Friends, Lovers, Chocolate

Olives too. Salami sometimes.”

“In other words,” said Isabel, “you think about your work.”

Cat shrugged. “I suppose I do. But sometimes my mind just wanders. I think about my friends. I think about what I should wear. I even think about men sometimes.”

“Who doesn’t?” said Isabel.

Cat had raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“I am just like anybody else,” said Isabel. “Although sometimes, I suppose, I think about . . .”

Cat had laughed. “I suppose if one wrote down all one’s thoughts through the day it would make very odd reading.”

“It would,” said Isabel. “And one of the reasons why it would make such odd reading is that language would be inadequate to describe our thoughts. We don’t think in words all the time. We don’t engage in one long soliloquy. We don’t mentally say things like: ‘I must go into town today.’ We don’t use those actual words, but we may still make a decision to go into town.

Mental acts and mental states don’t require language.”

“So a person who never learnt a language could think in the same way as we do?” Cat sounded doubtful. How could one know one was going into town unless one had the word for going and the word for town?

“Yes,” said Isabel. “A person like that would have mental pictures. He would have feelings. He would have memories of what has happened to him and knowledge of what may happen in the future. The only difference is that he would find difficulty in communicating these, or recording them for that matter.”

And she thought of Brother Fox, who had no language, other than a howl or yelp, but who knew about danger and fear, F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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and who presumably had very precise memories of the layout of the walled gardens which composed his territory. She had looked into the eyes of Brother Fox on a number of occasions when they had surprised one another, and she had seen recognition in those eyes, and an understanding that he should be cautious of her, but not terrified. So there were memories in that mind, and at least some mute processes of thought, unfathomable to us. What is it like to be Brother Fox? Only Brother Fox knew the answer to that, and he was not in a position to reveal it.

I S A B E L H A D R E S E RV E D a table near the front window of the Cafe St. Honore. From where they sat they could look up the short, steep section of cobbled road that led to Thistle Street. It was a small restaurant and well suited for a conversational dinner, although the proximity of tables to one another could be a problem if what one had to say was private. Isabel had heard, without consciously trying, snippets of choice gossip here such as the terms of a cohabitation agreement between a fashionable doctor and his much younger girlfriend—she was to receive a half-interest in the house and there was to be an independent bank account. And all of this came from his lawyer, who was talking to his own girlfriend, who was urging him on for further details. Isabel had looked away, but could hardly stuff her fingers into her ears. And then she had turned round and stared in reproach at the lawyer, whom she recognised, but was greeted with a cheerful wave rather than a look of contrition.

Jamie examined the menu while Isabel discreetly looked at the other diners. Her friends, Peter and Susie Stevenson, out for dinner with another couple, nodded and smiled. At the nearest 2 1 8

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h table, sitting by himself, the heir to a famous Scottish house, weighed down by history and ghosts, turned the pages of a book he had brought with him. Isabel glanced at him and felt a pang of sympathy: each in his separate loneliness, she thought. And I, the lucky one, able to come to this place with this handsome young man, and it does not matter in the slightest if they look at me and think, There is a woman out for dinner with her younger boyfriend. But then the thought occurred to her: they might not think that at all, but think, instead, Cradle snatch.

That was a disturbing thought, and a melancholy one. She consciously put it out of her mind and looked across the menu at Jamie. He had been in a good mood when she had entered the restaurant and found him already at the table. He had risen to his feet, smiled, and leant across to plant a quick kiss on her cheek—which had excited her, and made her blush, even if it was only a social kiss.

Jamie smiled back at her. “I’ve had some good news,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to telling you.”

She laid down the menu. Asparagus and red snapper could wait. “A recording contract?” she teased. “Your own disc?”

“Almost as good,” he said. “Oh yes, almost as good as that.”

She felt a sudden sense of dread. He had found a new girlfriend, would get married, and that would be the end for her.

Yes, that was what had happened. This was a last supper. She glanced at the man at his single table, with his book; that would be her lot from now on, sitting at a single table with a copy of Daniel Dennett’s Consciousness Explained open in front of her among the salt cellars and butter dishes, and the olive oil, of course.

“I don’t think I told you,” he said, “that I was having an audition yesterday. In fact, I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you. I F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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wouldn’t want to have to say to you that I didn’t get in. I suppose it’s a question of pride.”

Isabel’s anxiety was replaced by relief. Auditions were no threat. Unless . . .

“The London Symphony,” he said.

For a moment she said nothing. The London Symphony was in London.