On Beauty by Zadie Smith Page A

subject . . .’
    â€˜Oh, no . . .’ protested Kiki faintly.
    â€˜It is not boring –’ cried Claire. ‘I had no idea about the extent of this technology and what it’s actually doing to the biosphere . I don’t mean in ten years or fifty years, I mean right now  . . . It’s so vile, so vile. “Infernal” is the word I keep getting caught on, do you know what I mean? We’ve reached a new ring somehow. A very low infernal ring. The planet is finished with us, at this point –’
    â€˜Right, right,’ Kiki kept saying through all of this, as Claire kept talking. Kiki was impressed by her but also slightly wearied – there was no subject she could not enthusiastically dissect or embroider. Kiki was reminded of that famous poem of Claire’s about an orgasm that seemed to take apart all the different elements of an orgasm and lay them out along the page, the way a mechanic dismantles an engine. It was one of the few poems by Claire that Kiki had felt she understood without having to be talked through it by her husband or her daughter.
    â€˜Honey,’ said Warren. He touched Claire’s hand lightly but with intent. ‘So where’s Howard?’
    â€˜Missing in action,’ said Kiki, and smiled at Warren warmly. ‘Probably in a bar with Erskine.’
    â€˜God – I haven’t seen Howard in for ever ,’ said Claire.
    â€˜Working on the Rembrandt still, though?’ persisted Warren. He was the son of a fireman, and Kiki liked this best about him,although she knew all the other ideas she connected with this one were romantic notions on her part, not relevant to the real lived existence of a busy biochemist. He asked questions, he was interested and interesting, he rarely spoke of himself. He had a calm voice for the worst accidents and emergencies.
    â€˜Uh-huh,’ said Kiki, and nodded and smiled but found she could go no further than this without betraying more than she wanted to.
    â€˜We saw The Shipbuilder and His Wife in London – the Queen lent it out to the National Gallery – nice of her, huh, right? It was fabulous . . . the working up of the paint,’ said Claire urgently, and yet practically to herself, ‘the physicality of it, like he’s digging in to the canvas to get what’s really in those faces, in that marriage – that’s the thing, I think. It’s almost anti -portraiture: he doesn’t want you to look at the faces; he wants you to look at the souls . The faces are just a way in . It’s the purest kind of genius.’
    A tricky silence followed this, not necessarily noticeable to Claire herself. She had a way of saying things that couldn’t be answered. Kiki was still smiling, looking down at the rough, hardy skin of her own black toes. And if it were not for the bedside charm of my mother, thought Kiki dreamily, there would have been no inherited house; and if it were not for the house, there would have been no money to send me to New York – would I have met Howard, would I know people like this?
    â€˜Except I think Howard’s actually coming from a contrary position, darling – when he’s discussed it, if you remember – he’s weighing in against – would we say the culture myth of Rembrandt, his genius, etcetera?’ said Warren doubtfully, with the scientist’s reticence when using the language of artists.
    â€˜Oh, of course that’s right,’ said Claire tightly – she seemed not to want to discuss the subject. ‘He doesn’t like.’
    â€˜No,’ said Kiki, equally glad to pass on to other topics. ‘He doesn’t like.’
    â€˜What does Howard like?’ asked Warren wryly.
    â€˜Therein lies the mystery.’
    Just then Murdoch began to yap furiously, and yank on the leadthat Warren held in his hand. The three of them tried both cooing and