Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

head.
    â€œNo matter,” said Rupert O’Brien. “That’s a mediocre painting of food. A lovely ripe melon, split open, a delicious-looking ham, a bird, some cherries, everything just asking to be eaten. But the composition is most peculiar, and the perspective is all over the place. In fact, it has an almost-Daliesque quality to it. Do you know Dali?”
    â€œYes,” said Fatty, with relief. “I know Dali.”
    â€œWhere did you meet him?” asked Rupert O’Brien.
    â€œOh,” said Fatty. “I thought you meant …”
    â€œI met him at his villa,” went on Rupert O’Brien. “Pre-Niamh days, of course. She was just a snip of a thing at drama school then. I was in Barcelona for a couple of months and I was invited out to Dali’s villa with some gallery friends. Peculiar place. Rather like–”
    He was interrupted by the arrival of a young waitress, one of the girls from the village, who brought in the large bowls of fish soup.
    â€œGorgeous,” said Rupert O’Brien, sniffing at his soup. “Just the right amount of garlic, I can tell. Never put too much garlic in your fish soup. Robin Maugham told me that. You know him? Famous writer. He learned all about garlic in the soup from his uncle, Willie Maugham – Somerset Maugham, you know. Great enthusiast
pour la table
. Maugham
neveu
used to visit his uncle at the Villa Mauresque, where he had a famous cook. People used to do anything for an invitation to luncheon with the old boy because of Madame
dans la cuisine
. Apparently she used to cook for the Pope, but became fed up with the all those goings-on in the Vatican and returned to France. Mind you, it’s a bit of a waste of time placing fine food before a pope. They really are most unappreciative of the finer things in life. Most of them are pretty unsophisticatedpriests from remote villages with tastes to match. John XXIII was like that, I’m sorry to say. No understanding of art, I gather. None at all. Pius XII, may his blessed soul rest in peace, was the last pontiff of any breeding, you know. Terribly good family he came from; old Roman aristocrats. Mind you, he had a delicate stomach and could only eat polenta, poor fellow. Pity about his friendship with
il Duce
, but there you are.”
    Fatty dipped his spoon into his soup. He looked at Betty, who was watching anxiously to see which spoon was being used.
    â€œSuch a beast, Mussolini,” said Rupert, between mouthfuls of soup. “Psychopathic braggart. And irredeemably
petit bourgeois
. I don’t know which is worse, probably neither. Do you know that he tried to impress his people by performing so-called feats of bravery? He went into the lions’ cage at Rome Zoo, just to show that he was unafraid. But the Italian press didn’t say that they had drugged the lions and they couldn’t have harmed a fly. It’s all in that recent biography somebody brought out the other day. Frightful rubbish. Have you seen it?”
    Fatty was silent. He had finished his soup, and would have liked to have more, but there was no tureen handy and he would have to wait until the next course wasserved before he could appease his appetite.
    â€œTell me,” said Rupert suddenly. “What is your line of business Mr.… Mr.…”
    â€œO’Leary,” said Fatty.
    â€œMr. O’Leary. What sort of business are you in?”
    â€œAntiques,” said Fatty.
    â€œHow interesting,” said Rupert. “I pride myself on my own eye in that direction. I helped old Lord Balnerry sort his stuff out. You know his place? Down near Cork?”
    â€œNo,” said Fatty, adding, quietly, “I don’t seem to know anyone. Except Delaney, that is.”
    Rupert looked surprised. “Judge Delaney?” he said. “The Supreme Court man? You know him?”
    â€œNo,” said Fatty. “Joseph Delaney, the tailor. He fixed me up