Babel, page 11
‘So you’re from Canton, then?’ asked Letty. She had a very forceful personality, Robin had noticed; she asked all her questions, even the benign ones, in the tone of an interrogator.
He’d just bitten into a scone; it was dry and stale, and he had to take a sip of tea before he could answer. She turned her gaze on Ramy before he could. ‘And you – Madras? Bombay?’
‘Calcutta,’ Ramy said pleasantly.
‘My father was stationed in Calcutta,’ she said. ‘Three years, from 1825 to 1828. Could be you saw him around.’
‘Lovely,’ said Ramy as he slathered jam over his scone. ‘Could be he pointed a gun at my sisters once.’
Robin snorted, but Letty blanched. ‘I’m only saying I’ve met Hindus before—’
‘I’m Muslim.’
‘Well, I’m just saying—’
‘And you know,’ now Ramy was buttering his scone with great vim, ‘it’s very irritating, actually, the way everyone wants to equate India with Hinduism. “Oh, Muslim rule is an aberration, an intrusion; the Mughals just interlopers, but tradition – that’s Sanskrit, that’s the Upanishads.”’ He lifted his scone to his mouth. ‘But you don’t even know what any of those words mean, do you?’
They’d got off to a bad start. Ramy’s humour did not always work on new acquaintances. One needed to take his glib tirades in one’s stride, and Letitia Price seemed capable of anything but that.
‘So, Babel,’ Robin interjected before Ramy could say anything else. ‘Nice building.’
Letty cast him an amazed look. ‘Quite.’
Ramy, rolling his eyes, coughed and set down his scone.
They sipped their tea in silence. Victoire clinked her spoon nervously around her cup. Robin stared out of the window. Ramy tapped his fingers against the table but stopped when Letty shot him a glare.
‘How have you found the place?’ Victoire tried valiantly to rescue their conversation. ‘Oxfordshire, I mean. I feel like we’ve only seen a fraction of it so far, it’s so big. I mean, not like London or Paris, but there are so many hidden corners, don’t you think?’
‘It’s incredible,’ Robin said with a bit too much enthusiasm. ‘It’s unreal, every single building – we spent the first three days just walking around, staring. We saw all the tourist attractions – the Oxford Museum, the Christ Church gardens—’
Victoire arched an eyebrow. ‘And they’re letting you in wherever you go?’
‘Actually, no.’ Ramy set down his teacup. ‘Remember, Birdie, the Ashmolean—’
‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘They seemed so certain we were going to steal something, they made us turn out our pockets on the way in and out, as if they were convinced we’d stolen the Alfred Jewel.’
‘They wouldn’t let us in at all,’ Victoire said. ‘They said unchaperoned ladies weren’t allowed.’
Ramy snorted. ‘Why?’
‘Probably because of our nervous dispositions,’ said Letty. ‘They couldn’t have us fainting against the paintings.’
‘But the colours are so exciting,’ said Victoire.
‘Battlefields and breasts.’ Letty put the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘Too much for my nerves.’
‘So what’d you do?’ Ramy asked.
‘We came back when a different docent was on shift and pretended this time to be men.’ Victoire deepened her voice. ‘Excuse me, we’re just countryside lads visiting our cousins here and we’ve nothing to do when they’re in class—’
Robin laughed. ‘You didn’t.’
‘It worked,’ Victoire insisted.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘No, really.’ Victoire smiled. She had, Robin noticed, enormous and very pretty doe-like eyes. He liked listening to her speak; every sentence felt like she was pulling laughter out from inside him. ‘They must have thought we were about twelve, but it worked like a dream—’
‘Until you got excited,’ Letty cut in.
‘All right, it worked until we were just past the docent—’
‘But then she saw a Rembrandt she liked and let out this squeak—’ Letty made a chirping noise. Victoire shoved at her shoulder, but she was laughing too.
‘“Excuse me, miss.”’ Victoire pulled down her chin in imitation of the disapproving docent. ‘“You’re not supposed to be here, I think you’ve got turned around—”’
‘So it was nerves, after all—’
That was all it took. The ice melted. In an instant they were all laughing – a bit harder, perhaps, than the joke justified, but what mattered was that they were laughing at all.
‘Has anyone else found you out?’ Ramy asked.
‘No, they all just think we’re particularly slim freshers,’ Letty said. ‘Though once someone yelled at Victoire to take off her gown.’
‘He tried to pull it off me.’ Victoire’s gaze dropped to her lap. ‘Letty had to beat him off with her umbrella.’
‘Similar thing happened to us,’ Ramy said. ‘Some drunkards from Balliol started shouting at us one night.’
‘They don’t like dark skin in their uniforms,’ said Victoire.
‘No,’ said Ramy, ‘they don’t.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Victoire. ‘Did they – I mean, did you get away all right?’
Robin cast Ramy a concerned glance, but Ramy’s eyes were still crinkled with good humour.
‘Oh, yes.’ He threw his arm around Robin’s shoulders. ‘I was ready to break some noses, but this one did the prudent thing – started running like the hounds of hell were behind him – so then I couldn’t do anything but run as well.’
‘I don’t like conflict,’ Robin said, blushing.
‘Oh, no,’ said Ramy. ‘You’d disappear into the stones if you could.’
‘You could have stayed,’ Robin quipped. ‘Fought them off single-handed.’
‘What, and leave you to the scary dark?’ Ramy grinned. ‘Anyway, you looked absurd. Sprinting like your bladder was bursting and you couldn’t find a privy.’
And then they were laughing again.
Soon it became apparent that no topics were off limits. They could talk about anything, share all the indescribable humiliations they felt being in a place they were not supposed to be, all the lurking unease that until now they’d kept to themselves. They offered up everything about themselves because they had, at last, found the only group of people for whom their experiences were not so unique or baffling.
Next they traded stories about their educations before Oxford. Babel, apparently, always anointed its chosen ones at a young age. Letty, who was from down south in Brighton, had dazzled family friends with her prodigious memory ever since she could speak; one such friend, who knew some Oxford dons, secured her a set of tutors and had her drilled in French, German, Latin, and Greek until she was old enough to matriculate.
‘Though I almost didn’t make it.’ Letty blinked, eyelashes fluttering madly. ‘Father said he’d never pay for a woman’s education, so I’m grateful for the scholarship. I had to sell a set of bracelets to pay for the coach fare up.’
Victoire, like Robin and Ramy, had come to Europe with a guardian. ‘Paris,’ she clarified. ‘He was a Frenchman, but he had acquaintances at the Institute, and he was going to write to them when I was old enough. Only then he died, and for a while I wasn’t sure I’d get to come.’ Her voice faltered a bit. She took a sip of tea. ‘But I managed to get in touch with them, and they arranged to bring me over,’ she concluded vaguely.
Robin suspected this was not the full extent of this story, but he, too, was practised in the art of papering over pain, and he did not pry.
One thing united them all – without Babel, they had nowhere in this country to go. They’d been chosen for privileges they couldn’t have ever imagined, funded by powerful and wealthy men whose motives they did not fully understand, and they were acutely aware these could be lost at any moment. That precariousness made them simultaneously bold and terrified. They had the keys to the kingdom; they did not want to give them back.
By the time they’d finished their tea, they were almost in love with each other – not quite yet, because true love took time and memories, but as close to love as first impressions could take them. The days had not yet come when Ramy wore Victoire’s sloppily knitted scarves with pride, when Robin learned exactly how long Ramy liked his tea steeped so he could have it ready when he inevitably came to the Buttery late from his Arabic tutorial, or when they all knew Letty was about to come to class with a paper bag full of lemon biscuits because it was a Wednesday morning and Taylor’s bakery put out lemon biscuits on Wednesdays. But that afternoon they could see with certainty the kind of friends they would be, and loving that vision was close enough.
Later, when everything went sideways and the world broke in half, Robin would think back to this day, to this hour at this table, and wonder why they had been so quick, so carelessly eager to trust one another. Why had they refused to see the myriad ways they could hurt each other? Why had they not paused to interrogate their differences in birth, in raising, that meant they were not and could never be on the same side?
But the answer was obvious – that they were all four of them drowning in the unfamiliar, and they saw in each other a raft, and clinging to one another was the only way to stay afloat.
The girls were not allowed to live in college, which was why they hadn’t crossed paths with Robin and Ramy until the first day of instruction. Instead, Victoire and Letty lodged about two miles away in the servant annex of one of the Oxford day schools, which was apparently a common arrangement for Babel’s female students. Robin and Ramy accompanied them home because it seemed the gentlemanly thing to do, but Robin hoped this would not become a nightly routine, as the road really was quite far away and there was no omnibus at this hour.
‘They couldn’t put you anywhere closer?’ Ramy asked.
Victoire shook her head. ‘All of the colleges said our proximity risked corrupting the gentlemen.’
‘Well, that’s not fair,’ said Ramy.
Letty shot him a droll look. ‘Say more.’
‘But it’s not so bad,’ said Victoire. ‘There are some fun pubs on this street – we like the Four Horsemen, the Twisted Root, and there’s this place called Rooks and Pawns where you can play chess—’
‘Sorry,’ said Robin. ‘Did you say the Twisted Root?’
‘It’s up ahead on Harrow Lane near the bridge,’ said Victoire. ‘You won’t like it, though. We took a peek and walked right back out – it’s awfully dirty inside. Run your finger around the glass and you’ll find a wadge of grease and dirt a quarter of an inch thick.’
‘Not a haunt for students, then?’
‘No, Oxford boys wouldn’t be seen dead there. It’s for town, not gown.’
Letty pointed out a herd of meandering cows up ahead, and Robin let the conversation drift. Later, after they’d seen the girls safely home, he told Ramy to head back to Magpie Lane on his own.
‘I forgot I’ve got to go and see Professor Lovell,’ he said. Jericho was conveniently closer to this part of town than it was to Univ. ‘It’s a long walk; I don’t want to drag you over there.’
‘I thought your dinner wasn’t until next weekend,’ said Ramy.
‘It is, but I’ve just remembered I was supposed to visit sooner.’ Robin cleared his throat; he felt terrible lying to Ramy’s face. ‘Mrs Piper said she had some cakes for me.’
‘Thank heavens.’ Amazingly, Ramy suspected nothing. ‘Lunch was inedible. Are you sure you don’t want company?’
‘I’m all right. It’s been quite a day, and I’m tired, and I think it’ll be nice just to walk for a bit in silence.’
‘Fair enough,’ Ramy said pleasantly.
They parted on Woodstock Road. Ramy went down south straight back to the college. Robin cut right in search of the bridge Victoire had pointed out, unsure of what he was looking for except for the memory of a whispered phrase.
The answer found him. Halfway through Harrow Lane he heard a second pair of footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a dark figure following him up the narrow road.
‘Took you long enough,’ said his doppelgänger. ‘I’ve been skulking here all day.’
‘Who are you?’ Robin demanded. ‘What are you – why do you have my face?’
‘Not here,’ said his doppelgänger. ‘The pub’s round this corner, let’s go inside—’
‘Answer me,’ Robin demanded. A belated sense of danger had only now kicked in; his mouth had gone dry; his heart was hammering furiously. ‘Who are you?’
‘You’re Robin Swift,’ said the man. ‘You grew up without a father but with an inexplicable English nursemaid and a never-ending supply of books in English, and when Professor Lovell turned up to carry you off to England, you said farewell to your motherland for good. You think the professor might be your father, but he hasn’t admitted that you are his own. You’re quite sure he never will. Does that make sense?’
Robin couldn’t speak. His mouth opened, and his jaw worked pointlessly, but he simply had nothing to say.
‘Come with me,’ said his doppelgänger. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
Book II
Chapter Five
‘I don’t care for hard names,’ interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh. ‘You know the fact, and that’s enough for me.’
CHARLES DICKENS, Oliver Twist
They found a table in the back corner of the Twisted Root. Robin’s doppelgänger ordered them two glasses of a light golden ale. Robin drained half his glass in three desperate gulps and felt somewhat steadier, though no less confused.
‘My name,’ said his doppelgänger, ‘is Griffin Lovell.’
Upon closer inspection, he and Robin were not so alike after all. He was several years older, and his face bore a hard maturity that Robin’s hadn’t yet acquired. His voice was deeper, less forgiving, more assertive. He was several inches taller than Robin, though he was also much thinner; indeed, he appeared composed entirely of sharp edges and angles. His hair was darker, his skin paler. He looked like a print illustration of Robin, the lighting contrasts amplified and the colour blanched out.
He’s even more of your spitting image than the last.
‘Lovell,’ Robin repeated, trying to find his bearings. ‘Then you’re—?’
‘He’ll never admit it,’ said Griffin. ‘But he won’t with you either, will he? Do you know he’s got a wife and children?’
Robin choked. ‘What?’
‘It’s true. A girl and a boy, seven and three. Darling Philippa and little Dick. The wife’s name is Johanna. He’s got them squirrelled away in a lovely estate in Yorkshire. It’s partly how he gets funding for voyages abroad – he came from nothing, but she’s terribly rich. Five hundred pounds a year, I’m told.’
‘But then does—?’
‘Does she know about us? Absolutely not. Though I don’t think she’d care if she did, apart from the obvious reputational problems. There’s no love lost in that marriage. He wanted an estate and she wanted bragging rights. They see each other about twice a year, and the rest of his time he lives here, or in Hampstead. We’re the children he spends the most time with, funnily enough.’ Griffin cocked his head. ‘At least, you are.’
‘Am I dreaming?’ Robin mumbled.
‘You wish. You look ghastly. Drink.’
Robin reached mechanically for his glass. He was no longer trembling, but his head felt very fuzzy. Drinking didn’t help, but it at least gave him something to do with his hands.
‘I’m sure you’ve got loads of questions,’ said Griffin. ‘I’ll try to answer them, but you’ll have to be patient. I’ve got questions too. What do you call yourself?’
‘Robin Swift,’ said Robin, puzzled. ‘You know that.’
‘But that’s the name you prefer?’
Robin was not sure what he meant by this. ‘I mean, there’s my first – I mean, my Chinese name, but no one – I don’t—’
‘Fine,’ said Griffin. ‘Swift. Nice name. How’d you come up with that?’
‘Gulliver’s Travels,’ Robin admitted. It sounded very silly when he said it out loud. Everything about Griffin made him feel like a child in contrast. ‘It – it’s one of my favourite books. Professor Lovell said to pick whatever I liked, and that was the first name that came to mind.’
Griffin’s lip curled. ‘He’s softened a bit, then. Me, he took to a street corner before we signed the papers and told me foundlings were often named after the places they’d been abandoned. Said I could walk the city until I found a word that didn’t sound too ridiculous.’
‘Did you?’
‘Sure. Harley. Nowhere special in particular, I just saw it above a shop and I liked the way it sounded. The shapes your mouth has to make, the release of the second syllable. But I’m no Harley, I’m a Lovell, just as you’re no Swift.’
‘So we’re—’
‘Half-brothers,’ said Griffin. ‘Hello, brother. It’s lovely to meet you.’
Robin set down his glass. ‘I’d like to have the full story now.’
‘Fair enough.’ Griffin leaned forward. At dinnertime the Twisted Root was just crowded enough that the hubbub cast a shroud of noise over any individual conversation, but still Griffin lowered his voice to such a quiet murmur that Robin had to strain to hear. ‘Here’s the long and short of it. I’m a criminal. My colleagues and I regularly steal silver, manuscripts, and engraving materials from Babel and funnel them across England to our associates throughout the world. What you did last night was treason, and if anyone found out, you’d be locked up in Newgate for twenty years at least, but only after they’d tortured you in an attempt to get to us.’ All this he uttered very quickly, with hardly any change in tone or volume. When finished, he leaned back, looking satisfied.
