the Americans. I never met a man who liked women more than George—that is, I’ve met many men who liked women more than they liked George, but none that liked women more than George liked women.”
He laughed, and a black woman came in with a chased silver pot of coffee and nodded at me. There were two cups on a square marble table, and a plate of cakes and sandwiches between them. The room was high-beamed, with a wall of windows looking out over his gardens and a sleek, modern, vacant feel. On the wall there was a Hodgkin print, and on the mantel a Henry Moore nude, a room reduced to simplicity by money.
“I’m glad you came—look, have a cake. I was fond of your uncle, very fond. I was chuffed when his wife wrote to tell me you were coming to Fleet. He died when, was it—”
“In 1999.”
“Just so. It’s a terrible pity he never lived to see the millennium. They say, you know, that nobody dies in the last month of the year. Everyone wants to get to New Year’s. Wait and see what happens. Then they drop like flies in January, poor buggers.”
“It could just be the cold.”
“Maybe. Now, drink some of this delicious coffee—I take it strong, I have to warn you—and eat a finger sandwich. There’s a ham set and a cucumber set. I can’t recommend the ham, sadly. She’s never gotten the knack of it.” I thanked him, and he settled back in his chair, leonine. “Can I assume that since you’ve come here to study English, the last thing you want to do is become an English professor?”
I smiled. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s harder to get jobs in America with a degree from Oxford, for one thing, because a DPhil only takes four years to earn here, as opposed to seven there. Seems less serious to them. My friend Wimsatt got terribly annoyed with their condescension over the length of the doctoral programs when he visited America. For another, you Ivy League Yanks like to treat Oxbridge as a finishing school. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I don’t resent it, mind you. It’s what I would’ve done in your shoes, oh, in a heartbeat, but I doubt that you want to have a career like, say, Professor Norbrook’s, or my friend Greenblatt’s.”
“No, not really.”
“If you saw Greenblatt’s wife you wouldn’t mind. Makes the MLA worth enduring. Leave that aside, though, what do you want? You were in politics? I bet you liked that—a chance to prove you’re clever.”
“All the good professions are that way, aren’t they?”
“Yes, though for some reason politics especially. You get the provers in there.”
I considered this. “I guess that was me. I did like the power.” I smiled. “It’s probably healthier to be here, less chaotic.”
Even as I said that I realized it was only partly true. The energy of the campaign, the long hours, the cold pizza, the conference calls, the competitive banter, the jokes, the urgency—I missed all of it.
“So, if you don’t go back to politics?”
“I think probably I will. My girlfriend still does it, in New York.”
“Ah, long distance. She’s still in?”
“She wants both of us to do it, like a team.” I paused then. Something about his tone invited confidence, made secrecy seem slack. “Her father is the head of the congressional fundraising committee in New York. He may run for office himself soon enough.”
He whistled. “Money?”
“Yeah. He was in real estate when he was younger.” Then, with a feeling of guilt, I added, “He bought his way into politics, actually. No talent of his own for it, but money, and strong convictions.”
“You should get married. It’ll be good for you. Then you should cheat.” He took a gulp of coffee. “I had a girl at Columbia—Kitty, a student, which means I shouldn’t tell you, but there it is. If I had ever married it would have been her.”
“Do you have any children?”
“I hope not. Just nephews that I know of, three,” he said. “Big boys. They play cricket, like I
He laughed, and a black woman came in with a chased silver pot of coffee and nodded at me. There were two cups on a square marble table, and a plate of cakes and sandwiches between them. The room was high-beamed, with a wall of windows looking out over his gardens and a sleek, modern, vacant feel. On the wall there was a Hodgkin print, and on the mantel a Henry Moore nude, a room reduced to simplicity by money.
“I’m glad you came—look, have a cake. I was fond of your uncle, very fond. I was chuffed when his wife wrote to tell me you were coming to Fleet. He died when, was it—”
“In 1999.”
“Just so. It’s a terrible pity he never lived to see the millennium. They say, you know, that nobody dies in the last month of the year. Everyone wants to get to New Year’s. Wait and see what happens. Then they drop like flies in January, poor buggers.”
“It could just be the cold.”
“Maybe. Now, drink some of this delicious coffee—I take it strong, I have to warn you—and eat a finger sandwich. There’s a ham set and a cucumber set. I can’t recommend the ham, sadly. She’s never gotten the knack of it.” I thanked him, and he settled back in his chair, leonine. “Can I assume that since you’ve come here to study English, the last thing you want to do is become an English professor?”
I smiled. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s harder to get jobs in America with a degree from Oxford, for one thing, because a DPhil only takes four years to earn here, as opposed to seven there. Seems less serious to them. My friend Wimsatt got terribly annoyed with their condescension over the length of the doctoral programs when he visited America. For another, you Ivy League Yanks like to treat Oxbridge as a finishing school. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I don’t resent it, mind you. It’s what I would’ve done in your shoes, oh, in a heartbeat, but I doubt that you want to have a career like, say, Professor Norbrook’s, or my friend Greenblatt’s.”
“No, not really.”
“If you saw Greenblatt’s wife you wouldn’t mind. Makes the MLA worth enduring. Leave that aside, though, what do you want? You were in politics? I bet you liked that—a chance to prove you’re clever.”
“All the good professions are that way, aren’t they?”
“Yes, though for some reason politics especially. You get the provers in there.”
I considered this. “I guess that was me. I did like the power.” I smiled. “It’s probably healthier to be here, less chaotic.”
Even as I said that I realized it was only partly true. The energy of the campaign, the long hours, the cold pizza, the conference calls, the competitive banter, the jokes, the urgency—I missed all of it.
“So, if you don’t go back to politics?”
“I think probably I will. My girlfriend still does it, in New York.”
“Ah, long distance. She’s still in?”
“She wants both of us to do it, like a team.” I paused then. Something about his tone invited confidence, made secrecy seem slack. “Her father is the head of the congressional fundraising committee in New York. He may run for office himself soon enough.”
He whistled. “Money?”
“Yeah. He was in real estate when he was younger.” Then, with a feeling of guilt, I added, “He bought his way into politics, actually. No talent of his own for it, but money, and strong convictions.”
“You should get married. It’ll be good for you. Then you should cheat.” He took a gulp of coffee. “I had a girl at Columbia—Kitty, a student, which means I shouldn’t tell you, but there it is. If I had ever married it would have been her.”
“Do you have any children?”
“I hope not. Just nephews that I know of, three,” he said. “Big boys. They play cricket, like I
Similar Books
