The guest list that evening had been fully approved by Angus, and he was looking forward to the good conversation that he knew would take place. As he sat there, watching Domenica carry out a few last-minute preparations, Angus thought about the painting he had begun a few days before and which now dominated his studio. It was an extremely large canvas, ten feet by six, and he was at present sketch-ing in the outlines of his planned great work on kindness: a 336 Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe seated woman, beneficent, portrayed in the style of Celtic illuminations, comforts a crouching boy, a figure of modern Scotland.
“I’m working on an important picture,” he said to Domenica,
“on the theme of kindness.”
Domenica, who had been peering into a pot on the top of the stove, looked over her shoulder at Angus. “A very good subject for a picture,” she said. “I approve. Do you have a title for it yet?”
Angus shook his head. He thought of it simply as Kindness, but he knew that this sounded a bit weak, a bit too self-explanatory.
“In that case,” said Domenica, “I suggest that you call it Let the More Loving One.”
Angus frowned. “Let the More Loving One?”
Domenica turned away from the stove. “It’s a line from Auden,” she said. “‘If equal affection cannot be / Let the more loving one be me.’”
They were both silent for a moment. Behind Domenica, the pot on the stove simmered quietly; there was a square of light on the ceiling, reflected off window glass, shimmering, late light.
Angus thought: yes, that is precisely the sentiment. That’s it exactly. That’s all we need to remember in this life; two lines to guide us.
99. Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe They sat at the table, Domenica’s guests, all in perfect agreement, at least on the proposition that the first course was exceptional. At the head of the table sat Domenica herself, anthropologist, widow of the late proprietor of the Cochin Sunrise Electricity Factory, author of numerous scholarly papers including, most recently, “Intellectual Property and Piracy in a Malaccan Village.” At the opposite end of the table, in a position which indicated his special status in this house Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe 337
as old friend and quasi-host, sat Angus Lordie, portraitist and occasional poet, pillar of the Scottish Arts Club, and member of the Royal Scottish Academy. On Domenica’s right sat James Holloway, art historian and a friend of Domenica of many years’ standing, whose advice she had sought on many occasions, and followed. On his right, Pat, the attractive but somewhat bland student who had got to know Domenica when she lived next door as tenant of Bruce Anderson, the surveyor –
now the fiancé of Julia Donald – an unrepentant, a narcissist, a success. Then there were David Robinson and Joyce Robinson, both old friends of Domenica; her neighbour, Antonia, invited at the last moment out of guilt; Ricky Demarco, that great man, the irrepressible enthusiast of the arts, artist, impresario; Allan Maclean of Dochgarroch, chief-tain of the Macleans of the North, and Anne Maclean; and, of course, Humphrey and Jill Holmes. That was all, but it was a good sample of Edinburgh society, and there were many who were not there who, had they known, would have given much to have been present.
Angus looked about the table. He had been charged by Domenica with responsibility for ensuring that everybody’s glass was well filled, and they were. Now, sitting back, he savoured both the timbale and the conversation.
“It’s a disaster,” said Ricky Demarco. “A complete disaster.”
Silence fell about the table as all eyes turned to Demarco.
Was he referring to the timbale?
“Yes,” he said. “The Festival Fringe is in great danger.”
Most were relieved that the subject was the arts and not salmon timbale; David Robinson, in particular, looked interested. People were always predicting the demise of the Edinburgh Festival, he reflected, but somehow it always got better. And the same was true of the Fringe, the Festival’s unruly unofficial partner, which seemed to get bigger and bigger each year.
“Danger of what?” asked David.
“Drowning in stand-up comics,” said Demarco. “Haven’t you 338 Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe seen how many of them there are? They flock to Edinburgh, flock like geese over the horizon.” He waved a hand airily.
“Thousands of them.”
Pat picked at a small fish bone that had become lodged in her teeth. She rather enjoyed going to hear stand-up comics, even if there were rather a lot of them.
“I quite like them,” she said quietly.
Fortunately, nobody heard her, and she was only twenty anyway.
“I must admit, for the most part, they’re very unfunny,” said Angus. “Or am I out of touch?”
“You’re out of touch,” said Domenica. “But you may nonetheless be right about their unfunniness. I find most of them rather crude and predictable. No, I agree with Ricky. These people are getting a bit tedious.”
“They are,” said Demarco. “And the problem is this: they charge so much, some of them, that they mop up all the ticket money. The Fringe should be about the arts, about drama, music, painting. And all these people do is stand there and tell joke after joke. Just think of it: the world’s biggest, most exciting arts gathering reduced to a motley collection of comedians telling jokes. Is that what we’ve come to?”
Angus looked down at his plate. “I wish I found more things funny,” he said. “But I don’t. The only people who can make me laugh anymore are Stanley Baxter and Myles Na Gopaleen.”
David Robinson agreed about Na Gopaleen. “Yes, Flann O’Brien was a very funny writer. Do you remember his book-distressing service for the nouveau riche?”
“Of course I do,” said Angus. “They would come and make newly acquired books look suitably used. And for an extra fee they would write appropriate marginalia so that people thought that you had actually read the books.”
“Irish writers can be very entertaining,” said Domenica. “But what about public life? How long is it since we’ve had an amusing politician?”
Mr Demarco Sees Danger for the Fringe 339
There was a complete silence. Mrs Thatcher had been tremendously funny, but she had gone now.
“Harold Macmillan,” said Humphrey, after a while. “He made the entire United Nations laugh once, although the laughter took a long time to travel round the Assembly as his remark had to be translated into numerous languages. The Germans laughed last, only because of their word order, I hasten to add.”
“What did he say?” asked Domenica.
“Well,” said Humphrey. “Mr Khrushchev started to get very heated when Macmillan was making his speech and he took off his shoe and started to bang it on the table. Whereupon Macmillan looked up and said, in a very cool drawclass="underline" ‘Could we have a translation of that, please?’ The whole place collapsed.”
They all laughed. Then Humphrey raised a finger in the air.
“Mind you, I know an even funnier story about Khrushchev.”
They looked at him.
“This story concerns Chairman Mao,” said Humphrey. “He was said to have had a very good sense of humour. He was asked once what he thought would have happened had it been Nikita Khrushchev rather than President Kennedy who had been assas-sinated. He thought for a moment and then said: ‘Well, one thing is certain: Aristotle Onassis would not have married Mrs Khrushchev!’”