The woman who had never been to Brazil
I was at a dinner party just before Christmas. It was one of those parties where everything falls into place. The ambience (cold outside, fire blazing in the grate), the camaraderie (a great mixture of people who have known each other for a long time) and of course there was a large array of drinks to be weighed and savoured.After a wonderful meal, we sat round the fire with a relish that seemed to say that we had never been near a fire before. “Far from it we were reared”, as the saying goes. Then we began a blindfold beer testing session. I got a stout and lager right but confused two others – damn.
I had boasted of my refined palate for fermented hops, wheat and barley and was beaten by a relative newcomer to our group – a callow student who had just started shaving by the look of him.
Then a woman spoke up. She hadn’t wanted to join in the competition but when it was over and the student had retreated, tactfully I must say, to a corner of the room, she lifted a bottle of Brazilian beer.
Initially, the only thing she said was “hmm”. But then she said something which had me dashing for my bag. Now this bag goes with me everywhere, despite the scorn it attracts from those of my mates who reside at the Alpha Male end of my social spectrum. I am a writer and I have to write and read, anywhere and everywhere. In my man bag there are always at least two books and a notepad and pen. I accept that it all smacks of superhero pretensions, and is an essentially antisocial trait; this thing of needing to disappear from a gathering so that you can return as a writer, deep in thought, scribbling furiously and probably muttering to yourself. This is our joy and our curse.
She was side on to the fire and had what I regard as a quintessential Irish woman’s face. As an ex merchant seaman, I think I can state with some authority that Irish women are the most beautiful women in the world. Her hair was long and all dark chestnut but when she threw it back to taste the beer it was made russet by the flicker of fire. The classic west of Ireland female face. A wide, sensual mouth and definite jaw. Strong cheekbones and a graceful neck where an amethyst torque would sit with pride. Eyes fiercely blue that know the ways of men and are easy with them. Ancient as a hare watching from the crest of a hill.
“Hmm” was all she said at first. She arched her white throat and drank again. Then she spoke the wisdom of ages. It was also a uniquely Irish thing to say and the note I now have in front of me makes reference to Kierkegaard, Wittgenstein and Stanley Cavell. All spoke, and Cavell still speaks, of the transcendence that is to be found in ordinary language. Not just transcendence but also true democracy. There is no such thing as a complete expert. There are only degrees of knowing and imagining.
Here is the key thing in my note, written as Queen Maeve spoke –
Amongst many other things, Kierkegaard argued that it is possible to have a truth revealed to you, by the powers of your imagination and thought formulation alone, on a subject which you otherwise knew very little about. Kierkegaard writes stunningly and movingly about Mozart, and in particular about the opera Don Juan, yet this genius of letters and existence admits (in Either/Or for example) of knowing very little about music as a discipline.
It is possible for example, Kierkegaard said, after thinking and consideration, after perhaps reading and listening, after an exploration of the highways of the mind, to know and “feel” a country in which you have never set foot. To have a revelation about that place and to possess it.
After the initial “hmm”. On the second draught from the bottle, my dark maiden said:
“My God that’s lovely. It takes you right back there. Even though you’ve never been.”