‘Are you going?’ said Emma.
‘To see Professor Rozanov? Certainly I am. Wouldn’t you? I’m dying with curiosity.’
‘You could go now, this morning. It’s not eleven yet. How long would it take you to get there?’
‘Twenty minutes. Whatever can it be? Could it be something awful?’
‘You mean like his having secretly married your mother?’
Tom began to laugh, then abruptly stopped. Good heavens! That he could not endure; but of course it was only a joke —
Emma went on. ‘Don’t worry, if he had he would say “I have something to tell you”, not “I have something to ask you”.’
‘But what can he want to ask?’
‘Something about George?’
Tom felt suddenly disappointed, then frightened. ‘God. I hope not. I don’t want to muck around with George’s emotions. I mean - Christ, I hope George doesn’t find out I’ve been visiting his guru - that would be trouble.’
‘You haven’t visited him yet. Maybe it would be wise not to go.’
‘Oh I’m going! I’m going now!’
‘You ought to shave.’
Tom ran to the bathroom and shaved carefully and combed his hair.
‘And put on a tie.’
Emma was looking round the bathroom door and Tom could now see Emma’s face wearing its old familiar quizzical mocking look. He turned and went to his friend and put his arms around his neck.
‘Emma, all right, I’m not going to talk about it if you don’t want, but something or other did occur, heavens knows what, and I just want you to know that I’m not worrying about it at all and that the most important aspect of the matter as far as I’m concerned is that I love you.’
‘I love you too, you dope, but nothing follows from that except that.’
‘Well, isn’t that rather a lot? And that night — ’
‘A hapax legomenon.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Something that only occurs once.’
‘You mean like the birth of Jesus Christ?’
‘Don’t be damn silly about this — ’
‘Well, the world can be changed — ’
‘Oh just shut up, will you. Put a tie on.’
Tom found a tie. ‘Do you think I should clean my shoes?’
‘No. You aren’t visiting God.’
‘Oh. Aren’t I? Will you walk with me?’
‘No. Clear off.’
By the time Tom McCaffrey had reached John Robert Rozanov’s door he had worked himself up into a fair fever. He had pictured every sort of embarrassing, maddening, painful, disastrous business involving George, Rozanov, and himself. Rozanov wanted him to tell George never to communicate with him again. Rozanov wanted him to console George and ask him not to be too upset because Rozanov was too busy to see him any more. (Tom could imagine how George would greet such an embassy.) Rozanov wanted him to instruct George to print some public amendment of some article in which George had misrepresented or plagiarized Rozanov. Trying in desperation to think of something that Rozanov might want which was not connected with George, his disturbed fantasy put forward the idea that perhaps John Robert was about to reveal that he was really Tom’s father! Tom had never entertained this speculation before and did not now entertain it for long. It was promptly driven from his head by the indignant shade of Alan McCaffrey, assisted by that of Fiona Gates. Love for his parents suddenly filled Tom’s soul, disturbing him even more. And these two, as they had always been, comforting and benign ghosts, gave Tom a heightened sense of the vulnerability of happiness and of how dangerous and unpredictable and just bloody tiresomely powerful this eccentric philosopher might prove to be.
Arrived at the door of 16 Hare Lane, he dabbed nervously at the bell, which made a tiny grunt. He pushed it again harder and longer and produced a loud impertinent hiss. The door opened instantly and was filled by the stout burly form of the philosopher.
John Robert said nothing, but stepped awkwardly backward into the dark hall to make way for Tom who stepped awkwardly forward into the space. John Robert then moved backwards, followed by Tom, to the door of the sitting-room, then turned his back on the boy and blundered forward into the room.
Outside, a brilliant April light dazzlingly displayed blue sky, fast white cloudlets, the Cox’s Orange tormented by wind, a disconsolate fence with slats missing, unkempt ruffled damp grass. The room by contrast was dark, low-ceilinged and narrow, the tiny grate and mantelpiece like a slit.
John Robert said, ‘Please sit down. Please - sit - down — ’
Tom took in two hopeless slumping low-slung armchairs, and since he had to obey the command rapidly, reached out and seized from beside John Robert an extremely rickety upright chair which he placed on a black lumpy rug beside the fireplace and sat down.
John Robert looked at the armchairs, made as if to sit on the arm of one and decided not to. Tom leapt up.
‘No - you sit - I’ll - there’s another chair - in the hall — ’
John Robert pushed past Tom who was still standing, and returned with another upright chair which he put with its back to the window. He then closed the door into the hall. They both sat down.
Tom felt he should say something, so said ‘Good morning’, which sounded rather stilted. He had not only never spoken to Rozanov before, he had never been at close quarters with him or had an opportunity to inspect his face. This in fact was difficult to do now with the dazzling light behind, and the moving clouds making the room seem to tilt like a ship laid over.
‘Mr McCaffrey,’ said the philosopher. ‘I hope very much that you will excuse the liberty - if it is a liberty - of my asking you to hear - what I want to say — ’
Tom felt a pang of fear which he had recognized as a pang of guilt. It had not occurred to him in his imaginings as he walked along that John Robert might want to accuse him of something. What had he done? What could he have done, to harm, hurt, annoy, incense this great man - or to make the great man imagine that he had been harmed or hurt and could justly be annoyed or incensed? Tom searched his conscience, at once a prey to vague huge remorse. Where in his imperfect conduct could this fault lie? Did John Robert think that Tom had encouraged George to - or told George that —? But almost at once, as he confusedly accused himself of he knew not what, he was aware that John Robert was himself upset, perhaps even nervous.
‘Please — ’ said Tom, ‘there’s nothing you could - I mean if there’s anything - I could do - or — ’
‘There is,’ said Rozanov, ‘something that you could do — ’ He stared at Tom, wrinkling up his pitted brow, his big moist prehensile lips thrust forward.
Tom thought: Oh God. It is about George.
‘Before I explain - or at any rate - before I - introduce - what I want to - I hope you will not mind if I ask you a few simple questions.’
‘No.’
‘And may I say, as I said in my letter, that I desire - indeed I require - that you should regard everything that is said in this room as strictly confidential, or to use a simpler and stronger word, as a secret. You understand what that means?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will not speak of this conversation with anybody!’
‘Yes. I mean no, I won’t — ’ It did not occur to Tom to query this requirement, which after all, since nothing had yet been revealed, might have seemed unreasonable, so much was he already under the spell of the philosopher. In any case, he would have promised as much and more at that moment, so great was his curiosity.