But now Georg, tearing up the metro ticket he wrote his guess on, is saying that he lives at number 63 Viale Lotto, that his birthday is on the nineteenth of the eleventh, and that his car registration number is Ml 807 653, but that none of this would even begin to lead him to deduce, or no? that he is sitting in seat number 47.
Georg is very droll and my girl and the other girls laugh at this and they begin to talk about numerical consequences and about tarot. The girl to my right with the swollen lips knows how to read cards. She will read Georg’s cards, she says, if he wants. He raises and arches a very blond eyebrow, poses an expression of wry concern. The girls laugh again. Georg is deadpan. The last thing I need to hear is that I’m going to meet a handsome stranger, he says. The girls giggle. Until, with a ridiculous awareness of competition, of being two men among so many girls, of a bait that could only make a complete fool of me were I to rise to it, as I did rise to it so hopelessly and helplessly once before, I decide to seek refuge in my book. Read, I tell myself. I turn to my book again. Read. Do not rise to the bait, I tell myself. Do not engage in this conversation. Stop thinking of the number 45.
Determinedly, I turn the novel over in my hands, inspecting its extravagant cover, the extravagant endorsements of names one presumes are famous. And I find myself asking, Why did your daughter give you this book? Why did she do that? Presumably in the hope that her father would share her enthusiasm for this fantastical tale of five poor young ethnically mixed East End urchins who start a rock band to collect money for the Third World and are constantly cheated and done down by the forces of capitalism and in particular because the lead singer is black and lesbian and has magical powers. Your daughter must have imagined, I tell myself, trying to ignore a story from the girl with her leg in the aisle about a woman in Naples who repeatedly dreamt the number of the hotel room she died in on the day of the great mezzogiorno earthquake, your daughter must have hoped, expected, that you would share her enthusiasm for this book. So you should be more patient, I tell myself, more tolerant. If only out of fairness to your daughter. You should try to relax and enjoy this book, which was certainly written with the best of intentions. Now they are talking about someone who dreamt the date of his child’s murder. I find my place some thirty pages in. But no sooner have I read a paragraph of this, as I said, extravagantly praised book by a fashionable woman writer, no sooner have I begun to tackle a flashback to lesbian incest between the lead singer and her twin sister, later tragically killed in a racist arson attack on a Brixton discotheque, than I remember how fascinated I was when she told me all the details of her lesbian affair with an Islamic girl who had been her housemaid and who the monstrous (but wealthy) husband had slapped round the face when he discovered them in bed. Why didn’t he slap her? I wonder now. Until suddenly it occurs to me — and at last this is a new thought, the first for many days if I am not mistaken, and for that reason alone electrifying — it occurs to me, as the narrator returns from the flashback to resume interracial love-making with the ruthless record producer’s neglected wife, that given this tendency on her part (and now the girl on Georg’s left is talking about a pilot whose income tax code, or at least alternate letters and digits, coincided with the flight number of the plane he crashed), given this tendency, lesbian I mean, on her part, she may one day attempt to seduce my daughter, who sometimes baby-sits for her daughter. Such a thing is perfectly plausible, I tell myself. Your daughter is an attractive girl. She often goes to her flat now she has moved to Milan. To baby-sit. Why shouldn’t she try to seduce her? After all, she is eighteen as of tomorrow. And I have to ask myself, is this perhaps what the gift of this literary eulogy to lesbianism is foreshadowing, or even post-dating? Could it be that your daughter is already having an affair with your ex-mistress?
Sitting slightly off-centre in the back of this coach hammering due north towards the imagined focal point of a continent whose precise borders have never been clear to me, and in the midst of this chatter of anecdotes about coincidences and intuitions notoriously catastrophic, I suddenly find myself bound to consider as lucidly as ever I can this new and increasingly shocking thought, this hypothetical lesbian relationship between my ex-lover and my daughter, a relationship, I reflect now, which would in no way be a crime under the law as it stands, as so many of the most terrible things we do to each other, I tell myself, are not even misdemeanours, in legal terms, are they? since we are all free agents, so called, I tell myself, except where property and money and the most basic aspects of physical well-being are concerned. Yes, I try to consider such a relationship — her and my daughter — in its practical, erotic, social and spiritual aspects, with all the awful and fascinating images such an eventuality conjures up. And I’m appalled. Partly by the idea itself, but mostly by the thought that I have had this idea. Why do you have ideas like this, I demand of myself? I’m furious. Though at the same time I can’t help wondering at the astonishing fact that after eighteen miserable months I am still able to formulate a new thought, however unsavoury, however unwanted, about a situation whose exotic and squalid permutations I imagined I had already shuffled and reshuffled in every possible self-destructive combination.
Such, in any event, is my state of mind when Vikram Griffiths appears at the back of the coach together with his dog, snuffling and wagging, to say in a low but excited voice, squatting down, to myself and to Georg, and hence inevitably to the girl between us, that he is convinced there is a spy amongst us, a turncoat, a scab, someone who, in return for guarantees that they won’t lose their position, is keeping the University informed as to our every move and who, when we arrive in Strasbourg, will be behind the scenes putting the University’s case to the very important people we have arranged to meet and above all taking notes of what we say so that the University will then be in a better position to prepare a rebuttal. And the thing to do, Vikram Griffiths says in his low, deep voice that everybody can hear, all the time playing with the ears of this nondescript mongrel dog, the thing to do if we manage to find out who this spy is, would be to throw them off the coach immediately and leave them to walk back home.
Turning to look out of the window, still with my daughter’s possible lesbian seduction in mind, I see the drizzle is thinly persistent as we leave the dull ribbon development north of the city for the duller reafforestation of the first hills that climb towards Switzerland, a country which despite its centrality and its admirable example of the possibility of federal coexistence between different ethnic groupings is ironically not part of that Europe to which we are appealing. Through spattered perspex I see the drizzle, the sharply rising hills, the fleeting proliferation of all those details one so pointlessly takes in each moment one travels, only to expel them a moment later, like the air we breathe, the people we speak to on the street, and I must say, looking at that glum rain, the dark gesturing of those slopes, that the idea of walking back home is not unattractive, not unattractive at all, though from further up in the mountains would be better. Yes, walking back, I reflect, as the crow flies, under rain, through wet grass, alone, sovereign, preferably with streams to wade, rocks to scale, is not an unattractive prospect. I can imagine bruising my knee and my cheeks scoured by strong winds, a half-eaten apple in my pocket, and there would be mud, nightfall and dawn, ditches and crusts. How adolescent and attractive that is! But I say this of course because I’m already remembering how I once thought, indeed how I once wrote, in a letter to her, though whether it was one of those I sent or one of those I destroyed or one of those I neither sent nor destroyed, I cannot recall — how love (I meant our love) might be likened to some exotic holiday location where you arrive by plane with a pocket full of credit cards and an immense and criminally complacent smile on your face, only to find when the statutory fun is over that there is no flight back, you have to walk back home. And somehow you have lost everything, your ticket, your Eurocard, even, worst of all, your carta d’identitd. You have to walk back, no planes now, alone and barefoot, over the wildest terrain, crossing angry seas on makeshift rafts, without any sense of direction, without even looking forward particularly to the arrival, without even knowing perhaps what home would look like when and if you got there, for somehow you have no memory of what it might feel like to say to yourself, Now I am at home, now I am back. Until, caught deep in the forest, or exposed on a rocky hillside under a twittering of unseen birds, the obvious finally occurs to you: you’re not even on the same planet. That plane- you boarded flew you to a different world. The love plane. Thus my scribblings in a letter to her, remembered now on the swaying coach. It was a miracle of science, I wrote. I don’t know whether I sent the thing or not. As for walking home, you might as well set out for Andromeda on foot.