Yes, Russell realized. The Thanet coast was below him. A large town. Margate probably, or Ramsgate. Places hed never been. And within minutes, or so it seemed, the southeastern suburbs of London were stretching beneath them in the afternoon sun, mile upon mile of neat little houses in a random mesh of roads and railways.
The pilot brought the plane down on the Croydon runway with only the slightest of jolts. The entry formalities were just that, and the car Jens had ordered was waiting at the terminal doors. They drove up the Brighton road, slowed by the busy late afternoon traffic. Paul marveled at the double-decker buses, but was more astonished by the paucity of buildings reaching above two storeys. It was only after Brixton that third, fourth, and fifth floors were grudgingly added.
Russell asked the driver to take them across Westminster Bridge, and was rewarded by the singular sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament aglow in the light of the setting sun. As they drove up Whitehall he pointed out Downing Street and the Horseguards; as they swung round Trafalgar Square, Nelson on his lonely column. The Strand seemed choked with buses, but they finally arrived at the Savoy to find that their fifth-floor rooms overlooked the Thames.
They must have cost a fortune, Russell thought. He and Paul looked out of the window at the barges on the tide-swollen river, the electric trains of the Southern Railway moving in and out of Charing Cross Station. Away to their left the piles of the new Waterloo Bridge stuck out of the water like temple remains. This is good, Paul said, with the air of someone truly satisfied.
Russell got an outside line and phoned his London agent Solly Bernstein, hoping to catch him before he went home. Im just on my way out of the door, Bernstein told him. What the hell are you doing in London?
Hoping to see you. Can you squeeze me in tomorrow afternoon?
Ah, just this once. Four oclock?
Fine.
Russell hung up and explained the call to Paul. Im hungry, was the response.
They ate with Zarah and Lothar in the hotel restaurant. The food was excellent, but Zarah, clearly anxious about the next morning, just picked at her plate. When she and Lothar wished them goodnight and retired to their room, Russell and his son took a stroll down to the river, and along the Embankment toward the Houses of Parliament. Opposite County Hall they stopped and leaned against the parapet, the high tide slurping against the wall below. Pedestrians and buses were still crowding Westminster Bridge, long chains of lighted carriages rumbling out of Charing Cross. A line of laden coal barges headed downstream, dark silhouettes against the glittering water. Some lines of Eliot slipped across his brain:
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach
Past the Isle of Dogs
He had hated The Waste Land when it came outits elegant despair had felt like defeatism. But the words had stuck. Or some of them at least.
Its been a long day, he told Paul. Time for bed.
ZARAH LOOKED EXHAUSTED OVER breakfast next morning, as if shed hardly slept. Lothar, by contrast, seemed more animated than usual. Paul, asked by his father for an opinion of Zarahs son, had shrugged and said Hes just a bit quiet, thats all.
Reception suggested a bank on the Strand which offered currency exchange and a probable safety deposit service, and Russell left Paul examining the huge model of the Queen Mary in the hotel lobby while he swapped his and Zarahs Reichsmarks for pounds. Safety deposit boxes were available, the cashier informed him proudly. The bank was open until three.
Their appointment in Harley Street was at 11:00, and Zarah had booked a taxi for 10:00. Trafalgar Square was busy, but the cab then raced around Piccadilly and up Regent Street, delivering them to the doctors door with forty-five minutes to spare. A stern-looking receptionist showed them into the waiting room, which was full of highly polished wooden chairs. Paul found a few childrens comics among the society magazines, and went through one with Lothar, pointing out what was happening in the various pictures.
How did you find this doctor? Russell asked.
A friend of Jens at the Embassy here, she replied. He said this man was highly thought of. And he speaks a little German.
Little, as they eventually discovered, was the operative word, and Russell had to function as a full-time interpreter. Doctor Gordon McAllister was a tall ginger-haired man in his forties, with a rather gaunt face, a slight Scottish accent, and an almost apologetic smile. He seemed a nice man, and one who clearly liked children. Effi always claimed that doctors who specialized in womens problems were usually women-haters, but apparently the same logic did not apply to pediatricians.
His office was a bright, spacious room with windows overlooking the street. In addition to his desk, there were several comfortable chairs and a large wooden box full of childrens toys and books. So tell me about Lothar, he asked Zarah through Russell.
She started off nervously but grew more confident as she went on, thanks in large part to the doctors obvious involvement. She said that Lothar sometimes seemed uninterested in everything, that he didn't respond when people talked to him, that at other times he would seem to suddenly lose interest in whatever it was he was doing, and just stop. Hell be in the middle of eating, she said, and just leave the table and go and do something else. And he doesnt always seem to understand what Im telling him to do, she added.
Hes four, yes? the doctor asked.
And three months.
Can he recognize different animals? He walked over to the box and took out a tiger and a rabbit. Lothar, whats this? he asked in German, holding out the tiger.
A tiger.
And this?
A rabbit.
No problems there, then. How about colors? Can he recognize them?
He could. A red balloon, a blue sky, a yellow canary. Having done so, without warning, he walked across to the window and looked out.
The doctor asked Zarah about the birth, about Lothars eating habits, whether there was any history of problems in her or her husbands family. She answered each question, and, in a halting voice, volunteered the information that she had considered aborting Lothar before he was born. I cant help thinking theres a connection, she said, clearly close to tears.
Youre completely wrong about that, the doctor insisted, the moment Russell had translated her words. There is no possible connection.
Then what is it? she asked, wiping a tear away.
Does he get tired easily? Does he seem weakphysically weak, I mean? Can he lift things.
She thought about that. Jensmy husbandhe sometimes says that Lothar lacks strength in his fingers. He doesnt like carrying things. And yes, he does get tired.
The doctor leaned forward on his desk, fingers intertwined beneath his chin. I dont think there is anything seriously wrong with Lothar, he said. Or at least, nothing that cannot be corrected. There is no name for this, but it isnt uncommon. Essentially, he has a weaker link with the rest of the world than most people do, but everyone is different in this respecthes just a bit more different than the norm. And his link can be strengthened. What Lothar needshe ticked them off on his fingersis fresh air and exercise, really good, nutrient-rich foodfresh eggs, fresh fruit, fresh everythingand physical stimulation. Regular massages would help. Give and take gamesthe sort that involve instant physical reactions. And music. All these things stimulate the body, make it more responsive.
But theres nothing seriously wrong? Zarah asked.
Not in my judgment. No.
And he doesnt need any tests?
No.
She took a deep breath. Thank you, doctor. She reached inside her handbag for the neat package of pound notes.