Conversation

‘Let’s run through this again,’ said my wife, pouring me a glass of white (though I distinctly remember asking for red).
‘Who is Maurice Orbez?’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘according to Carl Stensson…’
‘He’s the one who smells like a wild boar, yes?’
If you didn’t already know, my wife is incredibly sensitive to smell, ordering all the people she knows according to their personal scent.
‘You’re thinking of A—– d– L——‘
‘Oh. So what about this Stensson chap then?’
‘He’s the guy who thought that Van Gogh faked his death. You said he smelled like a d—- f—‘
She stroked her right eyebrow gently. ‘Oh yes. I remember now. So what’s his line on d’Orbey?’
‘Orbez,’ I corrected her. ‘It’s Orbez. That’s the problem. d’Orbey is someone else entirely.’
‘So who’s Orbez?’
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion. Stensson thinks that it’s a man from the nineteenth century who wrote a couple of novels about medieval wall-scrawlings, with or without the help of a defrocked nun.’
‘I see,’ said she. ‘And what do other people think?’
‘Well, Andrew…’
‘Who’s he?’
‘You’ve never smelled him. He’s some blogger fellow.’
‘I see. Can’t he afford a surname?’
‘Perhaps not,’ I said, giving her a look to suggest that, in this fair country, it is frowned upon to make fun of those who cannot afford surnames.
‘And what does he say about Orbez?’
‘He’s all for the defrocked nun,’ I explained. ‘He thinks she wrote the whole bang lot. Not only that, but she wrote them in code.’
‘What sort of code?’
‘I know not.’
She sipped her wine. I sipped mine. Vinegary. As I expected.
‘Are you still reading that new O’Droningham novel?’ she asked.
‘You know I am. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, you know – it’s just, what with you and your naughty monks, and all this stuff about defrocked nuns, I’m just wondering whether or not you might be causing undue offence to certain members of the religious community.’
‘And?’
‘Well, is it really necessary? You don’t want to give the impression that all monks release their sexual frustrations by writing erotic science-fiction, or that European history is full of defrocked nuns assuming false-names and hiding codes inside books about medieval graffiti..’
I scratched my nose wearily.
‘You may be right. In fact, I’m almost certain that a significant proportion of monks don’t fantasize about making love to aliens. Still, what can you do? I can’t risk not risking offending people.’
She spat a mouthful of wine back into the glass.
‘See?’ I said.
She sniffed. ‘ You know I hate it when you say that’.