It was all dissolving as I approached. Two late contributions that struck me as not quite in keeping with the spirit of the event rang out, one being No more to drink only always bush tea! and the other being No more only to be using block soap! The first referred to Sekopololo’s resistance to stocking socalled white tea, brands like Joko available from South Africa, out of fidelity to the idea that we should continue drinking the locally gathered rooibos tea, which was free and perfectly good, albeit without caffeine. The second related to Sekopololo’s similar chariness when it came to ordering commercially produced soaps, again because we were supposed to be happy with the local homemade soap, its feeble lathering capacity notwithstanding. Somebody was out to provoke a little. That was interesting.
Denoon was off with the performers. It was truly over. Once again Harold and Julia seemed to be my lot: I was the logical one to do something since no one else was, and here they were, wafting toward me, Harold looking especially superior to everything and Julia looking rather numbly appeasing. Harold had wanted to say something, but, he claimed, only by way of thanks, and that hadn’t been arranged, which increased my guilt feelings, because if I hadn’t sequestered myself I could have seen to it.
So I said to come to dinner in a half hour, that it would be just entre nous, at which they half melted with relief. In truth I may have invited them because I thought it would be easier than facing Nelson alone with the fund of questions I had built up burgeoning. There was also defiance in it in that I was fairly sure the last thing in the world he would choose to have happen that evening was a prandial confrontation with the people he had been aiming his shafts at, at least in the Perfidious Albion segment. It was defiance saying to me that if I wanted to have people in I should be able to. He would be welcome but not as a boor. He was going to have to be nice as a courtesy to me. He was going to have to be nice out of his best instincts, not via negotiation with me. With men it takes too long for me, as a usual thing, to come face to face with the nature of what I’ve actually gotten into. Is this the man? was the question that was always with me. Nelson would be lovely to people of my choosing as a courtesy to me if for no other reason, or I could draw my own conclusions. Of course in this case I was choosing guests specifically not to his liking. But tant pis. He hated what the British had done in Africa. I appreciated all this and also all his buried anxiety about his origins at every level, from the mother of empires through his mother and father. But nevertheless. Why should I give in to his hysteria over being a created being instead of some self-created neat original? I would love to be original. I would love to. There are things you can do something about and things you can’t. I was determined that Nelson was not going to be someone with a neurotic stance toward his origins. That way lies madness.
Anyway, Harold and Julia would turn up in no time to partake of I knew not what at that point. But I sped home and began deciding what canned delicacies to sacrifice for the occasion. Our last can of consommé was going to go for onion soup. I was feeling reckless. I pulled down items, like some smoked oysters, I knew Nelson would bridle at laying out. Oddly and to my great relief he was all mildness about their coming for dinner. I sensed he was nervous that I was going to take up the question of the point of the Albion exercise, at least, and that he was glad not to have to look forward to being alone with me, even if it meant more Harold. Combined with any rays of indignation proceeding from me was the symbolism of my having a knife in my hand while I sliced onions perfectly thinly, like a machine of some kind. I slice very thin and I slice very fast. It’s a gift I have. Nelson helped minutely with dinner.
I heard our guests outside. I said to Nelson The only substantive thing I want to beg you to let alone is religion. The man is an observing Catholic and not an adolescent you might consider it reasonable to proselytize. If you want to argue about England you’re on your own, but do it on the merits and be scholarly, the way you can. He said something like it was never too late for reason, which I took to be apropos my request about arguing religion, but in such a murmur that I took it as compliance.
This is more a collation than a normal kind of dinner, I said when they came in. In looking at what I had wrought, I realized I had just been putting one thing next to another and come up with something signifying nothing. Also I had concentrated on what was quick. There were chapatis, toasted sprouts, tabouleh, the oysters, the French onion soup, goat’s milk clabber to go with the tabouleh. There was no entrée, strictly speaking. I decided to boil some eggs.
Evidently Harold had more than one crucifix. This one was silver, also very large, a Maltese cross. Denoon admired it and asked Harold if he knew who had the world’s largest personal collection of crucifixes. Harold had no idea, but when he was told it was Boy George he seemed genuinely delighted to know that, not offended in any way I could tell, and then I saw why: he was just into the foyer of drunkenness. That was also why Julia seemed so scattered and tense, sans doute. In a trice Harold was producing from a knapsack the source of his joy, which was a bottle of rare Scotch, Oban, a little more than three quarters full, a gift. Ah, Denoon said, trying not to look my way.
Harold seemed very happy. He stalked around our place, peering condescendingly at different things and saying whatever he was saying in a voice audible only to himself. I don’t know what he’d expected, but he was clearly and stupidly pleased to see that technically speaking we were among the poor and that however he lived, it was at a level above this. Julia wanted to be gracious. She followed Harold around and said countering things. But he wanted more to drink. Do you see what this is? he said, holding the bottle up close to Nelson’s face, Oban. I hope you will join me, and you also — he said to me — as Julia will not do, her only fault. But there was a surprise. Her hands were full of mugs. Ah well, this one time, she said. He had begun pouring. He looked blue murder at her and poured a trifling drink. More, sir, please, she said. He complied only barely. He looked at her, astounded underneath. My drink was also derisory. Denoon he lavishly supplied, and himself.
Denoon hesitated over his huge drink. Here I have some responsibility. I think he was about to give some shred of a piety vis-à-vis not wanting to indulge in something, an evil that he was forever urging the avoidance of in Tsau, but I preempted and said They’re leaving tomorrow, trying to show that a drink tonight hardly mattered. I thought we could all be normal together, just possibly. I think I also wanted to show Julia at least that there was no question of Nelson needing my permission re a drink before dinner. Because I think Nelson had been on the point of looking, in some way he thought would be covert, for my permission, which was not tolerable.