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Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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being filled with passionate intensity; she would not be so immodest as to list herself among the best, but those lines, she thought, had some bearing on the situation. Oedipus got away with it because nobody
did
anything. And that was always how evil triumphed; it counted on the inaction of those who, although they might have no taste for it and its works, did nothing to thwart it.
She lay down in the bath and closed her eyes. She had added a few drops of Penhaligon’s Lily of the Valley to the water and now she luxuriated in the rich embrace of the bath oil. The warmth of the water and the delicious scent calmed her, and her mind began to drift back to a weekend three years earlier when Oedipus Snark had come to stay. He often did that then, arriving at her flat in time for a late dinner on Friday and staying until Sunday afternoon.
She was pleased by the company. On Saturday mornings they did some shopping, sometimes traipsing across town to a food market before returning to laze about the flat for the afternoon. Oedipus liked crosswords and would spend several hours with one ofthe more difficult newspaper puzzles, all the while congratulating himself on defeating a compiler’s wiles.
“Infantile,” he would say, tossing aside a completed crossword. “Predictable. Tedious. Infantile. Composed for ten-year-olds.” It did not occur to him that this might be a tactless remark to make in the full hearing of Barbara, who, although not unintelligent, found it difficult to get more than a few clues.
“They don’t want to make them too hard,” she said. “We can’t all be …”
“Geniuses?” said Oedipus scornfully. “Clearly not. You don’t need to tell me that, Barbara. I have constituents!”
She wanted to retort:
Who voted for you
;
who pay your salary
. But she did not.
Barbara would read, or spend time in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. Or she would sometimes wash the car, carrying hot water out in her old red bucket with the uncomfortable handle … It was bliss, even if she felt that this shared domestic existence could never last. She did not trust Oedipus even then, but tried as hard as she could to put this distrust out of her mind. Oedipus was an attentive lover; he could be amusing—in a waspish sort of way; he made her feel less alone. In short, Oedipus fascinated her, just as a cobra might fascinate its prey.
Then, one Sunday after Oedipus had said goodbye and returned to his flat, she found that his briefcase, which he had placed under a coffee table in the living room, had disgorged a small pile of documents. When he came to leave, he had picked up the briefcase without noticing the spillage, and these were the papers that Barbara now discovered.
She had not intended to read them, but her eye was caught by the name at the top of one of the papers—a very well-known name; a public figure, although not a politician.
She could not help herself. Picking up the letter, she began toread. “Dear Mr. Snark,” the letter began, “I am writing to thank you for all that you have done to assist the passage of my company’s planning application. We have now been informed that we have been given approval, even if there were one or two members of the council who made shocking allegations in the course of the debate. The usual stuff—the revenge of failure, I call it. Socialists to a man, of course.
“I would like to mark my appreciation of your assistance by increasing the unofficial retainer, bearing in mind we last reviewed this over two years ago. Assuming that the approval is indeed going to reach us this weekend, I would suggest that next weekend you and I meet to finalise things.”
Barbara took the letter to her computer and scanned it into the memory. She did not ask herself why—she had no clear plan, but somewhere, in the depths of her mind, a small voice of self-interest, of self-preservation perhaps, bade her act. At that point she was still in love with Oedipus, and had
did
anything. And that was always how evil triumphed; it counted on the inaction of those who, although they might have no taste for it and its works, did nothing to thwart it.
She lay down in the bath and closed her eyes. She had added a few drops of Penhaligon’s Lily of the Valley to the water and now she luxuriated in the rich embrace of the bath oil. The warmth of the water and the delicious scent calmed her, and her mind began to drift back to a weekend three years earlier when Oedipus Snark had come to stay. He often did that then, arriving at her flat in time for a late dinner on Friday and staying until Sunday afternoon.
She was pleased by the company. On Saturday mornings they did some shopping, sometimes traipsing across town to a food market before returning to laze about the flat for the afternoon. Oedipus liked crosswords and would spend several hours with one ofthe more difficult newspaper puzzles, all the while congratulating himself on defeating a compiler’s wiles.
“Infantile,” he would say, tossing aside a completed crossword. “Predictable. Tedious. Infantile. Composed for ten-year-olds.” It did not occur to him that this might be a tactless remark to make in the full hearing of Barbara, who, although not unintelligent, found it difficult to get more than a few clues.
“They don’t want to make them too hard,” she said. “We can’t all be …”
“Geniuses?” said Oedipus scornfully. “Clearly not. You don’t need to tell me that, Barbara. I have constituents!”
She wanted to retort:
Who voted for you
;
who pay your salary
. But she did not.
Barbara would read, or spend time in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. Or she would sometimes wash the car, carrying hot water out in her old red bucket with the uncomfortable handle … It was bliss, even if she felt that this shared domestic existence could never last. She did not trust Oedipus even then, but tried as hard as she could to put this distrust out of her mind. Oedipus was an attentive lover; he could be amusing—in a waspish sort of way; he made her feel less alone. In short, Oedipus fascinated her, just as a cobra might fascinate its prey.
Then, one Sunday after Oedipus had said goodbye and returned to his flat, she found that his briefcase, which he had placed under a coffee table in the living room, had disgorged a small pile of documents. When he came to leave, he had picked up the briefcase without noticing the spillage, and these were the papers that Barbara now discovered.
She had not intended to read them, but her eye was caught by the name at the top of one of the papers—a very well-known name; a public figure, although not a politician.
She could not help herself. Picking up the letter, she began toread. “Dear Mr. Snark,” the letter began, “I am writing to thank you for all that you have done to assist the passage of my company’s planning application. We have now been informed that we have been given approval, even if there were one or two members of the council who made shocking allegations in the course of the debate. The usual stuff—the revenge of failure, I call it. Socialists to a man, of course.
“I would like to mark my appreciation of your assistance by increasing the unofficial retainer, bearing in mind we last reviewed this over two years ago. Assuming that the approval is indeed going to reach us this weekend, I would suggest that next weekend you and I meet to finalise things.”
Barbara took the letter to her computer and scanned it into the memory. She did not ask herself why—she had no clear plan, but somewhere, in the depths of her mind, a small voice of self-interest, of self-preservation perhaps, bade her act. At that point she was still in love with Oedipus, and had
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