The Song of Names by Norman Lebrecht

Author:Norman Lebrecht [Lebrecht, Norman]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2007-12-18T00:00:00+00:00

6

Time After Time

Dinner is, as anticipated, execrable. To escape overdone English beef in brown gravy on an untouchably hot plate, I have requested a vegetarian alternative – a selection shared, I see, by the admirable Sandra Adams. The ersatz repast set before me is a bower of lettuce, wilting with stress fatigue and pinned down by four hunks of undistinguished Cheddar. Cream crackers and salad cream complete the feast. This is not untypical for an English province, where non-carnivores are regarded as masochistic misfits. Our slap of leaves is slightingly served on the finest Wedgwood china.

The wine, drunk from Donegal crystal, is a 1986 château-bottled burgundy, a little young and tart to the tongue. ‘Bottoms up,’ exhorts Olly Adams. ‘It’s not often I get the key to the Mayor’s cellar and we’ve got lots to celebrate tonight. They announced on the news that the war will be over by morning. Cheers, everyone.’

Sitting at the head of a table that becomes more boisterous by the burgundian glass, I contrive to keep a clear head and work out my next move. Fred Burrows, to my right, respects my introspection and delves into a Simmonds pocket score, humming as he reads. Olly, to my left, lectures me on the iniquities of Thatcherite education policy. I shall need to get away somewhere to assess the state of play on my internal chessboard and come up with a credible end-game. Shuffling the pile of score-sheets beside my plate, I start fumbling for an excuse to leave the table when my haphazard pocket pharmacopoeia rises unbidden to my rescue.

I don’t know whether the makers of proprietary medicines ever put them through a dry-cleaning machine but the effects on the human digestive system forty minutes after ingestion are, I can vouch, spectacular. Rushing for the door and reaching a lavatory in the nick of time, I disgorge into the gracious majesty of a blue-veined porcelain Victorian crapper sundry chunks of cheese and biscuit, followed by what appears to be a number of vital organs. Kneeling over the pedigree pan, my sweat-beaded brow grateful for a white-tiled wall to lean on, I wait for the heaving to subside and start to formulate a plan of action. Get the contest out of the way, is the immediate priority, then get to see the boy, Peter Stemp, in private. After that, follow the trail where it may lead. I’ve got the rest of the week to play with. By Friday, I can expect to have resolved the Mystery of the Vanished Virtuoso. Under pressure, Jews revert to irony. In the washroom mirror, as I rinse my face, the eyes flash back a mocking gleam: Hercule Poirot on the prowl.

Rebuttoning my dinner jacket, I leave the men’s room and run smack into Sandra Adams, who is loitering outside. ‘I was getting worried about you, Mr S,’ she scolds. ‘You left the table looking a bit under the weather. Can I get you anything for it?’

‘A touch of indigestion, Mrs Adams,’ I explain.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.