The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [96]
“Did the revolution greatly affect your life?”
“I do not complain. It is a privilege to be the professor of English in a great university. They do not interfere with me in my department, and Shakespeare is not yet considered subversive literature.” He paused and took a luxuriant puff at his pipe. “And what will you do, young man, when you leave the university—as you have shown us that you won’t be making a living as a runner.”
“I want to be a writer.”
“Then travel, travel, travel,” he said. “You cannot hope to learn everything from books. You must see the world for yourself if you ever hope to paint a picture for others.”
I looked up at the old clock on his mantelpiece only to realize how quickly the time had passed.
“I must leave you, I’m afraid; they expect us all to be back in the hotel by ten.”
“Of course,” he said smiling at the English public school mentality. “I will accompany you to Kossuth Square, and then you will be able to see your hotel on the hill.”
As we left the apartment, I noticed that he didn’t bother to lock the door. Life had left him little to lose. He led me quickly through the myriad of narrow streets that I had found so impossible to navigate earlier in the evening, chatting about this building and that, an endless fund of knowledge about his own country as well as mine. When we reached Kossuth Square he took my hand and held on to it, reluctant to let go, as lonely people often will.
“Thank you for allowing an old man to indulge himself by chattering on about his favorite subject.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” I said. “And when you are next in Somerset you must come to Lympsham and meet my family.”
“Lympsham? I cannot place it,” he said, looking worried.
“I’m not surprised. The village has a population of only twenty-two.”
“Enough for two cricket teams,” remarked the professor. “A game, I confess, with which I have never come to grips.”
“Don’t worry,” I said “Neither have half the English.”
“Ah, but I should like to. What is a ‘gully,’ a ‘no-ball,’ a ‘night watchman’? The terms have always intrigued me.”
“Then remember to get in touch when you’re next in England, and I’ll take you to Lord’s and see if I can teach you something.”
“How kind,” he said, and then he hesitated before adding: “But I don’t think we shall meet again.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, you see, I have never been outside Hungary in my whole life. When I was young I couldn’t afford to, and now I don’t imagine that those in authority would allow me to see your beloved England.”
He released my hand, turned, and shuffled back into the shadows of the side streets of Budapest.
I read his obituary in The Times once again, as well as the headlines about Afghanistan and its effect on the Moscow Olympics.
He was right. We never met again.
THE STEAL
Christopher and Margaret Roberts always spent their summer vacation as far away from England as they could possibly afford. However, as Christopher was the classics teacher at St. Cuthbert’s, a small preparatory school just north of Yeovil, and Margaret was the school matron, their experience of four of the five continents was largely confined to periodicals such as National Geographic and Time.
The Robertses’ annual vacation each August was nevertheless sacrosanct, and they spent eleven months of the year saving, planning, and preparing for their one extravagant luxury. The following eleven months were then spent passing on their discoveries to the “offspring”: The Robertses, without children of their own, looked on all the pupils of St. Cuthbert’s as “offspring.”
During the long evenings when the “offspring” were meant to be asleep in their dormitories, the Robertses would pore over maps, analyze expert opinion, and then finally come up