David Lodge - Small World (3 page)

Angelica took a deep breath, then expelled it abruptly. “It’s hard to know where to start,” she said. A bell sounded to summon them back to the lecture room. “Saved by the bell!” she laughed.

“Later, then,” Persse urged.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Angelica.

As the conferees shuffled back towards the lecture-room for the second paper of the morning, they cast wistful glances over their shoulders at the figure of the Oxford medievalist shaking hands with Philip Swallow. He had his overcoat on and his briefcase in his hand. “That’s the trouble with these conferences,” Persse heard someone say, “the chief speakers tend to bugger off as soon as they’ve done their party piece. Makes you feel like a besieged army when the general flies out in a helicopter.”

“Are you coming, Persse?” Angelica enquired.

Persse looked at his programme. ” ‘Animal Imagery in Dryden’s Heroic Tragedies’,” he read aloud.

“It could be interesting,” Angelica said earnestly.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” said Persse. “I think I’ll write a poem instead.”

“Oh, do you write poetry? What kind?”

“Short poems,” said Persse. “Very short poems.”

“Like
haikus?
”

“Shorter than that, sometimes.”

“Goodness! What are you going to write about?”

“You can read it when it’s finished.”

“All right. I’ll look forward to that. I’d better go.” A vaguely smiling Philip Swallow hovered nearby, like a sheepdog rounding up strays.

“I’ll see you in the bar before lunch, then,” said Persse. He made a show of hurrying to the Gents, intending to loiter there until the lecture on Dryden had begun. To his consternation, however, Philip Swallow, accompanied by Bob Busby, followed him. Persse locked himself in a closet and sat down on the toilet seat. The two men seemed to be talking about a missing speaker as they stood at the urinal. “When did he phone?” Philip Swallow was saying, and Busby replied, “About two hours ago. He said he would do his best to get here by this afternoon. I told him to spare no expense.”

“Did you?” said Swallow. “I’m not sure that was entirely wise, Bob.”

Persse heard the spurt of tapwater at the sinks, the rattle of the towel dispenser, and the banging of the door as the two men left. After a minute or two, he emerged from hiding and quietly approached the lecture-room. He peered through the little observation window in the door. He could see Angelica in profile, sitting alone in the front row, gracefully alert, a stainless-steel ballpen poised in one hand, ready to take notes. She was wearing spectacles with heavy black frames, which made her look formidably efficient, like a high-powered secretary. The rest of the audience was performing the same tableau of petrified boredom as before. Persse tiptoed away, and out into the open air. He crossed the campus and took the road that led to the site of the halls of residence.

The melting snow dripped from the trees, and ran down the back of his neck as he walked, but he was oblivious to the discomfort. He was trying to compose a poem about Angelica Pabst. Unfortunately some lines of W. B. Yeats kept interposing themselves between him and his muse, and the best he could do was to adapt them to his own case.

How can I, that girl standing there,

My attention fix

On Chaucer or on Dryden

Or structuralist poetics?

As he recited the words to himself, it occurred to Persse McGarrigle that perhaps he was in love. “I am in love,” he said aloud, to the dripping trees, to a white-bonneted pillar-box, to a sodden mongrel lifting its hind leg against the gatepost of the halls of residence site. “I am in love!” he exclaimed, to a long line of depressed-looking sparrows perched on the railings that ran alongside the slushy drive. “I AM IN LOVE!” he cried, startling a gaggle of geese beside the artificial lake, as he ran up and down, round and round, in the virgin snow, leaving a trail of deep footprints behind him.

Panting from this exercise, he came up to the entrance of Lucas Hall, the tall tower block in which sleeping accommodation had been provided for the conferees. (Martineau Hall, in which they ate and drank, was in contrast, a low cylindrical building, confirming Miss Maiden’s views on the universality of sexual symbolism.) A taxi was drawn up outside Lucas Hall, its engine churning, and a thickset man with a fat cigar in his mouth, and a deerstalker, with the flaps down, on his head, was getting out. Seeing Persse, he called “Hi” and beckoned. “Say, is this where the conference is being held?” he asked, in an American accent. “The University Teachers of English Conference? It’s the right name, but it doesn’t look right.”

“This is where we’re sleeping,” said Persse. “The meetings are held on the main campus, up the road.”

“Ah, that figures,” said the man. “OK, driver, we made it. How much?”

“Forty-six pounds eighty, guv’nor,” the man appeared to say, looking at his meter.

“OK, there you go,” said the newcomer, stripping ten crisp new live-pound notes from a thick wad, and pushing them through the cab window. The driver, catching sight of Persse, leaned out and addressed him. “You don’t wanner cab to London by any chance?”

“No thank you,” said Persse.

“I’ll be on my way, then. Thanks guv’nor.”

Awed by this display of wealth, Persse picked up the new arrival’s suitcase, a handsome leather affair with the vestiges of many labels on it, and carried it into the lobby of Lucas Hall. “Have you really and truly come all the way from London by taxi?” he said.

“I had no choice. When I landed at Heathrow this morning they tell me that my connecting flight is cancelled, Rummidge airport is socked in by snow. They give me a railroad ticket instead. So I take a cab to the railroad station in London and they tell me the power lines for the trains to Rummidge are down. Great drama, the country paralysed, Rummidge cut off from the capital, everybody enjoying every minute of it, the porters can hardly contain their joy. When I said I’d take a cab all the way, they said I was crazy, tried to talk me out of it. ‘You’ll never get through,’ they said, ‘the motorways are covered in snowdrifts, there are people who have been trapped in their cars all night.’ So I go along the cab rank till I find a driver with the guts to give it a whirl, and what do we find when we get here? Two inches of melting snow. What a country!” He took off his deerstalker and held it at arm’s length. It was made from a hairy tweed, with a bold red check on a yellowy-brown background. “I bought this hat at Heathrow this morning,” he said. “The first thing I always seem to have to do when I arrive in England is buy myself a hat.”

“It’s a fine hat,” said Persse.

“You like it? Remind me to give it to you when I leave. I’m travelling on to warmer climes.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, where do I check in?”

“There’s a list of rooms over here,” said Persse. “What’s your name?”

“Morris Zapp.”

“I’m sure I’ve heard that name before.”

“I should hope so. What’s yours?”

“Persse McGarrigle, from Limerick. Aren’t you giving a paper this afternoon?” he said. ” ‘Title to be announced?’ “

“Right, Percy. That’s why I strained every nerve to get here.

Look at the bottom of the list. There are never many zees.” Persse looked. “It says here that you’re a non-resident.”

“Ah, yeah, Philip Swallow said something about staying with him. How’s it going, the Conference?”

“I can’t really say. I’ve never been to a conference before, so I’ve no standards of comparison.”

“Is that right?” Morris Zapp regarded him with curiosity. “A conference virgin, huh? Where is everybody, by the way?”

“They’re at a lecture.”

“Which you cut? Well, you’ve learned the first rule of conferences, kid. Never go to lectures. Unless you’re giving one yourself, of course. Or I’m giving one,” he added reflectively. “I wouldn’t want to discourage you from hearing my paper this afternoon. I went over it last night in the plane, while the movie was showing, and I was pretty pleased with it. The movie was OK, too. What size of audience am I likely to get?”

“Well, there are fifty-seven people at the conference, altogether,” Persse said.

Professor Zapp nearly swallowed his cigar. “Fifty-seven? You must be joking. No? You’re not joking? You mean I’ve travelled six thousand miles to talk to fifty-seven people?”

“Of course, not everybody goes to every lecture,” said Persse. “As you can see.”

“Listen, do you know how many attend the American equivalent of this conference? Ten thousand. There were ten thousand people at the MLA in New York last December.”

“I don’t think we have that many lecturers over here,” said Persse apologetically.

“There must be more than fifty-seven,” growled Morris Zapp. ‘Where are they? I’ll tell you where. Most of them are holed up at home, decorating their living-rooms or weeding their gardens, and the few with two original ideas to rub together are off somewhere at conferences in warmer, more attractive places than this.” He looked round the lobby of Lucas Hall, at its cracked and dusty floor tiles, its walls of grimy untreated concrete, with disfavour. “Is there anywhere you can get a drink in this place?”

“The bar will be opening soon in Martineau Hall,” said Persse. “Lead me to it.”

“Have you really flown all the way from America for this conference, Professor Zapp?” Persse enquired, as they picked their way through the slush.

“Not exactly. I was coming to Europe anyway—I’m on sabbatical this quarter. Philip Swallow heard I was coming over and asked me to take in his conference. So, to oblige an old friend, I said I would.”

The bar in Martineau Hall was empty except for the barman, who watched their approach through a kind of chrome-plated portcullis that stretched from counter to ceiling.

“Is this to keep you in, or us out?” quipped Morris Zapp, tapping the metal. “What’s yours, Percy? Guinness? A pint of Guinness, barman, and a large scotch on the rocks.”

“We’re not open yet,” said the man. “Not till twelve-thirty.”

“And have something yourself.”

“Yes, sir, thank you sir,” said the barman, cranking the portcullis with alacrity. “I wouldn’t say no to a pint of bitter.”

While he was drawing the draught Guinness, the other conferees, released from the second lecture of the morning, began to straggle in, Philip Swallow in the van. He strode up to Morris Zapp and wrung his hand.

“Morris! It’s marvellous to see you after—how many years?”

“Ten, Philip, ten years, though I hate to admit it. But you’re looking good. The beard is terrific. Was your hair always that colour?”

Philip Swallow blushed. “I think it was starting to go grey in ‘69. How did you get here in the end?”

“That’ll be one pound fifty, sir,” said the barman.

“By taxi,” said Morris Zapp. “Which reminds me: you owe me fifty pounds for the cab fare. Hey, what’s the matter, Philip? You’ve gone white.”

“And the Conference has just gone into the red,” said Rupert Sutcliffe, with doleful satisfaction. “Hello, Zapp, I don’t suppose you remember me.”

“Rupert! How could I ever forget that happy face? And here comes Bob Busby, right on cue,” said Morris Zapp, as a man with a less impressive beard than Philip Swallow’s cantered into the bar, a clipboard under his arm, keys and coins jingling in his pockets. Philip Swallow took him aside and urgent whispers were exchanged.

“I’m afraid you’re landed with me as your chairman this afternoon, Zapp,” said Rupert Sutcliffe.

“I’m honoured, Rupert.”

“Have you, er, decided on a title?”

“Yep. It’s called, `Textuality as Striptease’.”

“Oh,” said Rupert Sutcliffe.

“Does everybody know this young man, who kindly looked after me when I arrived?” said Morris Zapp. “Percy McGarrigle from Limerick.”

Philip Swallow nodded perfunctorily at Persse and turned his attention back to the American. “Morris, we must get you a lapel badge so that everybody will know who you are.”

“Don’t worry, if they don’t know already, I’ll tell them.”

“When I said ‘Take a cab’ ” said Bob Busby reproachfully to Morris Zapp, “I meant from Heathrow to Euston, not from London to Rummidge.”

“Never mind that now,” said Philip Swallow impatiently. “It’s no use crying over spilt milk. Morris, where is your luggage? I thought you’d be more comfortable staying with us than in Hall.”

“I think so too, now I’ve seen the hall,” said Morris Zapp.

“Hilary is dying to see you,” said Swallow, leading him away. “Hmm. That should be an interesting reunion,” murmured Rupert Sutcliffe, peering at the departing pair over his glasses. “What?” Persse responded absently. He was looking out for Angelica.

“Well, you see, about ten years ago those two were nominated for our exchange scheme with Euphoria—in America, you know. Zapp came here for six months, and Swallow went to Euphoric State. Rumour has it that Zapp had an affair with Hilary Swallow, and Swallow with Mrs Zapp.”

“You don’t say so?” Persse was intrigued by this story, in spite of the distraction of seeing Angelica come into the bar with Robin Dempsey. He was talking to her with great animation, while she wore the slightly fixed smile of someone who is being sung at in a musical comedy.

“Quite. ‘What a set,’ as Matthew Arnold said of the Shelley circle… Anyway, at the same time, Gordon Masters, our Head of Department, retired prematurely after a nervous breakdown—it was 1969, the year of the student revolution, a trying time for everybody—and Zapp was being mooted by some as his successor. One day, however, just when things were coming to a head, he and Hilary Swallow suddenly flew off to America together, and we really didn’t know which couple to expect back: Zapp and Hilary, Philip and Hilary, Philip and Mrs Zapp, or both Zapps.”

“What was Mrs Zapp’s name?” said Persse.

“I’ve forgotten,” said Rupert Sutcliffe. “Does it matter?”

“I like to know names,” said Persse. “I can’t follow a story without them.”

“Anyway, we never saw her. The Swallows returned together. We gathered they were going to give the marriage another chance.”

“It seems to have worked.”

“Mmm. Though in my opinion,” Sutcliffe said darkly, “the whole episode had a deplorable effect on Swallow’s character.”