Kitabı oku: «My Oxford Year», sayfa 2
Simon wraps my whole meal in a cone of brown butcher paper surrounded by newspaper and offers it to me like a bouquet of roses. “Tradition,” he boasts. “Some other chippies use them plastic takeaway containers. Flattens me.” He hands me a paper plate, saying, “For sauce,” and gestures to a counter full of condiments at the front of the restaurant. “That’s me own twist on tradition. Used to be you’d come in here and get curry or peas or tartar and that was that. Give ’em a go. Promise you won’t be disappointed.” He winks at me.
Before I can reply, the bell jingles, and Simon turns his attention to the door. “JD!” he exclaims with a bright smile, opening the hinged counter and moving toward the entrance.
“Simon, my good man,” a male voice replies.
I focus on the culinary perfection in front of me. God, the smell. I take a bite. Heaven. I have to restrain myself from moaning.
I hear the man say, “Two fish and chips and two fizzies. Cheers, mate.” His voice is so melodious, so low and soothing, it should be accompanied by choral music.
Then a female voice says, “No chips for me. And make mine diet.”
Peripherally, I sense them settle in at a booth near the door as Simon comes back around. I take another mouthful of the perfectly prepared fish and this time am not so successful at stifling my moan. Simon, tending to the fryer, throws me a grin over his shoulder.
I hear the woman behind me murmur, “I thought you were taking me to the best place in Oxford.”
“And so I have,” the man says.
Pulling another chip out of the cone, I’m absorbed in trying to read pieces of the paper’s stories and advertisements, but the fog keeps rolling in. A few minutes later, Simon pops the countertop once more and lumbers over to the couple, delivering their meals. “Cheers,” the man says, then, as Simon comes back through the counter, “Behold the potato! Divine tuber. Staple of the gods. How we adore thee!”
“They give you a fat arse,” the woman replies.
“No, no,” the man argues, “The oil does. The oil! Yet the potato takes the blame. It’s a bloody outrage, I tell you.” He laughs. She doesn’t.
Simon catches my eye and rolls his. I roll mine back and we smile, comrades-in-arms. He nods toward the condiment station, whispering, “Really, give ’em a go.”
“Oh, right! I forgot.” I pick up my plate and walk to the counter to survey the many options.
I hear the man continue, “Now, the Irish! They knew the value of the potato. Did you know that when the Irish were deprived of the potato for just a few years, a million people died?”
There’s a pause. “Why didn’t they just eat something else?”
My hand punches the tarter sauce pump and the thick paste overshoots my plate, splattering onto the counter.
“What, like cake?” the man asks dryly.
“Sure,” she answers, immune to sarcasm.
I pick up a bottle labeled Brown Sauce (not exactly descriptive) and pour that onto my plate, too. Then I take a squeeze of mustard, a dollop of mayonnaise, something that looks like chutney but I’m not sure. I feel obligated to take a little of everything, not wanting to disappoint Simon. The plate looks like a painter’s palette.
I hear Golden Voice get out of the booth. “Why didn’t they just eat something else? Excellent question! Let them eat cake! But, see, they’d run out. Not a slice of cake in the entire country. Bloody awful. What was the Empire coming to, eh?” Dry British wit on full display. Always entertaining and yet somehow thoroughly obnoxious. “Now,” he continues, “there’s a home-cooked meal in it for you—”
She cuts him off, using a low, come-hither voice. “I’d rather those earrings we saw earlier.”
“You’ll have to do a bit more than trivia for diamonds, love,” he says offhandedly. The jerk. “A home-cooked meal if you can tell me the year the Potato Famine occurred. You have ten seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight—”
I realize I’m just standing there in my encroaching fog, listening to this ridiculous conversation, letting my fish and chips get cold. Snapping out of it, I turn around to head back to my seat and crash spectacularly into Golden Voice. Two planets colliding. The entire plate of condiments flips backward into my chest and I teeter, about to go down. A knightly hand reaches out and clutches my forearm, steadying me. My other hand grabs his shoulder.
Maybe he’s not a jerk, after all.
Righting myself, I catch sight of the woman he’s been talking with. Long blond hair. Windswept. Mouth open wide in a shocked laugh.
My gaze whips back to him, just as his head pops up, brown hair mussed.
Our eyes lock.
The fog lifts and I blurt, “You!”
CHAPTER 3
He sits in a beautiful parlor,
With hundreds of books on the wall;
He drinks a great deal of Marsala,
But never gets tipsy at all.
Edward Lear, “How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear!,” 1871
Me?” he inquires, a deer-in-headlights look in his eyes.
“You!” I repeat.
We’re still facing each other. He’s still grasping my forearm, I’m still clutching his shoulder. We’re right up against each other, face to face, eye to eye, plate to breasts.
His stare activates. He comes to life. “Right, okay, here’s what we do. Simon?” he calls, but Simon’s already tossing the towel from his shoulder and You deftly snatches it out of the air. “Lean forward,” he encourages. I bend at the waist and he peels the plate away. I watch the myriad sauces plop from my chest to the linoleum floor, a poor man’s Jackson Pollock.
The blonde laughs.
I stand upright as the man sets the plate on the counter, then moves toward me with the towel, heading for my chest.
My hand shoots out. “Don’t. I got it.” With my bare hands, I rub at my shirt like a finger-painting toddler, making it ten times worse. The clamminess is starting to seep through the fabric onto my skin. I feel him staring at me. “What?” I ask, all contained calm.
“Do we know each other?”
“You almost hit me with your car!”
“Was that you?”
I grind my jaw, keeping my mouth shut.
“May I … assist?” the man lilts with a tone that only ever means one thing.
I freeze.
He can’t be.
I look up at him.
He is.
He’s flirting with me. Holding the towel poised and ready, all dashing smile and twinkling eyes.
My head explodes. “Are you kidding me?”
“I would never dare kid about such matters,” he charms.
“You’re flirting? You should be apologizing!”
“For flirting?”
“For nearly running me over!”
“You’re suggesting I apologize for something I didn’t intentionally do? I’d rather apologize for the flirting.” He’s smiling.
“Y-you … you posh prat!”
“Ooh. Posh prat. Nice choice of alliterative spondee.” He’s still smiling. “So you’re American. Right, here’s the one thing I know about Americans: they tend to get themselves run over in this country by stepping directly into oncoming traffic.”
“So it’s my fault?!” I shout.
“Another thing I know about Americans: they tend to shout. Here.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a brightly colored wad of money. He peels off a bill. He holds it out to me.
“What is that?” I seethe. Quietly.
“Specifically? It’s a fifty-pound note.”
“I don’t want your money! I want … I want—” What do I want? The fog is thickening again.
“Oh, don’t look so outraged. Take it. You said it yourself. I’m the posh prat.” He holds the money out again. “The unemotional cad who—absent any genuine remorse or feeling—can but only buy the regard of others.”
I jerk my head to the blonde. “So I see.”
This strikes him. His face changes. The open, breezy, devil-may-care smile drops away and a curtain closes behind his eyes. The show is over. He actually looks hurt. Good. “Keep your money,” I say, capitalizing on this moment of clarity, of the tables having turned, seizing a parting shot. “Buy the historian some carbs.”
Walking back to the counter, I pick up my book and coat, digging in the pocket for some cash. I plop down twenty pounds, grab what remains of my fish bouquet, catch Simon’s smiling eyes, and head for the door. “See you later, Simon!”
“Looking forward to it, Ella from Ohio!” He chuckles.
“Bonne chance,” the man calls dryly, clearly having rallied. Then, adopting an even plummier, more clichéd British accent, adds, “Keep calm and look right!”
Ignoring him, I open the door. The bell jingles and I pause at the threshold. I can’t resist. I turn back to him. “The Potato Famine was in 1845. Asshole.”
SO THAT WENT well.
Foggy, filthy, and suddenly exhausted, I hoof back to Magdalen, shoving fried fish into my mouth as I go. It’s not my imagination that people give me a wide berth.
Now that I’m out in the fresh air, the beginning twinges of embarrassment set in. Yes, I’m jet-lagged, out of my comfort zone, but still …
I hate guys like that. I went to college with guys like that. I interned on the Hill with guys like that. Guys who think they can buy respect with Daddy’s money, and then seal the deal with a wink and a smile. Guys who play a game, who set their trap as if it’s the most ingenious feat of engineering ever devised and expect you to fall all over yourself congratulating their effort.
Look. I’m not drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but with the right lighting, the right hair and makeup effort on my part, I’ve been known to turn a few heads. I have this wild Irish hair that goes everywhere, a wide Julia Roberts mouth, and big, round eyes that make me look more innocent than I actually am. The approachable, girl-next-door type. The type who might be flattered, for instance, by your flirting after you’ve nearly run her over and then destroyed her shirt.
Unfortunately for guys like that, looks can be deceiving.
I stumble through the Magdalen gates and into the lodge. No Hugh. I continue on through the other door and into the courtyard. The sun dips in the sky and the sandstone buildings are hued pink. I wobble across the cobblestones and try to follow Hugh’s directions in my clouded head.
A large L-shaped building appears, embracing a giant lawn so finely coiffed it would shame a golf course. Every thirty feet or so, little staircases, bordered by mullioned windows, ascend into the depth and darkness of the building. I find number four and start my climb with the single-minded determination of the proverbial horse returning to the barn.
The first few stairs are granite, but they soon become old slabs of stone, each step worn into a bowed smile from centuries of shoes. The stairway continues to spiral and soon narrows into planks of rickety wood. It’s so steep that I find myself climbing the steps as if they were a ladder, ending up on hands and knees on a small five-by-five landing, a door on each side of me.
I’m about to stand and dig in my pocket for the key Hugh gave me when it occurs to me that my bags are still downstairs in the lodge. I tip over onto my side with a loud groan. I could sleep right here. I just might.
The door on the right opens and Gus Gus quickly emerges, stepping over me casually as if I’d been there as long as the staircase, and disappears down the stairs. A voice from the open door calls after him, “Your beauty will fade, as will my interest. Be gone with you!”
A figure appears in the doorway and recoils at the sight of me. It’s wearing a red dressing gown and holding a tumbler of amber liquid. Its free hand finds the gap in the robe and clutches it closed, like an aging Tennessee Williams heroine.
“Hello!” I croak.
“Hel-lo,” it replies haltingly, a small, willowy male with wavy, chin-length, chestnut hair. He peers at me then murmurs, almost to himself, “Is it lost?”
Hey. When I use a dehumanizing pronoun, I only think it. I don’t say it right to the pronoun’s face. I stumble to my feet. “I live here.” I gesture to the door behind me. “I’m Ella.” He looks me over, nose crinkling at either my appearance or smell, I can’t tell which. Both are on par with a county-fair trash can at the moment. I soldier on, remembering who Gus Gus told Hugh he was looking for, back in the lodge. “And you’re Sebastian Melmoth, right?”
Now he gives me the side-eye, suspicious. “That’s right. It’s a family name. But how—”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he drawls, mocking my accent. “Goes back centuries. But how did you—”
“I didn’t know that was possible.”
“What?”
“To be descended from someone who didn’t actually exist.” He side-eyes me from the other direction. “Correct me if I’m wrong, it’s been a while since I read his stuff, and I’m tired, jet-lagged, and, you know, American, but Sebastian Melmoth was Oscar Wilde’s pseudonym. Right?”
Admittedly, I’m getting a certain perverse pleasure from this.
Called out, the guy just glares at me, then heaves a condescending sigh, turns on his heel, and goes back into his room, slamming the door for good measure.
I take a stabilizing breath, retrieve the ancient-looking key from my pocket, and assess the antique keyhole lock. I slide the key into it and turn. It sounds like I’m unlocking a vault. I push open the tired hinged door and enter the room. My room.
The sun has almost set, so the room is dim. So dim that I fail to see my luggage in the middle of the floor and trip over it. Still, Hugh is my hero right now. I fumble for a light switch and find it to the right of the door.
The room is quaint, with an A-frame ceiling and exposed wooden beams. Between the beams, the ceiling is painted white and the walls are Victorian-era plaster, even peeling romantically in places. Pushed up against the far wall is a single twin bed centered to the apex of the roofline. There’s a functional dresser on one wall and a low built-in bookcase beside it. To the left there’s a little bathroom with an RV-size shower and Barbie doll sink, and to the right is a single, double-paned dormer window. I go to it.
The light is fading, but I glimpse the outline of a spectacular view. I can see Magdalen Tower from here, and slate-shingled rooftops in between and beyond. The top of one of the oak trees in the quad below fills in the bottom border of the window.
I could get used to this.
I quickly shower off, reluctantly throw away my shirt, change into some sweats, connect to the college Wi-Fi, and check my e-mail.
Four sequential messages from my mother greet me.
Just checking in. Let me know when you land.
Let me know when you get settled.
Are you settled? Is something wrong? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?
Ella please respond. I would call the college but I don’t know how to call international and the Skype thing you set up for me says I need money to call. I thought the point of it was that it’s free??? Anyway, just let me know you’re safe because in my bones I think something might be wrong.
I heave a sigh. Now is not the time for her to go all Chicken Little on me. I type:
Tell your bones to relax. I’m fine. Just exhausted. Will write more tomorrow.
I hesitate, as I always do at writing “I love you,” so I just write, XO, E.
I glance at a few more e-mails in my inbox, but everything is becoming one big blur. I look at the clock on my computer: 6:30. A totally reasonable bedtime.
For the most part I sleep soundly, but every time the clock tower chimes, my dreams change like slides in a projector. At the seven o’clock chime, the door to my room opens.
It takes me a moment to realize I’m no longer dreaming.
CHAPTER 4
Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight …
Edward Fitzgerald translation, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, 1859
I bolt upright. A squat, white-haired woman wearing a functional gray apron walks into my room, humming.
I scream.
She screams.
We look at each other.
“Oooh!” she exclaims, grabbing her chest. “You put the heart crossways in me, love!” She shuffles farther into my room. “Go back t’ sleep, don’t mind old E.”
My eyes begin to clear and I notice she’s carrying a bucket. She waddles into the bathroom.
I get out of bed and stagger after her. She’s bent over the toilet, scrubbing and humming away. “Oh, y-you don’t have to do that,” I stammer.
“Bless you.” She keeps right on doing it.
I hold out my hand. “I’m Ella.”
She doesn’t take her eyes off the task at hand. “Eugenia, love.”
I drop my hand. “So, you’re a maid? We get a maid?” I cringe. “I mean, a housekeeper? Or room attendant, or—”
She stands upright and looks at me sternly, a schoolmarm in a past life. “I’m yer scout, dearie.” Then she moves to the shower, wiping it down with a rag. “Did that muddleheaded porter of a Hugh not tell ya you’d be havin’ a scout?”
“How often do you come?” I ask.
“Why every day, o’ course!” She turns to the sink, polishes the knobs. “’Cept for Saturdays. And Sundays. And bank holidays, fer certain. Seven sharp, on the chime.” She grins at me. “But don’t worry, love. Quiet as a church mouse, in and out in two minutes without anyone knowin’ the wiser. Just ask yer neighbor. Been cleanin’ his rooms for four years now and I only ever seen him with his eyes open but once, and that was comin’ home after a night out.” She laughs to herself. “He’s a jolly one, he is.” She changes the trash bag with a magician-like flourish of the wrist.
This whole arrangement is very Upstairs, Downstairs. And she’s no spring chicken. My midwestern side is uncomfortable having a septuagenarian in service to me, no matter how much pride she seems to take in her job. “Eugenia, you really don’t have to come every day.”
She’s already at the door, bucket in hand. She smiles, grabs the doorknob, and says, “Right then, see you tomorrow, love.” And she’s gone.
AFTER CUTTING THROUGH some texts and e-mails (three from Gavin), I shower, twist my hair into a messy topknot, slap on some mascara and lip gloss, and slip into one of my more responsible-looking blazers. I’m out the door by nine with an unearned sense of victory. I thank Hugh for his very Remains of the Day baggage-delivery service last night and get a distracted grunt in reply.
With an hour to spare before the Rhodes orientation, I grab a bottled Frappucino and some cookie-like thing called a flapjack from some bodega-like thing called a newsagent’s and start wandering.
The High is quiet this early, the shops’ gates still down, the restaurants dark. But a simple right turn, just before a medieval church, puts me in a cobblestone alleyway that opens up to a city alive. I’m in Radcliffe Square, and I stop to take it all in. The iconic, cylindrical Radcliffe Camera stands before me, with its neoclassical architecture and golden walls. It’s as if I’ve stumbled onto an anthill. Students and tourists go in and out of gates on the square’s periphery, disappearing into the basement of a church, emerging with coffee and pastry bags. Interesting. I regret my bottle of newsagent’s coffee.
I’m just turning around like the second hand of a clock, taking it all in. The architecture, the landscaping, the way people are dressed, the way they sound. The constant tring-tring of bicycle bells. I move through the square, past the Bodleian Library, and around the Sheldonian Theatre, its surrounding pillars topped with thirteen stone busts of nameless men. Across the street, tourist shops hawk Oxford gear next to a couple of charming-looking pubs and a few gated colleges. The stores are painted in cheery blues and reds, yellows and whites. A couple of Union Jacks fly out over the sidewalk, where a smattering of café tables and chairs waits for patrons in the dewy early-morning chill.
It’s a more cosmopolitan environment than I expected. It feels old, yes, but it’s thriving. History with a pulse. Warm-blooded ruins. I hear Mandarin, Italian, French, Arabic, and an assortment of English accents. There’s a startling number of Americans. It’s as if this city belongs to everyone. If you’re here, you belong here. It’s like a timeless, ramshackle International Space Station.
At the end of Broad Street, in front of Balliol College, there’s an innocuous-looking cobblestone cross embedded in the street. A memorial, it turns out, for the three Oxford Martyrs, Protestant bishops who were burned at the stake by Queen Mary in the 1550s. I realize, with a start, that one of these men was Thomas Cranmer, the man responsible for annulling the marriage of Mary’s parents, Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon.
My brain tries to reboot. I’m standing on the spot where Thomas Cranmer died. It’s not blocked off, no one’s charging admission. It’s barely even marked. It’s just part of the Oxford landscape. And not thirty feet away, I can buy Oxford University sweatpants and TARDIS cookie tins.
A chill goes up my spine. This moment of cognitive dissonance is just the beginning. Toto, we’re not in Ohio anymore.
Gauging distance in this town is impossible. Maybe it’s the uneven, cobblestoned terrain. Maybe it’s the pods of tourists taking up every inch of sidewalk. Maybe it’s the meandering streets and alleys. I love every cobblestone, pod, and meander, but I misjudge how long it will take to get to the Rhodes House and I end up finding it with less than a minute to spare.
I race up the steps. Just as I grab the door handle, my phone rings. Shit. Even though it’s only five A.M. in Washington, apparently we’re open for business.
“Gavin, hi!” I answer.
A chuckle greets me from the other end of the phone. “Sorry to disappoint, but this isn’t Gavin.”
I freeze, still holding the door handle. “Senator Wilkes,” I manage. “W-what a nice surprise.”
“Ella Durran. I’m a fan.”
I can’t believe this is happening; I’m here, I’m there, I’m—starting to hyperventilate. Chill. “I’m a huge fan of yours,” I gush. “I’m so excited to—”
“Excuse me?”
I spin around. I’m blocking the entrance. “Sorry,” I whisper to the woman trying to get around me. I glance inside the building as she opens the door. The place is packed. I’m two minutes late. They’re starting.
There’s no way I’m hanging up on the next possible president of the United States, who says breezily, “Well, let’s get to it. Education is going to be the cornerstone of my campaign and you are a key part of the strategy. I loved what you wrote. I had three boys in the Florida public school system while trying to put myself through grad school in my thirties. Trust me, I get it.”
Through the door, I hear the squeal of a microphone coming to life and then an amplified British voice saying, “Everyone, please take your seats …”
“Senator—”
“Call me Janet.”
“Thank you, I just want to say …” Breathe. Speak. “Anything you need, anything at all, I’m here for you and Gavin. It’s an honor to be working for you.”
“Working with me, Ella. This is a partnership. We’re going to do great things together. That said, we’ll try to bother you as little as possible. We want you to enjoy your time at Oxford. Right, Gavin?”
“Absolutely,” I hear him say in the background in a tone of voice I haven’t heard from him before. It’s patient and ingratiating. Just as he’s my boss, she’s his.
The door to the Rhodes House opens from the inside, and a man steps out, bending his head and bringing his cell phone to his ear. He answers it lowly. “This is Connor.”
We glance at each other with mirrored looks of chagrin. He has a really nice face: chiseled jaw, sloped nose, bright brown eyes, and Stephanopoulos hair. This is what I used to imagine a Rhodes scholar looked like. The prep school quarterback from a J. D. Salinger novel.
“Well, Ella, I won’t take up any more of your time. I just wanted to say welcome aboard.”
“Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“Never crossed my mind. Wait, Gavin wants to say something. I’ll hand you over.”
Do I tell him I’m missing orientation? Do I tell him I’ll call him back? Do I have a choice? Gavin’s voice comes on the line. “You have a minute? I can get Priya Banergee right now for a conference call. You in?”
Priya Banergee is a pollster. I should hear what she has to say. I look wistfully at the Rhodes House door even as I say, “Of course.” They patch Priya in as I plop down on the top step. My partner in cell-phone purgatory takes up residence on the other side of the stair. We give each other a resigned grin. As he speaks into his phone, I find myself assessing him.
Jesus. That is one attractive Rhodie.
TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, after listening to an endless stream of data and contributing almost nothing to the conversation, we wrap up. I disconnect and take a breath, then glance over at the guy, who’s also just hanging up.
Smiling, he says, “Can we just agree that anything either of us might have overheard doesn’t leave this stoop?”
I snort. “Deal. But can I ask who you work for? Lobbyist?”
He nods. “Health care.”
“Which group?”
“PMR?” Public Medical Relations. The biggest healthcare lobbying group in D.C., and he says it as if questioning whether I’ve heard of it. Like when you ask someone where they went to college and they say, “Harvard?”
“You’re inside the Beltway as well?” he asks. I nod. He leans over, bracing a palm on the cool marble step and extending his other hand to me. “Connor Harrison-Smith.”
“Ella Durran.”
God, he has a killer smile. Wouldn’t that be just my luck; I come all the way to England and fall for a guy who probably lives a block from me in D.C. He gestures toward the door. “You wanna?” I nod and we both stand, collecting our things. “So, not that I overheard anything, obviously, but this is a new job for you?”
“Yeah. You?”
“No. I quit. I’m just helping out until the new guy’s up to speed.”
I make a show of contemplating this. “Interesting. So you’re just gonna, like, study for the year?”
“I’m just gonna, like, drink a lot of really good beer, is what I’m gonna do.” We both chuckle. “I’m doing a master’s in global health. You?”
“Literature.”
“Really?”
Everyone always sounds surprised when I say this. “Yup; 1830 to 1914.”
We move toward the door. “Huh.” A wrinkle appears on his brow as he puzzles this out. He’s adorable. “Where’d you do your undergrad?”
“Georgetown. You?”
“Harvard?”
I smile.
He opens the door and holds it for me. A gentleman.
After getting an abbreviated orientation from a harried administrator (go here, do this, see this person for this thing, don’t do this, sign this), I glance at my watch, and I only have ten minutes to get to my first class at the English faculty building. I seem to be the only person rushing out. I think I’m definitely the only one doing a master’s in English. Whenever I say what I’m studying, people tilt their heads at me. What is this literature of which you speak?
I head outside only to be slowed by Connor’s voice calling, “Ella, wait.” I turn back, see him standing on our stairs. “Why don’t I give you my number? In case you wanna drink some beer.”
I smile at him and take out my phone. “It’s a plan.”
THE ENGLISH FACULTY building is a blocky, midcentury cement blight. Not exactly what I had expected. One of the linear, unimaginative departments should have this building. Something like chemistry or mathematics or, well, global health.
I arrive at the designated lecture room ten minutes after the class’s start time, once again a day late and a pound short in this city. Collecting myself, I softly open the door, fully expecting to interrupt the class.
I don’t.
A group of about ten people is scattered around a horseshoe table, some murmuring to each other, others reading, others looking at their phones. No one is at the lectern.
I cross to a cluster of empty seats. As I pass behind one of them, a girl mutters, “Sorry! This doesn’t need to be here,” and quickly lifts her bag off the seat directly in front of me. I keep moving toward another empty chair, opening my mouth to tell her it’s okay, but she keeps talking. “So sorry. My apologies, really. Selfish.”
In America, there’d be a good chance her apologies were sarcastic. From the corner of my eye, I take her in. She’s dressed conservatively (boat-neck tweed sheath dress under a canary-yellow cardigan, ballet flats), and her hair is styled in an intricate sixties beehive. Only, it’s pink. She appears innocent of any sarcasm.
I consider introducing myself to her, but she looks as if interaction with a stranger might push her over the edge. I guess this must be the famous British reserve.
Just then the door bangs open, causing everyone to jump, and a guy, outfitted like Robert Redford in The Sting, strides in. “I have arrived,” he announces. “We can begin.” So much for British reserve. With a start, I realize that I know him.
“Sebastian Melmoth!” I say.
He stops and peers at me. The girl’s pink head swivels from him to me, eyes bulging, before whipping back to him. “Charlie! You swore you’d stop doing that!”
He drops his head theatrically to his chest and sulks toward us.
The girl turns back to me, doe-brown eyes sympathetic. “How did you meet this git, then?”
“We share a staircase,” I answer as he drops into the chair on the other side of her.
She spins back to him, smacking him on the arm. “And you didn’t recognize her?”
“In my defense,” he begins, “she was disguised as a vagrant. The old crone in a Breton lai who is actually a beautiful sorceress. Clever bitch gets me every time.” He looks past the girl, to me. “So, having failed the moral aptitude test, what shall it be, eh? Seven years as a toad? Eternity as a Tory? Or shall we dispense with further discord?” He extends his hand. “Charles Butler, veritas et virtus.”
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