The Last Samurai (48 page)

I made myself read to the end of the chapter. I had to read every paragraph about eight times but at last I had finished it. I reread the Kutta-Joukowski Theorem five or six times. I thought of reading another chapter, but he kept saying Thanks, & instead I started flipping through the book, stopping at one page or another, looking for something so fascinating I wouldn’t hear him any more. Mach Waves — incompressible flows—Tollmien-Schlichting instability— Flight of small insects—Control and Maneuvering in Bird Flight—

‘My observation of the flight of buzzards leads me to believe that they regain their lateral balance, when partly overturned by a gust of wind, by a torsion of the tips of the wings …’ This passage is from Wilbur Wright’s first letter to Octave Chanute, dated 13 May 1900. It describes the crucial observation that led the Wright brothers to the invention of the aileron and thus to the achievement of lateral control and in turn to man’s first powered flight.

Now I believe you read my book, said my father. I really mean that I’m not just saying that said my father. It means a lot said my father. At the end of the day it’s not just how many buy them said my father. I’ve got kids of my own said my father Sesame Street was about the right level said my father Now I believe you read my book said my father Now I believe you read my book.

There was no point in staying so I left. There is a painting over the main stairs by Lord Leighton of Cimabue’s Celebrated Image of the Virgin Borne in Procession; for years I had looked at this painting every time I left, wondering what was wrong with it.

When I got home Sibylla was watching Seven Samurai. She couldn’t have been watching long; the farmers had only just left the village. Tough-looking samurai were striding through the streets of a large town; you’d have to have a lot of nerve to ask one to fight for three meals a day.

I sat on the sofa beside her. Fair enough, said my father.

Kambei was handing a razor to the priest with a bow. He sat by the river and splashed water on his head; the priest began to shave off his hair.

Fair enough, said my father.

Kambei put on the clothes which the priest had brought. He met the eyes of the shiftless Mifune with a face of stone. I think you’re going to have to wait a while, said my father.

Kambei took the two rice cakes and walked to the barn. The thief shrieked inside. I am only a priest, said Kambei. I won’t arrest you. I won’t come in. I’ve brought food for the child. Thanks, said my father. I mean that. That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard in a long time.

I stood up and began walking around the room, looking for something I could do for an hour or even ten minutes without hearing his voice. I picked up my book on judo but after two lines I saw his face, and I started reading Ibn Khaldun and he said Now I believe you read my books.

Have you seen him yet? asked Sibylla. This was her idea of delicacy, to bring the thing out in the open rather than leave me to wonder what she knew & whether I should say anything.

I saw him, I said. I don’t know what you saw in him.

You know as much as I know, said Sib, delicately indicating that she knew for a fact that I’d also read through her papers.

I didn’t tell him, I said.

Selbstverständlich, said Sib. I never could. I kept thinking I should, but I just couldn’t. I’d read something he’d written, thinking he might have changed, and he did change, but only in the way that someone from the Tyrone Power school of acting would show maturity: mouth set, furrowed brow, this is someone thinking tough thoughts. He woke up a boy and went to bed—a man. I’m sorry to speak ill of your sperm donor, though. I’d better stop.

It’s all right, I said.

No, it’s not all right, said Sib. She turned off the video. It is shocking to stop in the middle, she said, still at least Kurosawa will never know.

It doesn’t matter, I said.

All right, said Sib. Just remember that you are perfect, whatever your father may be. It may be that other people need a sensible father more.

We’re not talking about an exhaustible resource, I said.

We’re talking about luck, said Sib. Why should you have all of it?

Was I complaining? I said.

Look at it from his point of view, said Sib. It’s hard for a man to be upstaged by his son.

I wasn’t complaining, I said.

Of course you weren’t, said Sib.

He said he had kids of his own, I said. He said they watched Sesame Street and it was about the right level.

At what age? said Sib.

He didn’t say.

Hmmm, said Sib.

She stood up and turned on the computer and picked up the
Independent
and sat down to read it.

Did I tell you I was reading
Die Zeit
? said Sib. I was reading
Die Zeit
and I came across this lovely line, Es regnete ununterbrochen. It rained uninterruptedly. It sounded so lovely in the German. Es regnete ununterbrochen. Es regnete ununterbrochen. I shall think of it whenever it rains.

Did you ever think of having an abortion? I said.

I did, said Sib, but it was very late and I had to have counselling, they counselled adoption & I said Yes but how could I be sure your adoptive parents would teach you how to leave life if you did not care for it & they said What and I said—well you know I said what any rational person would say and we had an unprofitable discussion & she said

Oh look! Hugh Carey is back in England.

I said: Who?

Sibylla said: He was the best friend of Raymond Decker.

I said: Who?

Sibylla: You’ve never heard of Raymond Decker!

And then: But then who has?

She said that Carey was an explorer and Decker, she did not know what Decker was doing these days but in the early 60s they had been legendary classicists at Oxford. A pirate copy of Carey’s translation of Wee sleekit cow’rin’ tim’rous beastie into Greek for the verse paper in the Ireland was passed from hand to hand, & Decker had won the Chancellor’s Latin with an amazing translation of Johnson on Pope, not said Sibylla the bit where he says It is a very pretty poem Mr. Pope but it is not Homer which was actually Bentley anyway now I think of it but the bit that goes

… the distance is commonly very great between actual performances and speculative possibility. It is natural to suppose, that as much as has been done to-day may be done to-morrow; but on the morrow some difficulty emerges, or some external impediment obstructs. Indolence, interruption, business, and pleasure; all take their turns of retardation; and every long work is lengthened by a thousand causes that can, and ten thousand that cannot, be recounted. Perhaps no extensive and multifarious performance was ever effected within the term originally fixed in the undertaker’s mind. He that runs against Time, has an antagonist not subject to casualities.

Sib explained that this though Latinate was a diabolical piece to put into Latin because all the abstract nouns would have to be turned into clauses, she digressed to explain that Lytton Strachey on Johnson on the Poets, on the other hand, was the type of thing that was very easy to turn into Latin, Strachey she said for example said

Johnson’s aesthetic judgements are almost invariably subtle, or solid, or bold; they have always some good quality to recommend them—except one: they are never right. That is an unfortunate deficiency; but no one can doubt that Johnson has made up for it, and that his wit has saved all

the Latin she said practically wrote itself she seemed on the point of digressing to some other point of similar interest so before she could discuss somebody else on Strachey on Johnson and how they might easily be translated into Phoenician or Linear B or Hittite I said quickly

But who ARE these people?

Hugh Carey and Raymond Decker met when HC was 15 and RD was 19. HC was from Edinburgh. He had told his teacher he wanted to apply to Oxford and the teacher had told him to wait, & HC thought—but that’s stupid, if I get in at 15 people will always say He got into Oxford when he was 15. So he wrote independently to Merton to apply to take the exam, & he went down to take the exam.

RD was largely self-taught.

RD had read Plato’s
Gorgias
even before he came up, and being the type to take things to heart he had taken it to heart. In the
Phaedrus
the rhetorician Gorgias is said to boast that he can give a long or a short answer to any question, and in the
Gorgias
he says that when it comes to giving short answers he is unsurpassed. Socrates, on the other hand, knows only one way to answer a question, some questions can be answered with one word and others may take five thousand, and the philosopher, unlike the rhetorician or the politician, will take as long as he needs. This placed RD in a terrible dilemma. He had bought copies of past papers from the University Press & now he paced up and down declaiming to HC: All the interesting questions require a
minimum
of three hours apiece to answer and the rest are so stupid it is impossible to say anything intelligent about them, how can you make an intelligent reply to a stupid question? And he would tear his hair and say What am I to
do
?

HC was surprised. He had done 13 O-levels because he had heard the most anyone had ever done before was 12, and he had done them at the age of 12 because he had heard when he was 9 that the youngest anyone had ever done more than 5 was 13 & he had instantly decided to beat the record.

He said: Well what did you do for A-level?

RD: I don’t want to talk about it.

HC: Well what about O-level?

RD: I don’t want to talk about it.

HC: Well surely you must have taken some exam.

RD: Of course I’ve taken an exam. It was horrible. Full of questions about long division. I don’t want to talk about it.

Long division? said HC.

RD: I don’t want to TALK about it. And he paced up and down the common room making further anguished references to the
Gorgias
crying What am I to
do
?

HC said: Do you play chess?

What? said RD.

And HC said: Do you play chess?

And RD said: Of course.

And HC said Let’s play a game. He took out from one pocket a pocket chess set, and from his other pocket he took out a chess clock which he took with him wherever he went. It was the night before the first exam, and he had been planning to go over the chorus to Zeus of Aeschylus’
Agamemnon
. He set out the board. RD was white.

HC set the timer & he said: 20 minute game.

And RD said: I don’t play that way.

HC: 10 minutes each.

And RD said: But that’s stupid.

HC: I don’t have time to play longer. I need to look at the chorus to Zeus.

RD: P-K4.

HC: P-QB4.

RD knew many responses to the Sicilian Defence but the question was what could be developed in the time available, still pondering this question he had not even moved his knight to KB3 when the timer went off, he moved his knight now to KB3 and HC said:

Sorry. Game’s over.

RD was furious & he started to argue but in the meantime HC had moved all the pieces back and turned the clock back & this time HC was white.

HC: P-K4.

RD liked the Sicilian Defence himself but debating inwardly the merits in the time allowed of the Najdorf Variation, the Scheveningen (which he generally preferred), the Nimzowitsch & others too numerous to mention he nearly made the same mistake, suddenly pulling himself together (P-QB4) he managed to make 10 moves before falling again into deep thought interrupted only by the timer.

He reached his 10th move & the timer went off before he had moved a piece & HC said game’s over and moved the pieces back again and started the clock.

By now RD was really furious. HC was only 15 and looked young for his age. RD made his first move and HC made his and this time RD made a move the instant it was his turn and HC won in 25 moves.

RD put the pieces back. HC said he had to read the
Agamemnon
. RD said This won’t take long. He was black. This time he played the defence he knew the best, and he played a version of a middle game he had read in Keres & Kotov, and the end played itself.