U-U was silent almost all the way home. We were nearly in London when he said:
‘It makes you think, does it not, Brisker?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it does,’ and cursed him silently for disturbing my slumber.
‘When I last saw that man he was racing round, hearty as a bullock. Now he is soil. Earth to earth …’
‘And ashes to ashes.’
He drove on.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you asleep?’
‘I was.’
‘If you had two hours to live, what would you do?’
‘Only two hours?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d probably do something naughty. No, on second thoughts I’d draw all my money out of the Post Office Savings Bank, go to Blooms and have a good meal.’
‘I’d be damned if I wouldn’t do the same, Brisker, though I wouldn’t go to Blooms—far too crowded. Let’s go to my club.’
Outside, the club looked like a cross between a bank and a mausoleum. Inside, every inch of floor was covered with carpet, and every inch of wall with pictures, and the people about the place looked as if they had just stepped out of the pictures, bent old men with white hair and deaf-aids, asleep in immense leather armchairs. It looked to me like a very superior old age home.
‘My father was the first Jewish member here,’ said U-U. ‘There’s a bust of him in the washroom.’
When we were sitting down he leant over to me.
‘Brisker, old man, do you mind if I ask you a very personal question?’
‘You can ask. I don’t have to answer.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘I’m quite positive.’
‘Would you like to take your hat off?’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘There is nothing wrong with it.’
‘It’s brand new. I’ve only had it a few weeks, and this is the first time I’ve worn it.’
‘It’s a splendid hat, old man. I’ve been admiring it all day, but one does not normally wear it at table. If you like I’ll take it to the cloakroom for you.’
‘No, I think it’ll be safer here,’ and I took it off and placed it on a chair beside me.
We had a fish cooked in wine, and a wine which tasted to me like stale vinegar.
‘I’m sorry you don’t like it,’ said U-U, ‘can I order you some other type?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes. There is a wine I often buy for kiddush called Ackerman’s Alicante. It’s made in Leeds, and it’s thick, sweet and delicious.’
‘Ackerman’s Alicante?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any particular year?’
‘No, just Ackerman’s Alicante.’
He called over the wine waiter, a gentleman of about a hundred-and-six, who walked as if he was kicking something, with a stoop and a strong inclination to the right.
‘Sir?’
‘Tell me, Leonard, have we got something called Ackerman’s Alicante?’
‘Ackerman’s?’
‘Alicante.’
‘The name does not ring a bell, Sir, but I shall have a good look.’
He is probably still looking, for he never came back and I had a cup of tea instead.
When the meal was over U-U gave me a cigar the size of a roll of wurscht and lit one himself.
‘You know, Brisker,’ he said, blowing a smoke ring in the air, ‘there are times when I feel there is little wrong with the world.’
‘Did I say there was anything wrong with it?’
‘You may not have done, but I often get the feeling that it could be a better place.’
‘It can’t be a good place for everybody all of the time, but it’s always a good place for somebody some of the time.’
‘That’s very well put, Brisker, if I may say so.’
‘Yes, I was thinking so myself.’
‘“It can’t be a good place for everybody all of the time, but it’s always a good place for somebody some of the time,” yes, I must remember that, very well put indeed.’
‘When you go into town and see people in fine clothes and fast cars, or eating first-class meals in first-class restaurants, or sitting in the best seats at the theatre, it’s just dogs having their day—only, it’s usually the same dogs.’
‘You mean you don’t believe that every dog has his day?’
‘Well I know of at least one dog who hasn’t. You see good luck and bad luck have, what we used to call in wartime, their registered customers, people with whom they’ve dealt with before, whom they know and whom they like to visit again and again.’
‘That’s a sad way of looking at things.’
‘But it’s an honest way.’
‘So you mean that if one has had one stroke of bad luck one can resign oneself to a career of misfortune.’
‘No, you can go on hoping that it was only a stray.’
‘Rather strange, you know. I began as a pessimist and you as an optimist and now we appear to have changed roles.’
‘That’s because you’ve had a bottle of wine, and I a cup of tea.’
‘Well I offered you wine, old man. Here, there’s some left. It’s heavenly.’
‘If that’s heavenly I prefer something earthly.’
‘How about a liqueur?’
‘Is that the thick, sweet stuff?’
‘Some liqueurs are, yes.’
‘I’ll try some.’
A waiter brought a bottle with a long neck and a short round body, which reminded me a little of Mrs Kamenetz-Podolsk.
‘Now,’ said U-U, ‘take a drop in the cup of your tongue and press it flat against your palate.’
I did as he said and immediately it turned to warmth and diffused itself through every part of my body.
‘Marvellous,’ I said, ‘it’s like central heating,’ and took more, and some more after that, and then a bit more to follow. ‘While there’s stuff like that about,’ I said, ‘the world can’t be such a bad place. What is it called?’
‘Benedictine.’
‘Beny who?’
‘Benedictine. It’s distilled by monks.’
‘By monks? Is it kosher?’
‘Perfectly. It’s only drawback is that it’s so damned expensive.’
‘Still, you can afford it. I’ll have some more. Who said the best things in life are free? Ah yes, I remember, I did, but that was me, B.B.’
‘B.B.?’
‘Before Benedictine. Another drop please. You know old man, for a person of your wealth you look remarkably wretched. I sometimes feel that neither of us were born to our true stations.’
‘Money is not everything, old man.’
‘That’s what they keep telling me, but I would like the chance to find out. But tell me, what’s disturbing you? You look, if you don’t mind my saying so, like a horse with indigestion.’
‘It’s a family trait.’
‘Do you look sad because you are sad?—pass the bottle, old chap—or are you sad because you look sad?’
‘Both really, but I might as well confess that I’m passing through a difficult period.’
‘But you always look like that. The first time I saw you I kept wondering whether you had a pain in your head or your arse.’
‘It must have been another of my off days. We were speaking earlier on about every dog has his day, remember? What would be the opposite of that?’
‘Every bitch has her night.’
‘No, that doesn’t quite convey my meaning. I mean the untoward occasion. I sometimes keep having them for weeks on end.’
‘Untoward occasions?’
‘Most untoward.’
‘In my present state I think you had better use simpler language with me.’
‘I suspect that my wife is being unfaithful to me.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so in the first place?’
‘It isn’t the sort of thing one shouts from the rooftops.’
‘You mean your wife’s messing around and that makes you unhappy?’
‘Deeply unhappy.’
‘Have you suspected that she ever did anything else?’
‘There was that unfortunate time when she went off with another man, but then last year we made it all up and started from the beginning. Everything was forgiven and forgotten.’
‘You did the forgiving and she the forgetting.’
‘I believed she was very sincere about it.’
‘I’m sure she was. We all have our moments of sincerity.’
‘I don’t know what to do, Brisker, I might as well confess that I’m at my wits’ end.’
‘You couldn’t have had far to go in the first place.’
‘What was that?’
‘It isn’t that I have any grounds for suspicion, but, how shall I put it, Brisker? You know the sort of slow ache one sometimes gets in one’s teeth, well I have it here.’
‘In your stomach?’
‘No, here, underneath my chest.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t indigestion?’
‘Brisker, I think you’re making fun of me. That’s not quite fair.’ He screwed up his face and looked as if he might cry.
‘But there are some situations you can cope with only by making fun at them. Five years ago your wife leaves you and runs off with another man, then suddenly last year she comes back. Have you ever asked yourself why?’
‘Of course I have. Because of Anthea. She was worried about the future of our child.’
‘Was that the only reason?’
‘There was another. At least I think there was. She missed me.’
‘Missed you, after all those years? She took a long time to find out. I’ll you why she came back. Because your company had declared a record dividend. How is your company doing now?’
‘Not very well, I’m afraid.’
‘Then no wonder she’s restless. That’s not a wife you’ve got—she’s a stock exchange index.’
‘Funny you should say that. My mother said almost exactly the same thing. God, I sometimes wish I was penniless.’
‘Be careful what you’re saying. Some wishes are granted.’
‘I should have listened to my mother. She never liked my wife, not from the first time she set eyes on her. Mothers are very intuitive people.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had one.’
‘That’s a great pity. I think you could have done with one, Brisker, if you don’t mind my saying so. Mothers are a safeguard against our naïve selves. Not that you are naïve, Brisker. I sometimes suspect that there is a side to you which none of us know.’
‘I should jolly well hope there is.’
‘I often feel that you have some obscure talent for which someone somewhere is crying out. You should be able to be more than a charity collector.’
At this I grabbed him tightly by the arm.
‘Look me straight in the eyes,’ I said, which he did with some difficulty. ‘Are you trying to sack me?’
‘Sack you, Brisker? What on earth for?’
‘Because when somebody comes and tells me I’m too good for my job, he means I’m not good enough.’
‘Brisker, you surprise me.’
‘You’re not answering my question. Do you want to fire me?’
‘Of course we don’t.’
‘Are you sure you don’t?’
‘You’re one of our most valued employees.’
‘In which case I’ll have some more of that Benedictine.’
As he passed me the bottle he sighed like a burst tyre.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘if my drinking your Benedictine upsets you so much I’ll have some water instead.’
‘It isn’t the Benedictine, Brisker. I can’t get my wife out of my mind. I try to keep myself busy with other things, but at every pause she slips back in. She’s being unfaithful to me, I’m sure of it.’
‘Are you sure you’re sure?’
‘I’m positive, Brisker.’
‘Because earlier you only suspected that she was being unfaithful to you.’
‘But now I’m sure. I can feel it.’
‘Then that isn’t so bad. Certainty you can always reconcile yourself to: it’s suspicions which are impossible.’
‘Please, Brisker, don’t make epigrams out of my grief.’
‘Look, you probably knew what you were in for when you married the woman, and you certainly knew when you took her back. If you ask me you’re getting more out of your grief than some people get out of their happiness.’
‘No, Brisker, she seems to open every sore inside me. I’ve had some unhappy times. Did I ever tell you the story of my life?’
‘No, and you’re not going to start now.’
‘My childhood’—and here a sob escaped him—’was very unhappy.’
‘And do you think that mine was any happier?’
‘But I’m sure that mine was even more unhappy.’
‘Do you? I’ll put my unhappy childhood against yours any day of the week. As a matter of fact I never even had a childhood. I’ve always felt about sixty-seven since the day I was born.’
‘Wait till you hear my story, Brisker——’
‘Not now, please. I’m feeling sick.’
‘Sick?’
‘Quick!’
He grabbed the nearest thing to hand and held it to my face. It was my new bowler.