Alexander Mccall Smith - Isabel Dalhousie 05 Read Online Free PDF Page B

the small music case he had with him and turned to Isabel. “I’m sorry about the other night. I wasn’t—”
    She interrupted him. “I’m the one who should say sorry. I dragged you there.”
    â€œIt’s not that I dislike these dinner parties,” Jamie continued. “It’s just that the people at that one…” He shrugged. “The chemistry wasn’t there. You know how sometimes things just zip along. I didn’t feel it.”
    â€œI know,” said Isabel. “I could tell.” He had obviously not enjoyed himself, which had slightly surprised her, as she thought everybody else had.
    He smiled. “Anyway, let’s not talk about it. This concert…” He trailed off.
    Isabel knew there were occasions when Jamie did not look forward to a performance, and the shrug that he gave revealed that this was one.
    â€œWhat is wrong with it? It looks interesting enough.”
    He drew an imaginary line on the table, a casual, invisible doodle that she assumed divided the evening’s offering into two. “Some of the pieces are interesting. The others…well…” He reached for the programme that Isabel had bought in the lobby. “Here. This new piece.
Melisma for the Return of Persephone.
It’s rubbish. I just don’t like it. This is only the second time it’s been played, which surprises me. Once would have been enough. Or too much.”
    Isabel was surprised by this comment. Musicians could backbite, but Jamie, she thought, was not like that; he was usually gentle. Something had irritated him profoundly for him to say this. “Somebody must like it,” she said mildly. “It must have some merit, otherwise…”
    Jamie shook his head. “You’ve got a touching faith in the way these things work, Isabel,” he said. “Merit doesn’t come into it.”
    He was in an odd mood, she decided. “All right,” she said. “But don’t let it worry you. And I’ll try not to catch your eye during the performance.”
    He had glanced at his watch, and she decided that it would be better to leave him by himself. She rose to her feet, explaining that she was going to go to her seat in the hall, where she would read the programme notes. He said yes, that was a good idea; he would see her afterwards and they would go back to the house together. Had she brought her car? She had, and had parked it conveniently behind the hall, outside the small, secondhand bookshop that specialised in science fiction. A bassoon was not an easy instrument to carry, and on the occasions when Jamie played the contrabassoon, difficulties of transport could become acute. The contrabassoon had eighteen feet of wood and metal tubing, and required a case that was almost six feet in length. Some contrabassoonists, Jamie had pointed out, were considerably smaller than their instruments—though this was not the case with him.
    â€œMaybe they’re compensating for being so small,” he had once suggested. “A tiny tuba player must feel much bigger than he really is.”
    Isabel thought this was possible; she had noticed small men in immense cars and sometimes there did appear to be a connection. Yet one had to be careful with observations of this type; it was very easy to be uncharitable, and then to regret it, as she had been, and done, once, when on holiday in Spain with John Liamor and they had been talking about ostentatious cars and inadequate drivers. They had been sitting in a pavement café, and at that moment an immense Mercedes-Benz had entered the plaza and had drawn to a halt near them. And Isabel had said: “Yes, now look at him. He’s making up for something.” John Liamor had said, “Yes, obviously.”
    Then the driver had got out of the car and raised himself with difficulty onto his two artificial legs.
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    THE PIECE that