At that moment we were, mercifully, interrupted by the sound of an engine beyond the archway. It died in a moment, and then there was the sound of a car door being slammed.
‘Julian is back,’ I said, and could not keep the disappointment out of my voice. I think I had hoped, in some insane recess of my mind, that he might get lost in the great world and never be seen again, but now there he was, crossing the courtyard, looking despicably alive, with a stupid little trilby hat pushed jauntily down on his curls. Yacinth left the room without a word, and he had not been gone for a dozen seconds when Helena came in to take his place. What a house, my god, like an amateur theatrical with all these comings and goings.
‘Hubby’s back,’ I said.
I think I must have been grinning, with my teeth bared and eyes starting from their sockets, hating someone, everyone, furious with the world. She laid a hand with maternal concern on my wrist. I snarled at her touch.
‘Ben,’ she said. ‘You must be careful. He has planned something for you, I know it.’
‘Listen, what age is he?’
She frowned.
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’
It must have driven her crazy, the way I ruined her best scenes. I asked,
‘What plan, what are you talking about?’
She took her hand away and looked at me closely.
‘What has happened to you, Ben?’
‘Nothing, nothing, for the love of god leave me —’
There the door opened, and Julian came breezing in, all smiles, and smacking his hands. He took off his ridiculous hat and flicked it away. It settled softly on a chair.
‘Here you are, children.’
I wanted to do something to him, something violent. Rage was bubbling in my blood, a rage made unbearable because I could find no real cause of it. I would not speak for fear that my voice would choke me. Julian stood with his feet apart, hands stuck in his pockets, and surveyed us both with a merry eye. The fool, I thought, he suspects nothing.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You both look glum. Had a nice weekend?’
Helena waved a hand toward the distant hills.
‘We went for a picnic yesterday.’
‘Oh yes? Very nice. How are the lessons going, Benjamin? Think the boy is a genius?’
‘Shit —’
‘Pardon —?’
‘It, ah, it’s going very well.’
‘Good, good.’
He drew up a chair and sat down before us, his big balls bulging in his overstuffed trousers, his hairy hands on his knees. I tried not to laugh. His trilby hat was now squashed flat under his arse. Helena fiddled with a pen on the desk. I looked through the window. Our moods had run down, like toy trains in need of winding, and we did not know what to do with each other. Had it been any other trio there in that moment of ease, they might have come to terms, resolved some tensions, offered some confessions, become friends at last; but not us. Helena was the first to drift away. She did so in stages, almost droopingly, from desk to chair (straighten a cushion), from chair to wall (straighten a picture), wall to door, to the hall, gone. Julian coughed. He was playing with a piece of paper, twisting it in his thick fingers.
‘Did I ever tell you about my mad Uncle Victor?’ he asked idly.
‘No.’
‘His passion in life was roller-skating. He bought a disused monastery in the Lake District, had the cloisters repaved with cork, and spent the rest of his life up there, gliding up and down the silent halls, dressed in a frock coat, top hat and yellow spats. A curious man. I cannot imagine why, but I’ve been thinking about him all day. Dear me. Life sometimes seems… terribly long, and the world a very grey institution, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’
We looked down at the fountain. Julian said,
‘I think, you know, that you should leave Greece.’
He said it very casually, almost as though he were thinking of something else, and only now does his advice strike me as momentous. I asked,
‘Why?’
He did not answer, did not seem to have heard me. He glanced at the page from which Yacinth had read.
‘A bit advanced, eh?’ he murmured, and then pushed the book away and scratched his jaw.
‘Yacinth is advanced,’ I said.
‘I suppose he is. It’s strange, but I often think that I am completely lacking in … sensitivity, is that the word? No, not sensitivity, but … I don’t know … compassion, maybe? Uncle Victor taught me the value of such things, though, and I can appreciate them in others. I think you should …’
The subject dropped soundlessly down into the well of silence. I went away. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps we did come to some kind of terms. As I was closing the door, I glanced back to see him rise and take up that flattened hat and hold it in his hands with a slow little smile of wonder and delight. Yes, Julian had his points, but I did not trust him, and I remember moving cautiously down the stairs for fear of stepping into something nasty.
The little shop stood wedged into a crevice of the little street, opposite the underground station. The books on display inside the grimy window were bleached to the bone. I pushed open the rickety door. Bing, said the bell, wagging its head. From the rear there came a rustling, as of tiny furry feet trampling old newspapers, and Rabin shuffled forward and peered at me. He was a tall gaunt ruin of a man in an ancient, shapeless black suit which bore a fine shine on the elbows and knees. His spectacles were held together at the bridge with a lump of dirty surgical tape. Doctor Hieronymous Rabin, professor of classical Greek literature, bookseller extraordinary, scholar of the ancient arts.
‘Oh, you,’ he said. ‘You are early today.’
He gave a humourless grin, displaying a horrendous set of yellow tusks.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t get away any sooner.’
A loud sniff.
‘So, busy you were, eh? How is Julian?’
‘He’s all right.’
‘And his dear wife?’
‘She’s fine, they’re both just fine. I’m giving lessons to Yacinth.’
‘That precocious child of theirs.’
‘He’s Hel— Mrs Kyd’s brother.’
‘Ah yes, of course. And would it be permitted to ask what kind of lessons you are giving him?’
‘English.’
‘I see. Hum.’
‘What did you think?’
‘Oh nothing, nothing. But I thought you might have some useful lessons to teach him from your long years in the university of life.’
‘I teach him English.’
In spite of his sarcasm, I think that Rabin really liked me. He shrugged, and stamped away to his desk at the back of the shop. I followed him. He opened his hands over a book lying before him on the desk, the bitter lines of his old face softening.
‘Is it not exquisite?’ he murmured. ‘I got it for, as you would say, a song.’
The book was indeed a beautiful thing. I left him alone with his love, and went behind the counter in front of the shop and sat down on my three-legged stool. The hours danced slowly away, and the sun reached its angle where, for five minutes, it sent a sliver of dusty yellow light plunging into the floor beside me. A few customers came and went, tourists for the most part, they came slowly and went hastily, and one of them bought a book, a nasty little edition of the Kama Sutra. The door had a habit of slamming of its own volition, and each time someone went out, Rabin would give a faint squeak of protest as the thunderclap disturbed his day. I punched the till, let the coins trickle in, closed the drawer, sat down. The hours began their minuet again. Rabin came forward and paused irresolutely beside a step-ladder which leaned against the shelves, then grasped the uprights and scaled it with surprising speed. His ascension was brought to an abrupt halt when his shaggy head struck the ceiling with a thump. He stood stock still, astonished, and then indignant. He caught sight of me grinning at him, and scowled.