The Last Samurai (46 page)

I let four days go by and then I had to go back. I sat on the wall and made myself read a whole chapter on aerodynamics just to prove I could still do it. I ate a peanut butter sandwich. I was still reading
Njal’s Saga
. I hadn’t worked on it very much. It was stupid to stand here. I couldn’t really work, either I should do something or I should go somewhere else where I could work. It would be stupid to go away after standing outside at a bus stop for a week.

Then I knew what I would do.

I would ask my father for an autograph.

I came back the next day, and I took with me a paperback copy of
Stout Cortez
(the book with the Balinese woman), which I had bought at an Oxfam shop for 50p. I also had
Brennu-njalssaga
, Magnusson, Gordon, the book on Laplace transforms and a book on edible insects which the library was selling off for 10p. I could spend the rest of the day on the Circle Line. I wasn’t expecting this to take long; it was just something I had to do.

I reached the house at 10:00. A window was open on the ground floor; people were talking quietly. I stood by the wall listening.

Are you sure you don’t want to come? You hardly ever get to see them.

It’s not really my kind of thing. It won’t help if I’m bored out of my skull, and if we do something else they’ll hate me. The only question is, are you sure you don’t mind?

It’s not that I mind, I just thought you’d like to spend some time with them.

I would, obviously, but they’ve got school all week. They’ve got their own ideas about how they spend the weekend. It’s not the end of the world.

A car drew up outside the house and three children got out.

The car drove off.

The children looked up at the house.

Well, come on, said one.

They headed up the walk. The door opened. There was some sort of discussion just inside it. The children came back down the steps with the woman I’d seen before. The man stood in the doorway.

We’ll go to Planet Hollywood when you get back, he said.

They got into a car and drove off. He closed the door.

I was tired of walking up and down the street and watching that door. I didn’t want to walk away again. I was tired of wondering whether it was a bad time. I was tired of wondering whether it would be better to interrupt him before he’d had a chance to start work.

I went to the door and rang the bell. I waited a minute. Then I counted a minute, and then I counted two minutes. I knocked on the door and counted another minute. If he didn’t come I would go away. I thought I’d annoy him if I kept knocking and ringing the bell. Two minutes went by. I turned and went down the steps.

A window shot up on the second floor.

Hang on, I’ll be down in a minute, he shouted.

I went back to the door.

A couple of minutes went by, and the door opened.

What can I do for you? he asked.

His hair was medium brown, with some grey; his forehead was quite deeply lined; there were grey hairs in the eyebrows, and the eyes under them were large and light, a little like a night animal’s. His voice was rather light and soft.

Can I help you? he asked.

I’ve come for the Christian Aid envelope, I found myself saying.

I don’t see it anywhere, he said, not looking. Anyway, we’re not Christians.

That’s OK, I said. I’m a Jewish atheist myself.

All right, I’ll ask, he said smiling now. If you’re a Jewish atheist what are you doing collecting for Christian Aid?

My mother makes me, I said.

But if you’re Jewish, doesn’t your mother have to be Jewish too? he asked.

She is, I said. That’s why she won’t let me steal from Jewish charities.

It worked like a charm. He laughed helplessly. He said: Shouldn’t you save this for Comic Relief?

I said: A red nose is funny? I know, I know, they only laugh when it hurts.

He said: Why do I get the feeling you’re not here for Christian Aid?

I said: I wanted an autograph, but you have to break these things gradually.

He said: You want an autograph? Really? How old are you?

I said: Why, is your signature 15-certificate?

He said: Well, there may be a few people who think my name is a dirty word, but no. You seem a little young, though. Or is this another scam? Are you going to flog it?

I said: Could I get a lot of money for it?

And he said quite confidently: I think you’ll have to wait a while.

I said: Well, I don’t mind. I’ve got a book with me.

I took off my backpack.

He said: Is it a first edition?

I said: I don’t think so. It’s a paperback.

He said: Then it won’t be worth a lot of money.

I said: Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep it.

He said: I guess you will. Come inside and I’ll sign it for you.

I followed him down a corridor to a kitchen at the back of the house. He asked whether I would like anything. I said an orange juice.

He poured two and handed me one. I handed him the book.

He said:

It’s always strange when they come back to you. It’s like sending children out into the world with no idea where they’ll end up. Look at this. Third printing, 1986. 1986! It could have been around the world. Some clapped-out hippy in Kathmandu could have carried it on a trek; passed it to a mate on his way to Australia; a tourist might have picked it up in an airport before meeting one of those cruise ships that go to the Antarctic. What shall I put?

I felt cold. I could say To Ludo, with love from Dad. In ten seconds there would not be an object in the room that was not there now, and yet everything would be different.

He had a pen in his hand and had been through this all before.

The hand that had been now here now there held the pen. His mouth was slightly pursed. He was wearing a blue shirt and brown corduroys.

He said: What’s your name?

David.

Is To David with best wishes all right? he asked.

I nodded.

He scrawled something in the book and handed it back.

I wondered whether I would throw up.

He asked me something about school.

I said I didn’t go to school.

He asked me about that.

I said something about that.

He said something else. He was being pleasant. There seemed to be a lot of grey in his hair; that wouldn’t have been there at the time of the Medley.

I said: Can I see where you work?

He said: Sure. He sounded surprised and pleased.

I followed him up to the top of the house. This was not the same house, but they had gone to his study for the Medley, so some of the books and things would probably be here. I don’t know why I had to see this but I had to see it.

He had the whole top of the house for a study. He showed me his computer. He said he used to have a lot of games on it but he had to take them off because he wasted too much time playing games. He gave me an engaging boyish grin. He showed me his database on different countries. He showed me boxes of record cards for different books.

On a bookshelf I saw 10 books by the author of the magazine article Sibylla had shown me. I walked over and took one off the shelf. It was signed. I said:

Are they all signed?

He said:

I’m a big fan.

He said:

I think he is one of the greatest writers in English this century.

I did not laugh hysterically. I said:

My mother says I will be able to appreciate him when I am older.

He said:

What other books do you like?

I was about to say Other?

I said:

Do you mean in English?

He said:

In anything.

I said:

I like
Kon Tiki
.

He said:

Fair enough.

I said I liked
Amundsen and Scott
and I liked
King Solomon’s Mines
and I liked everything by Dumas and I liked
The Bad Seed
and
The Hound of the Baskervilles
and I liked
The Name of the Rose
but the Italian was rather difficult.

I said:

I like Malory a lot. I like the
Odyssey
. I read the
Iliad
a long time ago but I was too young to appreciate it. I’m reading
Njal’s Saga
right now. My favourite part is where they go around the booths asking for help and Skarp-Hedin insults everybody.

He had been making a thing of being wide-eyed and open mouthed. He said humorously: I don’t think I’ve come across it.

I said: Do you want to see my Penguin translation? I’ve got it with me.

He said: Sure.

I opened my backpack and took out the Penguin translation by Magnus Magnusson. The Icelandic dictionary is about £140 & I had told Sibylla we could not afford it.

I opened it to the page. I said: It’s only a couple of pages, and I handed it to him.

He turned the pages, chuckling as he read. At last he handed it back to me.

You’re right, it’s a scream, he said. I’ll have to get a copy. Thanks.

I said: The translation isn’t very much like the Icelandic though. You can’t really imagine a Viking warrior saying don’t interfere in the conversation. The Icelandic is
vil ek nú biðja
ik, Skarpheðinn! at pú létir ekki til pín taka um mál várt
. Though of course the Icelandic words don’t really have the same register as English words of Anglo-Saxon derivation because they’re not in opposition to a register of Latinate vocabulary.

He said: You know Icelandic?

I said: No, I’ve only just started. That’s why I need the Penguin.

He said: Isn’t that cheating?

I said: It’s harder than using a dictionary.

He said: Then why don’t you use a dictionary?

I said: It costs £140.

He said: £140!

I said: Well it stands to reason there’s not much of a market for it. People only study it at university if at
all
; the only way you can get anything in Icelandic is to order it specially from Iceland; who’s going to buy the dictionary? If there was a groundswell of interest in the population at large maybe the price would come down, or at least maybe libraries would get a copy, but obviously people aren’t going to develop an interest in something they’ve never heard of.

He said: Well how did you develop an interest in it?

I said: I read some of the Penguin translations when I was younger. I said: The interesting thing is that according to Hainsworth’s classic article on Homer & the epic cycle the mark of Homer’s superiority to the cycle is supposed to be richness and expansiveness, & yet it seems as though bareness is the thing that is good in the Icelandic saga. You could say Well, Schoenberg is obviously wrong to dismiss the Japanese print as primitive and superficial, why is he wrong?