knobbed bones showing, those skeletal fingers, plucking at crumbs.
‘Are you sure you don’t want some?’
‘Do you think I want your food? Do you think I eat leftovers?’
‘Of course not, Moira. But it’s, you know, delicious. Don’t worry, I’m really enjoying it.’
Though by now there was only a morsel or so left, Moira suddenly plunged on it like a heron, stabbing the cube off Angela’s plate and snapping it down, her throat briefly bulging.
This was something new in the scale of hostility.
Angela began to feel annoyed, but she tried again. ‘Those students,’ she said. ‘I’m so grateful to you, really. You actually seem to have made them like me. You must be a terrific teacher.’ Somewhere Angela had read this advice: to win over any human being in the world, try a smile, money, or flattery.
But something had gone extremely wrong. Moira suddenly flushed red, from pale.
‘Why do you assume,’ she was nearly shouting, ‘that I am the person teaching your work?’
‘Well, I’m sorry, it did seem likely – Aren’t you?’
That expression appeared, the contemptuous camel, the mouth curling, the eyes half-closed, and Angela remembered that camels could spit. And kick, surely. Her chair inched backwards.
‘The department in its wisdom has given other, junior staff my graduate teaching.’
Angela looked at her narrowly. Moira’s face was working wildly. There was something furious yet absent in her mouth, her eyes, her twitching fingers.
‘Is something wrong?’ Angela asked.
‘I have been ill,’ Moira announced. ‘You never asked if I was ill. It never seems to have occurred to you.’
This was so unfair that Angela fell silent. Moira always put her on the defensive. Around them the café was emptying. In the latticed window the sky burned scarlet, then crimson, magenta, preparing for dark. The red reflected on Moira’s face, flared in her iris: mayhem, fury. There was another world outside the window. Angela longed sharply for escape. Somehow she had to calm Moira down.
‘I was busy,’ said Angela. ‘I had my daughter –’
‘Why do you think I want to know about
her
?’
This time the words were ejected with such venom that Angela actually flinched, and moved back. She looked at her hands, and tried again. ‘Well if you’re doing a biography, I think that Gerda might have to come in. They change your view of the world, you know.’
‘
My
view of the world?
My
view of the world? What do you know about my view of the world? What do you know about my book? Why do you think I wanted children?’ Moira had stood up, and was shouting loudly. People in the café were turning to look.
(Lottie stared from her adjacent table. One of those women looked vaguely famous, and the other one absolutely barking. If you were too clever, you clearly went mad. Still, cleverness was not Lottie’s problem.)
Angela Lamb was far from unselfish, but she saw a person in awful distress, a person who was surely damaging herself, losing her temper here in the café in front of students, in front of colleagues. She got up too, put her hand on Moira’s shoulder, and said, quite gently, ‘I don’t mean to upset you, Moira. I think you’re very unhappy about something. Why don’t we go outside for a walk. We don’t have to talk about the book today.’
‘The book is rubbish,’ Moira said, quieter, but still with terrible intensity. ‘The book doesn’t matter any more. I have been given a sign, today. Father Bruno has spoken. All the books will drown. Even your books, Angela. Your books which follow me and contradict me. Except the One Book, the One True Book. “God said to Noah, ‘I intend to bring the waters of the flood over the earth to destroy every human being under heaven that has the spirit of life; everything on earth shall perish …’ The second angel blew his trumpet, and what looked like a great blazing mountain was hurled into the sea. A third of the sea was turned to blood,
‘Are you sure you don’t want some?’
‘Do you think I want your food? Do you think I eat leftovers?’
‘Of course not, Moira. But it’s, you know, delicious. Don’t worry, I’m really enjoying it.’
Though by now there was only a morsel or so left, Moira suddenly plunged on it like a heron, stabbing the cube off Angela’s plate and snapping it down, her throat briefly bulging.
This was something new in the scale of hostility.
Angela began to feel annoyed, but she tried again. ‘Those students,’ she said. ‘I’m so grateful to you, really. You actually seem to have made them like me. You must be a terrific teacher.’ Somewhere Angela had read this advice: to win over any human being in the world, try a smile, money, or flattery.
But something had gone extremely wrong. Moira suddenly flushed red, from pale.
‘Why do you assume,’ she was nearly shouting, ‘that I am the person teaching your work?’
‘Well, I’m sorry, it did seem likely – Aren’t you?’
That expression appeared, the contemptuous camel, the mouth curling, the eyes half-closed, and Angela remembered that camels could spit. And kick, surely. Her chair inched backwards.
‘The department in its wisdom has given other, junior staff my graduate teaching.’
Angela looked at her narrowly. Moira’s face was working wildly. There was something furious yet absent in her mouth, her eyes, her twitching fingers.
‘Is something wrong?’ Angela asked.
‘I have been ill,’ Moira announced. ‘You never asked if I was ill. It never seems to have occurred to you.’
This was so unfair that Angela fell silent. Moira always put her on the defensive. Around them the café was emptying. In the latticed window the sky burned scarlet, then crimson, magenta, preparing for dark. The red reflected on Moira’s face, flared in her iris: mayhem, fury. There was another world outside the window. Angela longed sharply for escape. Somehow she had to calm Moira down.
‘I was busy,’ said Angela. ‘I had my daughter –’
‘Why do you think I want to know about
her
?’
This time the words were ejected with such venom that Angela actually flinched, and moved back. She looked at her hands, and tried again. ‘Well if you’re doing a biography, I think that Gerda might have to come in. They change your view of the world, you know.’
‘
My
view of the world?
My
view of the world? What do you know about my view of the world? What do you know about my book? Why do you think I wanted children?’ Moira had stood up, and was shouting loudly. People in the café were turning to look.
(Lottie stared from her adjacent table. One of those women looked vaguely famous, and the other one absolutely barking. If you were too clever, you clearly went mad. Still, cleverness was not Lottie’s problem.)
Angela Lamb was far from unselfish, but she saw a person in awful distress, a person who was surely damaging herself, losing her temper here in the café in front of students, in front of colleagues. She got up too, put her hand on Moira’s shoulder, and said, quite gently, ‘I don’t mean to upset you, Moira. I think you’re very unhappy about something. Why don’t we go outside for a walk. We don’t have to talk about the book today.’
‘The book is rubbish,’ Moira said, quieter, but still with terrible intensity. ‘The book doesn’t matter any more. I have been given a sign, today. Father Bruno has spoken. All the books will drown. Even your books, Angela. Your books which follow me and contradict me. Except the One Book, the One True Book. “God said to Noah, ‘I intend to bring the waters of the flood over the earth to destroy every human being under heaven that has the spirit of life; everything on earth shall perish …’ The second angel blew his trumpet, and what looked like a great blazing mountain was hurled into the sea. A third of the sea was turned to blood,
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