as I now felt. There was anger as well. I, who rarely had a fight with Sarah, felt as if I wanted now to take her home and start one over Mrs. Carter and Peter Collins.
The young McBriens appeared on a pathway—they had been walking amongst the pines. This evening, they both looked cheerful and animated. They started speaking to the Garners, the architect and his wife, and slowly we all coalesced over in that direction, some standing, some sitting on the sun lounges.
As we moved, I saw Sarah semaphore to me with a small wave her regret at having piled Mrs. Carter on top of the story of Collins's absconding. Beloved, I thought—though a minute earlier I'd wanted to take issue with her.
To the group, Andrew said, Whatever you thought of him, you have to agree the cultural landscape's changed for good.
Toby Garner agreed. You're going to have a few gaps in your programming, all right, Andrew.
Grace Kennedy said, He could be a pompous shit.
Yes, said Andrew, but he had gifts which nearly justified it.
In the midst of this anxious hubbub, Matt McBrien seemed possessed of a rare serenity. There's always someone to step into the breach, he told us. Even genius isn't indispensable. I wonder did he think of his audience, anyhow, before he left them in the lurch?
A certain uneasiness overtook the company, and many began to abandon their reverence for the escaped icon.
To hell with him, said Wilf Apple, with a stuttering laugh. Some of his lyrics were absolute crap.
Love of the twilight, love of the night, love of the East in predawn light . . .
Only the music saved them from banality.
Some of us nodded. He was too prolific. But we were, in the end, not consoled. To help us out, Hope Garner said, Toby's had an interesting few days. Cheer them up with your story, Toby!
Garner was the supervising architect on the Northbourne Palace restoration. He always had interesting tales about Overguard officers turning up with new and, to a normal person, gratuitous demands from Great Uncle. A poor sleeper, Great Uncle, who had determinedly developed a gift to read English, would skim through
Architectural Digest
or books of architectural pictures late at night, and by morning would issue orders that an entire terrazzo floor be pulled up, or that the molding of the state banquet hall—there was one such in each of Great Uncle's twenty palaces—be done in the style of the Frick museum.
But before Toby Garner could tell us his latest experience of the way absolute power encourages absolute gratuitousness in architectural taste, the housekeeper and caterers appeared with our dinner of rice and salad, fish and lamb. Set out on tables by the pool, it consumed our time, as we advanced one by one along the line asking the normal questions of the buffet—what mayonnaise is this? Is this a marinade? I carried my refilled glass of Scotch, pecking away at it, feeling its false but vivid consolation behind my sternum and thinking as ever, Why do you need consolation? You have Sarah.
When we were all seated attacking the food, and Mrs. Clarke, the housekeeper, moved around filling wineglasses, Toby Garner sat up with the anticipatory glow of the storyteller who has the chair. But Sonia McBrien, sitting on the same side of the table and thus not able to see Toby's move to begin, said in a shrill, young voice, We have news. Matt has news.
Matt waved the statement away, but it was apparent the news was effervescing in him too, and must froth forth soon. Almost aggressively, Grace Kennedy asked that Matt McBrien cough it up. Matt still pursed his lips in amusement and shook his head as if he didn't want to. Sonia said, Tell them.
You tell them, said McBrien.
The two of them were annoying us more than was customary.
Sonia announced, Old Billy Salter has asked Matt to take the appointment of Acting Commissioner of Culture.
If they had worked themselves into a state where they expected us to be prolix with congratulations, they were a bit confused
The young McBriens appeared on a pathway—they had been walking amongst the pines. This evening, they both looked cheerful and animated. They started speaking to the Garners, the architect and his wife, and slowly we all coalesced over in that direction, some standing, some sitting on the sun lounges.
As we moved, I saw Sarah semaphore to me with a small wave her regret at having piled Mrs. Carter on top of the story of Collins's absconding. Beloved, I thought—though a minute earlier I'd wanted to take issue with her.
To the group, Andrew said, Whatever you thought of him, you have to agree the cultural landscape's changed for good.
Toby Garner agreed. You're going to have a few gaps in your programming, all right, Andrew.
Grace Kennedy said, He could be a pompous shit.
Yes, said Andrew, but he had gifts which nearly justified it.
In the midst of this anxious hubbub, Matt McBrien seemed possessed of a rare serenity. There's always someone to step into the breach, he told us. Even genius isn't indispensable. I wonder did he think of his audience, anyhow, before he left them in the lurch?
A certain uneasiness overtook the company, and many began to abandon their reverence for the escaped icon.
To hell with him, said Wilf Apple, with a stuttering laugh. Some of his lyrics were absolute crap.
Love of the twilight, love of the night, love of the East in predawn light . . .
Only the music saved them from banality.
Some of us nodded. He was too prolific. But we were, in the end, not consoled. To help us out, Hope Garner said, Toby's had an interesting few days. Cheer them up with your story, Toby!
Garner was the supervising architect on the Northbourne Palace restoration. He always had interesting tales about Overguard officers turning up with new and, to a normal person, gratuitous demands from Great Uncle. A poor sleeper, Great Uncle, who had determinedly developed a gift to read English, would skim through
Architectural Digest
or books of architectural pictures late at night, and by morning would issue orders that an entire terrazzo floor be pulled up, or that the molding of the state banquet hall—there was one such in each of Great Uncle's twenty palaces—be done in the style of the Frick museum.
But before Toby Garner could tell us his latest experience of the way absolute power encourages absolute gratuitousness in architectural taste, the housekeeper and caterers appeared with our dinner of rice and salad, fish and lamb. Set out on tables by the pool, it consumed our time, as we advanced one by one along the line asking the normal questions of the buffet—what mayonnaise is this? Is this a marinade? I carried my refilled glass of Scotch, pecking away at it, feeling its false but vivid consolation behind my sternum and thinking as ever, Why do you need consolation? You have Sarah.
When we were all seated attacking the food, and Mrs. Clarke, the housekeeper, moved around filling wineglasses, Toby Garner sat up with the anticipatory glow of the storyteller who has the chair. But Sonia McBrien, sitting on the same side of the table and thus not able to see Toby's move to begin, said in a shrill, young voice, We have news. Matt has news.
Matt waved the statement away, but it was apparent the news was effervescing in him too, and must froth forth soon. Almost aggressively, Grace Kennedy asked that Matt McBrien cough it up. Matt still pursed his lips in amusement and shook his head as if he didn't want to. Sonia said, Tell them.
You tell them, said McBrien.
The two of them were annoying us more than was customary.
Sonia announced, Old Billy Salter has asked Matt to take the appointment of Acting Commissioner of Culture.
If they had worked themselves into a state where they expected us to be prolix with congratulations, they were a bit confused
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