Free Tremor of Intent by Anthony Burgess Page B

(generous), gate-toothed (sensual), small-eyed (shrewd), high-browed. It was a neat figure; the voice was a decent kind of South London. An attractive girl on the whole, but breathing of no gross earth-mother like Brigitte. The house looked very tidy; Lucy had opened the front door; Lucy said to me now: ‘Can I get you some beer? All we have, I’m afraid.’ I noted the ‘we’, saying: ‘In a stein, please.’ Roper clouded over. ‘Sorry, stupid of me,’ I said. ‘There aren’t steins any more.’ This was at once taken up by a small man in the corner, weak-and-intellectual-looking, rings under his eyes. He cried: ‘The house of Stein is fallen. Ah, Gertrude, Gertrude.’ The round man with the guitar, Peter or Paul or something, improvised a silly jingle to the tune of ‘Chopsticks’: ‘Einstein and Weinstein and Kleinstein and Schweinstein and Meinstein and Deinstein and Seinstein and Rheinstein and –’ Roper smirked at me: what witty and erudite friends he now had. They all seemed to be scientist’s assistants, none of them under thirty, most of them adolescently content with an evening of singsong and light ale. Light ale was now given to me. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘What will you have, Winny?’ asked Lucy of Roper. A choice, was there? Beer was all they had, she’d said. ‘Lemon barley water,’ said Roper. ‘A small glass.’ Well, the loss of Brigitte hadn’t sent him howling to the drink. Or perhaps it had; perhaps he was being looked after now.
    â€˜Winny she calls you,’ I said, when Lucy had gone to the kitchen.
    â€˜That’s short for Edwin,’ said Roper, smiling.
    â€˜Oh, Roper, Roper, I’ve known your name is Edwin for the last twenty years.’
    â€˜As long as that? How time goes.’
    â€˜Have you done anything about a divorce yet?’ I asked.
    â€˜Plenty of time,’ he said. ‘Three years for desertion. I see now it could never be the same again as it used to be. Have you ever read Heracleitus? Everything flows, he said. You can’t step into the same river twice. A pity. A terrible, terrible pity. Poor little girl.’ I got in quickly, forestalling the
Weltschmerz
, with: ‘How about
this
little girl?’
    â€˜Lucy? Oh, Lucy’s been a very great help. Just a good friend, you know, nothing more. She cooks me the odd meal. Sometimes we have a meal out. A
very
intelligent girl.’ This seemed to have something to do with her skill with a menu, but then he said: ‘She works our computer for us. Don’t you, Lucy?’ he smiled, waterily, as he took lemon barley from her. ‘Our computer.’
    â€˜That’s right,’ she said. I felt that perhaps she would have preferred Roper to designate their relationship
not
in professional terms. To me she said: ‘Are you a member of the party?’
    â€˜Oh, I’m progressive. I believe in soaking the rich. But I also believe in Original Sin.’
    â€˜Poor old Hillier,’ smirked Roper. ‘Still not emancipated.’
    â€˜My belief,’ I said, ‘has nothing to do with Father Byrne. People tend to choose the worse way rather than the better. That’s something experience has taught me. I use the theological term for want of a better one.’
    â€˜It’s all environment,’ said Roper. ‘All conditioning.’ He would have said more, but Lucy told him to save it. ‘Everybody wants to sing,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think we ought to have business first?’
    â€˜Business.’ The word made Roper very serious and chin-jutting. ‘We have a bit of discussion,’ he told me. ‘Brenda there takes the main conclusions down in shorthand. You’ll stay, won’t you? You may have some useful ideas to contribute. A fresh mind, you see. Perhaps we in the group are growing a little too familiar with each