Clarissa unfolded her mushroom omelet with a secret smile. “You’ll meet our number-one committee member after lunch. He’s coming, isn’t he?” She looked at Hastings as though suspecting him of a treacherous ineptitude.
“Certainly, certainly, at least he said he was.” Hastings motioned for the serving-woman to clean away the luncheon dishes and we moved to other chairs beside the pool for coffee.
Clarissa was in fine form, aggressive, positive, serenely indifferent to the effect she was having on Hastings and me. “Of course I’m just meddling,” she said in answer to an inquiry of mine. “I don’t really give two cents for Mr Cave and his message.”
“Clarissa!” Hastings was genuinely shocked.
“I mean it. Not that I don’t find him fascinating and of course the whole situation is delicious ... what we shall do! or you shall do!” she looked at me maliciously. “I can foresee no limits to this.”
“It no doubt reminds you of the period shortly after Mohammed married Khadija.” My own malice, however, could not pierce Clarissa’s mad equanimity.
“Vile man, sweet woman. But no, this is all going to be different although the intellectual climate (I think intellectual is perhaps optimistic but you know what I mean) is quite similar. I can’t wait for the first public response.”
“There’s already been some,” said Hastings, crossing his legs which were encased in pale multicolor slacks with rawhide sandals on his feet. “There was a piece yesterday in the News about the meetings they’ve been having up near Laguna or wherever it is he’s been speaking this time.”
“What did they say?” Clarissa scattered tiny saccharine tablets into her coffee like a grain goddess preparing harvest.
“Oh, just one of those short suburban notes about how a Mr Joseph Cave, they got the name wrong, was giving a series of lectures at a funeral parlor which have been surprisingly well attended.”