“‘What about physical passion?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that in the running?’
“‘No, madam, it is not. Descartes got far more passion and pleasure out of life than Casanova.’
“‘What about Romeo and Juliet?’
“‘Puppy love,’ he said. ‘Superficial tosh.’
“‘Are you saying that your Caesar and Cleopatra is a greater play than Romeo and Juliet?’
“‘Without a doubt,’ he said.
“‘Boy, you’ve got a nerve, Mr. Shaw.’
“‘So have you, young lady.’ He picked up a sheet of paper from the table. ‘Listen to this,’ he said and he started to read aloud in that squeaky voice of his, ‘. . . the body always ends by being a bore. Nothing remains beautiful and interesting except thought, because thought is life. . . .’
“‘Of course it ends by being a bore,’ I said. ‘That’s a pretty obvious remark. But it isn’t a bore at my age. It’s a juicy fruit. What’s the play?’
“‘It’s about Methuselah,’ he said. ‘And now I must ask you to leave me in peace. You are pert and pretty but that does not entitle you to take up my time. I thank you for the grapes.’
“I glanced at my watch. Just over a minute to go. I had to keep talking. ‘I’ll be off then,’ I said. ‘But in exchange for my grapes I’d love it if you gave me your autograph on one of your famous postcards.’
“He reached for a postcard and signed it. ‘Now be off with you,’ he said. ‘You have wasted enough of my time.’
“‘I’m going,’ I said, fumbling about and trying to string out the seconds. The nine minutes were up now. Oh Beetle, lovely Beetle, kind Beetle, where are you? Why have you deserted me?”
“A bit dicey, that,” I said.
“I was desperate, Oswald. It had never happened before.
“‘Mr. Shaw,’ I said, pausing by the door, searching for a time killer, ‘I promised my dear old mother who thinks you are God the Father himself to be sure to ask you one question… .’
“‘You are a pest, madam!’ he barked.
“‘I know I am, I know, I know, but please answer it for her. Here’s the question. Is it really true that you disapprove of all artists who create works of art for purely aesthetic reasons?’
“‘I do, madam.’
“‘You mean pure beauty is not enough?’
“‘It is not,’ he said. ‘Art should always be didactic, serving a social purpose.’
“‘Did Beethoven serve a social purpose, or Van Gogh?’
“‘Get out of here!’ he roared. ‘I have no wish to bandy words–’ He stopped in mid-sentence. For at that moment, Oswald, heaven be praised, the Beetle struck.”
“Hooray. Did it hit him hard?”
“This was a triple dose, remember”
“I know. So what happened?”
“I don’t think it’s safe to give triples, Oswald. I’m not going to do it again.”
“Rocked him a bit, did it?”
“Phase one was devastating,” Yasmin said. “It was as if he were sitting in an electric chair and someone had pulled the switch and jolted him with a million volts.”
“Bad as that?”
“Listen, his whole body rose up off the chair and there it hung, in mid-air, rigid, quivering, the eyes popping, the face all twisted.”
“Oh dear.”
“Rattled me.”
“I’ll bet.”
“What do we do now, I thought. Artificial respiration, oxygen, what?”
“You’re not exaggerating, are you, Yasmin?”
“God no. The man was contorted. He was paralyzed. He was garrotted. He couldn’t speak.”
“Was he conscious?”
“Who knows?”
“Did you think he might kick the bucket?”
“I reckoned it was about even money.”
“You really thought that?”
“You only had to look at him.”
“Christ, Yasmin.”
“I stood there by the door and I remember thinking, well whatever happens this old buzzard’s written his last play. ‘Hello there, Mr. Shaw,’ I said. ‘Wakey wakey.’”
“Could he hear you?”
“I doubt it. And through his whiskers I could see white stuff, like brine, forming on his lips.”
“How long did all this last?”
“A couple of minutes. And on top of everything else I began worrying about his heart.”
“Why his heart, for God’s sake?”
“He was going purple in the face. I could see his skin going purple.”