A Closed Book (14 page)

‘Ohhhh, I –'

‘See what I mean? But he is the prime minister, isn't he?'

‘What? What? Yes, oh yes, whatever – whatever you say!'

‘And Blair has AIDS?'

‘Oh, absolutely! Absolutely! Blair has AIDS all right! Yes, it's – ah, thank heaven, here's the door. I mean – No, no, don't bother, I'll see myself out. I'm awfully glad – as I said before, awfully glad – to have been able to assist you. And, uh – well, I – well, goodbye.'

‘Goodbye, goodbye. Drop in again some day.'

‘Moron.'

The computer didn't lie to me. Roger Cook is prime minister. And, it appears, poor Tony Blair does have AIDS. Everything is in order, is it not? And yet. And yet. Why am I
unable to rid myself of the feeling that something nevertheless is amiss? Is my mind at rest? No. Will it ever again be at rest? I wonder.

‘Christ! Shit!'

‘What the fuck was that?'

‘A book? It's a fucking book. I could have killed myself! Who the fuck was stupid enough to leave a book on the landing? An open book! At the top of the bloody stairs!'

‘Yes, who?'€

‘That you?'

‘Yeah! Be with you in a minute! Just let me hang my coat up!'

‘Well, hello there.'

‘You're home sooner than I expected.'

‘Traffic was light. Only thing that was, though. I've had a day-and-a-half, I can tell you.'

‘Why don't you pour yourself a whisky? Unwind. You might get one for me, too.'

‘Good. I need it.'

‘You all right, Paul?'

‘Mustn't grumble.'

‘Ah. If I know you, that means you feel very much in the mood to grumble.'

‘Does it? I'm not like that, am I?'

‘Oh yes you are. So tell me. What's there been to grumble about?'

‘Come on, Paul. We both know you're going to tell me eventually. Why not get it over with? What have I done now?'

‘I nearly fell downstairs.'

‘What?'

‘There was a book on the floor at the top of the stairs. This book.'

‘Ah.'

‘What book is it?'

‘Here's your whisky.'

‘Thank you.'

‘It's mine.
How Proust Can Change Your Life
. Alain de Botton. I've been reading it on my own time. I didn't think you'd object.'

‘Well, of course I don't object. I do object, however, to falling downstairs. And please don't bother reminding me I didn't actually fall. No thanks to you I
didn't. How Proust can change your life, eh?
You
almost changed my life.'

‘I'm really sorry, Paul. I left it there because I meant to take it to Oxford with me. I leave books and other things on the stairs all the time at home. But of course it was stupid, and dangerous, to do it here. Really, I apologize.'

‘Well – well, no harm done, I suppose. Chin chin.'

‘Chin chin.'

‘So? Find what you were looking for in Oxford? What
I
was looking for in Oxford?'

‘I think so. I went to Hertford, as you asked, and I took lots of photographs,
and
lots of notes, just to be sure.'

‘Did you go inside the college itself?'

‘I tried to, but I was stopped by some officious, bloody-minded porter. I wondered if I ought to tell him what I was there for – who I was there for – but then it struck me you'd probably prefer I didn't.'

‘You're right. I would. None of his fucking business.'

‘It wouldn't have had any effect anyway. There were tourists milling about, mostly Japanese, some kind of coach party, and they were all being turfed out.'

‘You photographed the bridge, I presume?'

‘Naturally.'

‘Isn't there a shield, some sort of shield, some sort of coat-of-arms, in the middle?'

‘Uh huh. It's all in the camera.'

‘Describe it for me.'

‘Just let me get my notes.'

‘It was hard to get a proper view of it with all the scaffolding and tarpaulin – they seem to be renovating the college.'

‘Why can't they leave the bloody thing alone? There's a mania in this country for wrapping up public buildings. Last time I saw London, it looked like one of those ghastly conceptual experiments by – what the hell's his name – Hungarian or Bulgarian sculpture fellow – always wrapping things up? What
is
his name?'

‘Christo?'

‘Christo, yes. Very good, John, very good.'

‘Thank you –
he answered wryly
.'

‘Stop it. It's only me. You ought to be used to me by now.'

‘I am. Oh, I am.'

‘Yes, well, you don't have to agree with such gusto. Go on.'

‘Go on?'

‘Hertford. The coat-of-arms.'

‘There are two stags, two stags' heads borne up to
heaven by cherubs, and there's also a – is it a fleur-de-lis? – on a zigzagging background.'

‘Yes. Yes, that
is
how I remember it. Go on.'

‘Well, the quad itself is rectangular, it's almost square, and the grass is very well tended. None of it has any particular architectural interest as far as I could see, except maybe for the ivied walls. There's a fountain – and – and what else? Yes, the stairs into the college are on the right as you pass through the entryway.'

‘On the right? You're quite sure they're on the right?'

‘Yes, I – wait. No, wait. I made a rough little map of the layout. No, I'm wrong. They're on the left. I was looking at it the wrong way up. They're on the left as you enter.'

‘That's true, yes, they
are
on the left! Oh, John, to you this couldn't be more trivial, but to me it's extremely important. It's important for me to know that, about some things at least, my poor old memory hasn't failed me.'

‘Well, it does seem to be okay as far as your Oxford days are concerned.'

‘Yes, it does, doesn't it? But then, it should be. I was there for four years. And – and wait. Next door?'

‘Next door?'

‘Next door to the college, just beyond the bridge, there's a house, isn't there? There's a quaint little house
with a brass plaque. Someone lived there, someone famous. Oh God, I used to pass that house every day of my life. It was a scientist, a – a – a – Edmond Halley! Edmond Halley lived there! You know, the boffin who discovered Halley's Comet?'

‘Well, didn't he?'

‘He may have discovered Halley's Comet but, no, he didn't live next door to Hertford College. The plaque's there all right, but it's for James Watt. Inventor of the steam engine?'

‘James Watt? But Watt was a Scot!'

‘So?'

‘I mean, are you absolutely sure it was Scott?'

‘Scott?'

‘What?'

‘You mean Watt?'

‘Watt, yes, Watt! Are you sure it was Watt?'

‘I took a photograph of the plaque.'

‘Well, bully for you, John. You must show it to me when it's developed.'

‘Look, I'm sorry, Paul, but I can only – I can only report back –'

‘Yes, yes, yes!'

‘I mean, look, it's –'

‘Oh, never mind. The gargoyles, what about the gargoyles?'

‘Ah, yes, I did manage to buy a guide-book. Surprisingly expensive.'

‘Don't worry. I'll reimburse you.'

‘Yes, Paul, I know you will. You really didn't have to say that.'

‘Oh, sorry. I'm sorry. I'm – anyway, what is this book?'

‘
Oxford's Gargoyles and Grotesques. A Guided Tour.
'

‘
Oxford's Gargoyles and Grotesques
. Well, that's admirably pithy and to the point. What are they like?'

‘Well –'

‘What I mean is, do any of them bear the slightest resemblance to me?'

‘Ah, so that's why –'

‘Naturally. Why else?'

‘Well?
Do
any of them look like me?'

‘Remember, John, it's for the book. This is no time to be fastidious.'

‘Frankly, and just riffling through it, I have to say it's a bit disappointing.'

‘Disappointing? Why so?'

‘Because they're not all that grotesque.'

‘Not all that grotesque, eh? So none of them actually does look like me? As you say, that
is
disappointing.'

‘Here's one from, let's see, the Bodleian Library.
“This sprightly gentleman” – this is the guide-book talking – “this sprightly gentleman – a stone spirit, or lapid –” Do you know what a lapid is?'

‘Who cares? Go on.'

‘“A stone spirit, or lapid one might call him – seems to be emerging from the wall.”'

‘Well, there you are. That's most promising. Could be me emerging from the mangled car in Sri Lanka.'

‘Well, no.'

‘Why not?'

‘He's grinning.'

‘I see. Try again.'

‘Here's one from Brasenose. “A friar leans down from a window jamb and idly picks his nose.”'

‘No thanks.'

‘This is an odd one. From Magdalen.'

‘Pronounced “Magdalen”.'

‘“Magdalen.” All it says is, “This monster beggars interpretation.”'

‘Sounds like Michael Jackson.'

‘You've
heard
of Michael Jackson?'

‘Of course I have. Who hasn't?'

‘True. You never met him, I suppose?'

‘No, I didn't. Let's stick to what we're about, shall we? What do you think? Could this particular gargoyle be useful for the book? Top me up, will you.'

‘Oh. Right.'

‘Here.'

‘Thanks. About the gargoyle?'

‘Well, Paul, I don't know whether you'll be pleased or not, but in my opinion it bears absolutely no resemblance to you.'

‘Pity. And, I suppose, phew. Go on.'

‘This next one's from Magdalen as well. And, since you keep insisting, I suppose I would have to say there's a faint likeness this time. If you half-close your eyes.'

‘Yes, all right. What exactly is it?'

‘It's a – well, no, simpler if I just read you the caption. “Man-monster and alligator are locked in symbiotic conflict, each grasping the other's tongue.”'

‘Intriguing. You wouldn't be trying to tell me something, John, would you?'

‘Why? What do you mean?'

‘If you don't get it, it's not worth explaining. Go on.'

‘Come on, that's not –'

‘I said, go on.'

‘That's about all there is. Oh, no, here's something at New College. Now this could be interesting. A set of seven gargoyles representing the Seven Virtues. Patience, Generosity, Charity –'

‘Forget it. Doesn't New College also have gargoyles of the Seven Deadly Sins?'

‘Yeah, they're spread out on the next page.'

‘Any of them remind you of you-know-who?'

‘Well … At a pinch, number five.'

‘Number five?'

‘Sorry. That's the reference number. Number five is, let's see, “Corrupt Love”.'

‘I'm weary of this little game. Weary, period.'

‘Oh. All right. You don't feel like taking a walk this evening, then?'

‘Yes I do. Yes, let's. I need air. I've been trapped inside my head all day. You can't know how claustrophobic it is never to be able to escape from the inside of your own head. Yes, let's have our walk now. Early. While it's still light.'

A man may be riddled by invisible superstitions. It’s possible, for example, to imagine just such a man, one who, painfully conscious of how foolish he must appear to others when sidestepping each and every ladder propped up in the street, succeeds in persuading himself one fine day that walking under a ladder will bring good luck rather than bad and that not walking under a ladder will bring bad luck rather than good. From which moment on he will sashay along the street, nonchalantly walking under every ladder he encounters. And those passers-by who chance to notice him – and who no doubt say to themselves, Now there goes someone completely free of superstition – utterly fail to understand that he nevertheless is still in thrall, neurotically in thrall, to a wholly personal form of superstition, one which, for all that its effects remain invisible to them, is no less irrational and inhibitive than that of which it constitutes the negative image. I’ve become such a man. It’s almost as though the daily routine of my life with John – coming up for a month now! – were ruled by an invisible set of precepts and principles that I’m helpless to resist. It’s almost as though I’ve been led along the edge, the very rim, of an abyss, without realizing for an instant that what has accompanied me all the way is a precipitous plunge into the void.

‘Paul, what
is
that?’

‘What is what?’

‘On your forehead?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Nothing? It’s quite a bruise you have there. Here’s your toast, by the way.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Butter to the left. Butter and marmalade to the right.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘What happened to you? The bruise?’

‘Oh, that. It was the wardrobe door again.’

‘What about the wardrobe door?’

‘There’s something the matter with the latch and the door doesn’t always stay closed. Sometimes, not often but sometimes, it swings open by itself. I’ve got no way of knowing, so naturally I walk straight into it.’

‘And you walked into it this morning?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘I see …’

‘It’s happened before and it’ll happen again. I’ve learned to live with it. A little more sugar, please. These days I seem to prefer my coffee sugary.’

‘There you are.’

‘Thanks.’

‘How often has it happened?’

‘Oh, half-a-dozen times, I suppose.’

‘
Half-a-dozen times?
You’re mad.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I think you’re mad not to have had something done about it.’

‘The blind must expect to be knocked about a bit.’

‘Not when it can so easily be avoided.’

‘Charles tried to fix it once and only made it worse.’

‘Well, I’ve no idea what Charles did, but I know I can fix it.’

‘Stop fussing, will you? It’s not serious. I’ll just have to be extra careful.’

‘For a week or two. Then you’ll forget again.’

‘Well, and so what? It’s my forehead.’

‘Look, Paul. I’m going to be driving over to Chipping Campden after lunch. You’ve got practically nothing in the fridge for the weekend. And, as I remember, there’s a locksmith in the High Street. So why don’t I pop upstairs, measure the wardrobe door, then buy one of those things – restrictors, I think you call them. Door restrictors. They’re like a pair of huge metal compasses. Like protractors. Remember? At school? Anyway, you screw them on to the door and it always swings shut. And stays shut.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘Why not? They’re not expensive.’

‘You know perfectly well I’m not thinking of the expense.’

‘Well, what? It would take me twenty minutes to fix it. Top whack.’

‘I said no.’

‘This has nothing to do with your claustrophobia, has it?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘That wardrobe of yours? It’s very roomy. I was just wondering if you were afraid of getting stuck inside.’

‘John. As someone once said, read my lips. I don’t want the lock changed and that’s that.’

‘Just a thought.’

‘Let’s get to work, shall we.’