“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?”
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 drawl: ‘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!’”
Angus let out a hoot of laughter, but he noticed that Pat looked puzzled. Leaning across the table he whispered to her:
“Mrs Khrushchev, my dear, was a terrible sight. One of those round, squat Russian women whom one imagined picking potatoes or working in a tractor factory.
“Mind you,” he went on, “Russian women weren’t the only frumps. I had a friend who was once invited to meet a foreign leader (a delightful chap, now, alas, deceased) and was being shown around the leader’s tent – he lived, you see, under canvas.
Anyway, he saw this picture of a very ugly-looking chap hanging on the side of the tent and he was about to ask: ‘Who’s that 340
‘That, sir, is our beloved leader’s mother.’”
The conversation around the table was noisy and enthusiastic, as wide-ranging as it always was in Domenica’s flat – that was her effect upon others, a freeing of the tongue, an enlargement of confidence. Even Pat, who might have felt inhibited in such accomplished company, found herself expounding with ease on obtuse topics, emboldened by Domenica’s smile and encouraging nods of agreement. And outside, slowly, the light faded into that state of semi-darkness of the Scottish mid-summer; not dark, not light, but somewhere in between, a simmer dim perhaps, or something like it.
At one point, at an early stage of the dinner, Domenica heard, but only faintly, the sound of Bertie practising his saxophone downstairs, and grinned. She glanced at Angus and at Pat; they as well had both heard, and smiled too, for they could picture Domenica’s young neighbour at his music stand, under the supervising gaze of his mother. Poor Bertie, thought Angus, what a burden for a boy to bear in this life, to have a mother like that, and how discerning Cyril had been when he bit her ankle in Dundas Street. And although on that famous occasion he had been obliged to look apologetic and to administer swift
punishment to Cyril, his heart had not been in the retribution, and, as soon as possible, he had rewarded the dog with a reassuring pat on the head and the promise of a bone for his moral courage.
And as Angus remembered this incident, Domenica found herself thinking of how well Auden’s words in his
