casablanca, which people always seemed to like, and he could vary it with some Satie which he had recently learned. He had read that Satie had lived in Paris, and perhaps some of his old friends would recognise his music and give particularl
y generously. Or Mr Satie himself might pass by, although he must be very old by now, thought Bertie.
Filled with excitement at his plan, Bertie rushed upstairs and retrieved his saxophone. Then, struggling somewhat with the weight of it, he set out from the hotel in the direction of the Latin Quarter. It was heavy going. After a few blocks, Bertie realised that it would take him several hours to walk across Paris with his instrument, as he would have to stop at virtually every corner to rest his aching muscles. He felt in his pocket, where his money nestled, neatly folded. A taxi would be expensive, he knew, but even if it took all his funds, there was the money that he would undoubtedly soon earn from his busking.
He stood on the edge of the road and waited until a taxi came past. He did not have to wait long, and soon he was seated comfortably in the back of a white Peugeot heading for the point on his map which he had shown to a slightly surprised taxi driver. The journey went quickly and Bertie took the money out of his pocket to pay. He was slightly short of the fare requested, but the driver smiled and indicated that the shortfall was not an issue. Then, staggering under the weight of the borrowed saxophone in its heavy wooden case, he walked a few blocks into the network of narrow streets that made up the Quarter.
It did not take him long to find a suitable pitch. Halfway along one street there was a boarded-up doorway off the pavement. With a restaurant next door, a coffee bar a few yards away on the same side, and a student bookshop opposite, it seemed to Bertie that it was an ideal place for him to play. He set the open case down in front of him–as he had seen other buskers do–and, summoning up all his courage, he started to play ‘As Time Goes By’.
The first person to walk past was a woman wearing a long brown coat and with her hair done up in a bun. As she went past Bertie, she glanced at him, took a few more steps, and then stopped and turned round. Fumbling in her purse, she extracted a crumpled banknote and turned to toss it into the open case, murmuring, as she did so: “Petit ange!”
Bertie acknowledged the donation with a nod of his head–as he had seen other buskers do–and modulated into one of the jazz tunes he had learned from Lewis Morrison, ‘Goodbye Pork Pie Hat’. This went down very well with the next passer-by, a visiting Senegalese civil servant, who clapped his hands in appreciation and tossed a few small notes into the case. This was followed by a donation of a few coins from a thin man walking a large Dalmatian. The Dalmatian barked at Bertie and wagged his tail. Again, Bertie acknowledged both man and dog with a nod. It was good to be in Paris, he thought.
93. Bertie’s New Friends
By twelve o’clock, Bertie’s case was almost full of money. Virtually no passer-by–and they were numerous that morning–walked on without giving something. This was not because they made a habit of giving to buskers–they did no such thing–but it was because none of them could resist the sight of a small boy playing the saxophone with such ease and to such good effect. And there was something about Bertie that appealed to the French.
When Bertie eventually stopped and took on the task of counting his money, he found it hard to believe that he had collected so much. Not only would he be able to pay for lunch and dinner that day, but there was enough money to enable him to survive in Paris for several weeks should the need arise.
Tucking the notes into his pockets, now bulging with money, he replaced the saxophone in the case and walked the few yards to the nearby restaurant. Looking at the menu displayed in the window, he struggled to make out what was on offer. It would have been different, he decided, if it had been in Italian–that would have been easy–but what, he wondered, were escargots and what were blanquettes de veau?
“Are you having difficulty?” said a voice behind him, in English.
Bertie turned round, to find a small group of people behind him, a man and two women. They were too old to be teenagers, he thought, but they were not much older than that. Perhaps they were students, he told himself. He had read that this was the part of Paris where students were to be seen.
“I don’t know what the menu says,” said Bertie. “I know how to read, but I don’t know how to read French.”
The woman who had first addressed him bent over to his level. “Ah, poor you!” she said. “Let me help you. Should I read from the top, or would you like to tell me what sort of thing you like to eat and I can see if it’s on the menu?”
“I like sausages,” said Bertie. “And I like sticky toffee pudding.”
The young woman looked at the menu board. “I can find sausages,” she said. “But I don’t think they have sticky toffee pudding. That is a great pity. But they do have some very nice apple tart. Would you like to try that? Tarte tatin?”
Bertie nodded.
“In that case,” said the woman, “why don’t you join me and my friends for lunch? We were just about to go inside.”
“Thank you,” said Bertie. “I have enough money to pay, you see.”
The young people laughed. “That will not be necessary,” said the young woman. “This is not an expensive place. No Michelin stars, but no fancy prices. Come on, let’s go in.”
They entered the restaurant, where the waiter, recognising Bertie’s three companions, immediately ushered them to a table near the window.
“That’s Henri,” said the young woman. “He has been here ever since the riots of 1968. He came in to take refuge and they offered him a job. He’s stayed here since then.”
“What happened in 1968?” asked Bertie. “Was there a war?”
They all laughed. “A war?” said the young man. “In a sense. The bourgeoisie was at war with the students and the advanced thinkers. It was very exciting.”
“Who won?” asked Bertie.
There was a silence. Then the second young woman spoke. “It is difficult to say. I suppose the bourgeoisie is still with us.”
“So they won then,” said Bertie.
The young man looked uncomfortable. “It’s not as simple as that,” he said. “The system was badly wounded.”
“And they curbed the powers of the flics, eventually,” said the first young woman, shrugging, as if to dismiss the subject. “But we should introduce ourselves,” she went on. “I’m Marie-Louise, and this,” she said, turning to the other young woman, “is Sylvie. He’s called Jean-Philippe. We shorten him to Jarpipe. And what, may I ask, is your name?”
Bertie thought for a moment. It seemed to him that the French put in their second names, and he did not want to appear unsophisticated. His second name, he recollected, was Peter, and he did know the French for that. “I’m Bertie-Pierre,” he said quickly. It sounded rather good, he thought, and none of his new friends seemed to think it at all odd.
“Alors, Bertie-Pierre,” said Marie-Louise. “Let us order our lunch. You said that you liked sausages, so we shall see what Henri can do about that.”
They gave the order to Henri, who nodded a polite greeting to Bertie, and then Marie-Louise turned to Bertie and said: “Tell us about yourself, Bertie-Pierre. What are you doing in Paris, all by leetle self? And what have you got in that case of yours?”
“I came here with an orchestra,” Bertie said. “The Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra.”
“But you are surely not…” said Jean-Philippe.
“I’m not a teenager quite yet,” said Bertie. “But my mother…”
“He is a prodigy,” said Sylvie. “That is why.”
“Are you a prodigy, Bertie-Pierre?” asked Jean-Philippe.
Bertie looked down at the table. “I am not sure,” he said. “Mr Morrison thinks I am. But I don’t know myself.”
“And who is this Monsieur Morrison?” asked Sylvie.
“He is my saxophone teacher,” said Bertie.
“Ah well,” said Marie-Louise. “I am sure that Monsieur Morrison knows what he is talking about. We should tell you a little bit about ourselves. We are all students here at the Sorbonne. I am a student of English literature. Sylvie is a student of economics–that is very dull, but she does no
t seem to mind, hah!–and Jarpipe is a student of philosophy. He is very serious, very melancholic, as you may have noticed. He is in love with Sylvie here, but Sylvie loves another. She loves Jacques, who has blue eyes and drives a very fast car. Poor Jarpipe!”
“I live in hope,” said Jean-Philippe, smiling. “What is there to do but to live in the belief of the reality of what you want? That is what Camus said, Bertie-Pierre.”
“Camus is very passé,” said Sylvie. “How can I love one who talks about Camus?”
“I cannot talk about Derrida,” said Jean-Philippe indignantly. “There is nothing to be said about Derrida. Nothing. Rien. Bah!”
Bertie listened to this exchange in fascination. This was the Paris he had been hoping to find, and he had now found it. Oh, if only Tofu and Olive could see him sitting here with his new friends, on the Left Bank, talking about these sophisticated matters. Oh, if only his mother could see…No, perhaps not.
94. Deconstruction at the Sorbonne
Bertie enjoyed every minute of the lunch with his new friends in the restaurant in the Latin Quarter. The conversation was wide-ranging, but Bertie was more than capable of holding his own in the various topics into which it strayed. At one point, when Freud was mentioned, he let slip the name of Melanie Klein, which brought astonished stares from the three French students.
“So!” exclaimed Sylvie. “You have heard of Melanie Klein! Formidable!”
Bertie had learned that the hallmark of sophisticated conversation in Paris was the tossing out of derogatory remarks, usually calling into question an entire theory or oeuvre. He had been waiting to do this with Melanie Klein, and now the opportunity had presented itself. “She’s rubbish,” said Bertie.
It made him feel considerably better to say that, and he felt even better when the others agreed with him.
“I’m surprised that anybody still reads her,” said Sylvie. “Perhaps in places like Scotland…”