‘I don’t need it, luv.’
‘Let’s go talk to him,’ she suggested.
‘I was sort of making the pleasure last.’
We looked at him openly, this self-appointed drummer of archaeology, whose half-dozen books had sold 500,000 copies, books that aimed at and struck squarely in the centre of popular tastes. Books in which he flirted dangerously with the laws of plagiarism and criminal libel; books in which cant masqueraded as erudition, and facts were squeezed, ignored or subtly altered to suit the argument.
I am not a bitter man, not one who bears grudges, but when I looked at this great bloated executioner, this torturer, this - well, when I looked at him I felt the blood bubble and fizz behind my eyes. I started towards him directly.
He saw me coming, but ignored it. The entire room was aware of what was happening, had probably been anticipating this confrontation since the day they received their invitations. The circle about the master opened giving me space to approach the presence.
‘There is no doubt—’ Wilfred brayed, his gaze passing several feet over my head. He usually precedes each of his statements with an advertising plug.
‘As I have always said—’ his voice carried to the farthest corners, and I waited patiently. I have a carefully rehearsed smile which I use at times like this. It is shy, self-effacing.
‘It is generally agreed—’ Such a recommendation from Wilfred usually means that the theory in question is the subject of a raging controversy.
‘To tell the truth—’ And he went on to tell a blatant lie.
At last he glanced down, stopped in mid-sentence, screwed his monocle into his eye, and to his delight and surprise, discovered his old friend and colleague Dr Benjamin Kazin.
‘Benjamin, my dear little fellow,’ he cried, and the diminutive stung like a dart in the hump of the bull. ‘How very good to see you!’
Then Wilfred Snell did a very rash thing. He dangled his great soft white hairy paw languidly in my direction. For an instant I could not believe my good fortune; at the same instant Wilfred remembered the last time we had shaken hands six years before and tried to snatch it back. His reactions are no match for mine, and I had him.
‘Wilfred,’ I cooed, ‘my dear, dear chap.’ His hand felt like a glove full of warm jelly, it was only when my fingers had cut in for an inch or two that you could actually feel the bones.
‘We were absolutely delighted that you could come,’ I told him, and he made a little mooing sound. A few loose drops of spittle spattered from the slack purple lips.
‘Did you have a good trip?’ I asked, still smiling shyly. Wilfred had begun to do a little jig, skipping from foot to foot. My fingers had almost disappeared in the soft white flesh, I could now feel every knuckle very clearly. It was rather like playing a jelly fish on a trout rod.
‘We must make time for a little private chat before the end of the symposium,’ I said, and the air started to leak out of Wilfred. He was making a soft hissing sound, and he seemed, to shrink like a punctured balloon. Suddenly I was disgusted with my brutality, my weakness in giving in to it. I let him go, and the return of blood to the abused hand must have been more painful than my treatment of it. He held it tenderly to his chest, his big pansy eyes were filled with tears and his lips trembled like those of a petulant child.
‘Come,’ I told him gently. ‘Let me get you another drink.’ And I led him away unprotesting like an elephant and its mahout. However, Wilfred Snell is nothing if not resilient, and he came back strongly. Throughout the luncheon snatches of his monologue carried across to our table. He was ‘making no bones about it’ and ‘letting them in on a little secret’ in his best form. From what I could hear he was repeating his conviction as to the medieval age and Bantu origin of the central African ruin system, and was lightly and amusingly debunking my own writings. At one stage I glanced across to see that he had
However, I had another crisis threatening which took all my skill to avert. Sally was my lunch partner and we sat opposite the Sturvesants. Within five seconds of seating ourselves, Sally noticed Hilary’s new diamond. She could hardly overlook it, it was throwing slivers of light about the room, bright as arrows. Sally was silent for half the meal, but her eyes were drawn to that flaming jewel every few seconds. The rest of us were vying for an opportunity to speak, and there was much laughter and excited banter. Louren seemed to be especially attentive to Hilary, but suddenly there was a momentary silence.
Sally leaned forward, and in her sweetest voice, told Hilary, ‘What a pretty ring. You are so lucky to be able to wear costume jewellery, my dear. My bones are too small. It doesn’t suit me, I’m afraid.’ And she turned back to me and started chattering brightly. She had ruined the mood with one expert thrust. I saw Louren frown, and flush angrily. Hilary pursed her lips, and I saw a hundred retorts pass in review behind her eyes but she withheld them. I plunged gamely into the void, but even my charm and social grace could not restore the mood. I was relieved when at last Louren glanced at his watch, then looked across at the BYM who was in charge of the arrangements and nodded. Immediately this gentleman was on his feet, shepherding the unwieldy party out to where the cavalcade of cars waited. As we passed through the lobby, Wilfred Snell cleaved a path to my side with a swarm of his admirers following him in grinning anticipation.
‘I was glancing through your book again during lunch. I had forgotten how amusing it was, my dear chap.’
‘Thank you, Wilfred,’ I replied gratefully. That’s jolly decent of you to say so.‘
‘You must sign it for me’
‘I will. I will.’
‘Looking forward to your paper this afternoon, my dear little chap.’ And again I shuddered with the effort of suppressing my feelings and keeping my voice mild.
‘I hope you’ll find it amusing.’
‘I am sure I will, Benjamin.’ He let go a fruity chuckle and moved off like a crowd. I heard him saying to De Vallos as they climbed into their limousine, ‘Mediterranean influence! My God, why not Eskimo while he is about it.’
We went through the park like the mourners at a state funeral, a convoy of black limousines, and turned out of
