Geraldine sits forward and opens her exercise book on her knees. She is very attractive. Quite beautiful! Her full lips, large teeth and bright eyes match the best of American beauty. She would give all comers a run for the crown of Anytown, Anystate pageant queen. She turns and smiles at me. We seem to be exchanging a glance of complicity; it is as though we are sharing some confidence but I don’t know what it is. I look around as if I will find the answer somewhere behind me. Perhaps she is sympathising with me having to put up with Socrates? Of course, she is nodding her approval at my tolerance and forbearing. Perhaps she is winking at me? I just missed it when I turned back for a second. Yes, she is hinting that it is me she had chosen above him. I tingle a little, both at the intimacy of this momentary glance and at the thought of what she has in store for us. And the idea of her wink. That secret tryst between two who share a secret. I drop my head against the back of the sofa and moan. I flush with embarrassment as I hear myself.
Socrates starts to hum. First of all a simple zydeco tune he picked up when we had driven north of New Orleans to find, as he put it, ‘the true inhabitants of the New World — the Mediterraneans!’. That was a good journey. We spent several days afterwards arguing about the separate claims of Cajun and zydeco, about Martin accordions, fiddles, guitars, spoons and bottle openers, none of which he could speak of with anything approaching authority. And, for that matter, neither could I. But it did not matter. Yes, he is humming something of Buckwheat Zydeco, Zydeco Boogaloo I think. He loses the rhythm and the tune goes with it. Socrates has no claim to perfect—or any other degree of—pitch. He cocks his head back and begins again, this time something special, an imitation of the Kyrie from Bach’s B minor Mass. His voice is not good and it wavers throatily as he attacks the notes. His rendition is difficult, but it is obvious he shares the evocative power of this momentous work. Even from his poor account, I sense something of the spirituality contained in it. It readily transcends the ingloriousness of the all so material world. I imagine myself distilled into the fabric of the melody, becoming part of it. I see myself carried under its airy wings to eternity. Geraldine waits for me to arrive, her exercise book in her hands. She is naked—golden, pale golden with no pubic hair.
What am I doing here, I think, when I could be flying into Geraldine’s arms? Why was I sitting on this sofa? Does it matter? Does it matter that I am the closest of friends with an Ancient Greek philosopher who has avoided death, who is, by all accounts, apparently immortal? Does it matter that everywhere I go with him he brings embarrassment? That I am continually apologising for his clothing? That he speaks English? ‘Philosophy is a universal language,’ he often says, unable to convince me that therein lies an appropriate answer to the question of his perfect Oxford accent. ‘I have spent the last two thousand four hundred years learning nearly all the languages there are,’ is his less often given, but more superficially convincing reply. However, I have periodically tested him on many languages and found him innocent of them. This upholds my view that he is either a liar, which I believe he is, or a poor student, which I think he must also be. And how has he survived? Is that a reasonable question?
An extract from APLtF
