40
THE LINGUIST IS LATE. You are waiting for her in the restaurant – the one specified in her email. It wasn’t hard to get here. The trains were smooth, the instructions clear. You just had to put one foot in front of the other.
The restaurant looks odd, at least to you. Its walls are pink and there are fairy lights draped from the ceiling. It looks like a restaurant that wants to be photographed. Outside, London roars – swathes of people pass in black coats, double-decker buses chug along, flocks of feral pigeons take to the skies. You were here a couple of years ago. Not at this eating establishment, but you were nearby. You remember the park over there – the one you and Bobby got locked in with the man.
You rub your knee, as if you can still feel the bruises from where you fell.
You feel awkward. You don’t know what to do with your mind or your body but mostly just your hands. You wring them, click your knuckles, flex them, pick up the salt cellar, pick up the pepper mill, put them down again, before perusing the menu but not reading it properly. If the linguist didn’t arrive, you wouldn’t mind. In many ways, it would be a relief. You’re nervous. You know this because your stomach is doing uncomfortable flipping things.
The waiter brings you bread. She’s been asking you if you need anything every two minutes. You don’t know why. Maybe she’s suspicious of you. Maybe she’s anxious to do her job. Maybe she knows you are an awkward soul, unused to entering restaurants alone, unused to being in the city at all.
In any case, she places the bread on the table in front of you. The bread looks dry, and doesn’t even come with butter or oil or anything, just plain.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink? Anything at all?’
‘I’m OK,’ you say, because it’s true – you don’t want anything to drink, you aren’t thirsty.
The waiter hesitates. ‘We don’t really like it when people just sit here not eating or drinking anything.’
To you, this sounds more like a her-problem, not a you-problem, so at first you don’t react. Then you regard the dry bread, and decide you are going to need something to wash it down with.
‘OK,’ you say. ‘I’ll get a drink.’
‘Great, what can I get you?’
‘You don’t have squash, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Water, then.’
‘Water?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right, OK. Sparkling or still?’
You narrow your eyes. Though you are not a seasoned restaurant goer, you have heard of this trick. ‘Tap,’ you say.
‘Right.’ She smiles at you in a way that strikes you as weird, leaves, then comes back quickly and places a glass of water in front of you. ‘Let me know if I can get you anything else.’
You check your watch for the hundredth time. At almost the exact moment you feel that surely, she has forgotten you, the linguist arrives. You recognise her from her hair. She still has a lot of it.
‘Hi,’ she says, reaching over to shake your hand before plonking herself down.
‘Hi,’ you say, standing up to be polite – albeit at the same time she sits down.
‘What are you drinking?’
‘Um, just water.’ You don’t know if you should explain you were pressured into ordering a beverage – and that tap water was the only one that came to mind at the time of ordering.
In any case, the linguist doesn’t wait for you to come up with an answer. She blusters on. ‘Chilly day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ you say.
‘Did you find this place OK?’
‘Yes,’ you say again.
‘Apologies for the small talk.’
‘No worries.’
‘Just a habit, I guess.’
‘Sure.’
‘I suppose a useful one. It would be rather awkward to just dive in at the deep end at all times.’
‘Ha, yes.’
‘You don’t mind small talk?’
You shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
The linguist looks at you frowningly. ‘Why are you standing up?’
The linguist is right – you are still standing up. By way of correction, you sit yourself down. ‘Thank you, sorry,’ you say, unnecessarily.
A silence passes between you.
‘Not much of a talker?’ she asks.
‘I like talking.’
‘Just take a while to warm up?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have friends like that,’ she says, scanning the menu. ‘I have loads of friends that take a little while to warm up.’
‘OK.’
The waiter shuffles over. ‘Can I get you—’
‘Red wine,’ the linguist says, interrupting. ‘The second cheapest you have. Medium size.’
The waiter nods, looks at you, then leaves – presumably to fetch the wine.
The linguist considers you over the top of her spectacles. ‘It’s best to get the second cheapest, markup-wise.’
You don’t know what a markup is. ‘I agree,’ you say.
‘How old are you?’ the linguist says.
You hesitate. Then – possessed by a sudden surge of courage – you decide to make a witty joke. ‘I don’t know, how old are you?’ you say.
‘Very funny,’ the linguist says, unsmiling.
The waiter returns to place a glass of wine in front of the linguist. ‘Medium Merlot,’ she says. The linguist ignores her, takes a sip of the wine.
‘I read your paper,’ she says. ‘It was interesting.’
You feel yourself sinking. Even though you know this is why you are both gathered here today, you are suddenly full of regret – wish you hadn’t sent her that email after all, wish you hadn’t come to London at all. After a moment of self-reflection, you want to sink to the floor into the ground and then the earth. Then you remember your manners and nod.
‘Good,’ you say.
‘Where did you study?’ the linguist asks.
You pause. ‘Locally?’ you say, your voice going up at the end, as if what you are saying is a question and not a statement. And even though locally is not a lie as such, it is not the truth, which is that you are still too young to have entered tertiary education.
The linguist narrows her eyes.
‘Locally to here?’
You shake your head. You know that the woman doesn’t want to know the names of the primary school you used to attend or the secondary school you currently attend. You know she wants to know where you went to university.
‘Oh, locally to nowhere. The school of life. The university of life.’
The linguist clicks her tongue. ‘That’s an awful line,’ she says.
‘What is?’
‘The school of life.’ The linguist shakes her head, as if she really can’t believe you just said that. ‘The university of life. The anything of life.’
You don’t disagree. ‘I just, um, haven’t really been anywhere yet.’
The linguist raises her eyebrows. You can see the waiter hovering in the background, eager to take another order.
‘I’m still a bit young.’
The linguist nods seriously. ‘OK,’ she says, as if she’s changing the subject. ‘A lesson in linguistic thinking.’ The linguist holds her glass aloft, as if the glass of Merlot weren’t a glass of Merlot but instead is a beacon of hope. ‘White wine is white. Right?’
‘Sure.’
‘But it’s not white, is it?’
‘I guess not.’
‘What do you mean, you guess not? It’s not. Milk is white – more or less. White wine is somewhere between yellow and green.’
‘Right.’
‘Looks like urine, when you think about it.’ To illustrate this point, the linguist points to the table next to you. There, an old man is drinking a large glass of piss-coloured wine.
‘Sure.’
She takes a sip.
‘So that’s why I always drink red.’
‘OK.’
You widen your eyes. You find it funny that this is what the linguist deems linguistic thinking as, in your opinion, it falls into the category of dumb thinking. Though you suppose it could be both.
‘In any case, I’m afraid I’m not surprised that you went to the university of life.’
‘Why?’
‘Well.’ The linguist hesitates. ‘To be honest, your paper didn’t read well.’
Your stomach sinks. One part of you feels crushed – like your life’s work is being cruelly dismissed. The other part of you feels nothing.
‘Yeah, of course, sure, of course, sorry, I… um, that’s OK,’ you say, experiencing a mild bout of verbal diarrhoea, hoping the disappointment does not show on your face.
‘It lacked rigour.’
‘Right, OK.’
‘It lacked structure.’
‘OK.’
‘It lacked a basic level of coherency and flow.’
‘OK.’
You can feel yourself starting to well up. You want the tears to return to their ducts, so you gently pull the skin under your eyes, trying to get them to go back inside. It sort of works, though it makes you look like you’re pulling a face.
‘I’m sorry.’ The linguist doesn’t sound or look sorry. Instead, she just shakes her head. ‘I just tell it like it is. The Voynich Manuscript is not a how-to guide for aliens wanting to survive Planet Earth. And I don’t think you’ve discovered what it means.’
You try to mask your heavier-than-normal breathing by holding your breath. In the meantime, your disappointment starts to turn to disgruntlement. If the linguist hated your work so much, then why did she even bother to invite you to lunch? Why didn’t she just reply to your email saying she didn’t like what you’ve written, or even just ignore it?
You study the menu.
Moules frites.
Spaghetti carbonara.
Gazpacho.
Steak tartare.
Gnocchi.
Pulpo.
You pretend to be very interested in the eclectic range of dishes and cuisines, try to debate with yourself the merits and demerits of each particular dish. You seem to remember steak tartare is a good dish. Or maybe you are confusing it with another dish you are familiar with. The one that’s just called ‘steak’. Perhaps you should just choose whatever would be the quickest to eat. The faster you eat, the faster you can leave. What if the steak is chewy? What if it is not to your liking so you have to eat it really, really slowly? What if you don’t order anything at all? Say you feel ill? Stand up, announce that you’re feeling faint, and then maybe pretend to faint? What if you just say you’ve got a headache or a severe allergy to the things on the menu? What if you—
‘That said,’ the linguist says, interrupting your thoughts, ‘I really like the parts where you think small. Your ideas on inflections were cute. And your focus on the cosmological labels, in particular, was also strong. I think you show a good understanding of the research so far, even if your bigger, more original thoughts are lacking somewhat.’
You return your gaze to the linguist. You look at her intently, trying to figure out the meaning of what she just said. But then she says another thing that is just as – if not more – confusing.
‘I think you show great promise. Would you be interested in being my assistant at all?’
You use a napkin to wipe a tear that got away. Then you resume looking at her. You’re pretty sure she is complimenting you now, but you also know she could be making fun of you. You are not sure if the question is a part of a joke, specifically part of a joke you are not party to. Instinctively, you scan the restaurant. Maybe one of her friends is sitting at another table. Maybe at the moment you say ‘Yes, I’d love to be your assistant’, they will get up, point at you, and laugh.
‘Um,’ is all you can think to say.
You look at the menu again, deciding that you really would much prefer to eat gnocchi for lunch. Why? It’s a fun word and you are not sure if you have had it before.
‘I think I want the gnocchi,’ you say. ‘What about you?’
The linguist smiles. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’
‘Um.’ You feel awkward. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know.’
‘OK. You don’t have to know.’
‘What does an assistant do?’
‘You would assist.’
‘Who?’
‘Me.’
‘With what?’
‘Research. You would assist. I would guide. We would work as a team.’
You nod, take a gulp of water, and try to focus on your breathing. ‘What do you research?’
‘As of yet uninterpreted texts, such as—’
‘Like the… like the—’
‘The Voynich Manuscript, yes. But other texts too. And not even the Voynich mostly. Given that it’s in America, it’s not very convenient. Though of course, with modern technology and the advent of cheap flights, nothing is too far away.’
You don’t want to look too excited by the linguist’s area of research. ‘Cool,’ you say, trying to sound nonchalant without knowing what your face is doing. You take a massive gulp of water.
‘I’m confused,’ you say.
‘How so?’
‘You didn’t like what I wrote. You said you didn’t like it.’
‘Yes, well,’ she says, ‘I didn’t think it was great for a paper, but I thought it was great for a kid.’
You try to suppress your smile.
‘And great that you evidently have a decent grasp of the subject already.’
You cannot suppress your smile.
‘Even though you’re young and, from the sounds of it, pretty uneducated. And I’m pretty sure they don’t teach you this stuff at school.’
You try to look the linguist in the eye. ‘I have a thirst for knowledge,’ you say seriously, while making far too much eye contact.
At this, the linguist lets out a bark of a laugh, and you figure this was the wrong thing to say. ‘Ha!’ she says, really laughing now.
You blush, refocus on the menu, ignore her gaze again.
Pulpo.
Gnocchi.
Steak tartare.
Maybe you could ask for the steak tartare without the tartare. Or maybe you could go for the pulpo for old times’ sake. Or maybe you should still get the gnocchi.
‘Sorry,’ the linguist says. ‘I shouldn’t laugh. It’s good if you like learning. I’m glad. Really, I’m glad. It’s refreshing.’
You nod. You cannot handle this conversation evoking any more emotions. You hope and pray for no more.
‘I would be paid?’ you ask.
‘Yes. You’d be paid.’
‘So, it’d be like a job?’
‘Extremely so.’
‘I don’t know if I’m allowed to have a job.’
‘Are you too young?’
‘Just about.’
The linguist nods. ‘I thought as much. Why don’t we make an agreement, then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why don’t we say you can come work with me after getting some qualifications, but only informally till then?’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘What about yes?’
‘I think I want to say yes.’
‘You’re saying yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Shall we shake on it?’
‘OK, then.’
‘OK.’
You wipe away the clamminess of the palm sweat onto your jeans, then shake. Immediately after this, you experience a wave of concern. You wonder if it’s too late to back out.
‘But, um, but—’
‘Yes?’
‘But what would the informal job entail?’
‘Well,’ the linguist says, ‘why don’t we say if I give you books to read, you will go away and read them, and then tell me what you think about them.’
You are relieved. This sounds doable. ‘OK,’ you say. ‘Would I be able to get them from my local library?’
‘No. I’ll send them to you.’
‘OK,’ you say. ‘Anything else?’
‘Well, maybe if I’ve written something, maybe you can have a look at it for me and tell me what you think.’
You nod. ‘Anything else?’
‘Surely. But we can speak about these things in due course.’
‘In due course?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, then.’
‘So we’re agreed?’
You do a smile. ‘We’re agreed.’
‘Wow,’ the linguist says. ‘An agreement before even ordering.’
The linguist nods to the waiter, who is only too happy to approach. ‘The gnocchi for her,’ the linguist says – pronouncing ‘gnocchi’ differently from how you pronounced it. ‘And the pulpo for me.’
The two of you sit in silence for a minute that is somewhere between uncomfortable and companionable. You can hear a chef call out the order to the rest of the kitchen. One gnocchi, one pulpo.
The linguist excuses herself to go to the bathroom. For a few minutes, you are alone. You wonder what your parents are doing. You suspect your dad is at work. You suspect your mum is at home. You wonder if she is reading that book you saw her with yesterday: How to Overcome Anxiety: A Practical Guide . Meanwhile, Bobby will still be at school, studying for his exams or else passing the time with friends.
You are miles away from any of them. After this lunch, you could take a meandering walk around, and no one will know where you are, where you’ve been, or where you’re going. If someone wanted to contact you, they wouldn’t be able to. If someone wanted to locate you, they wouldn’t be able. A city surrounds you. You can do anything, be anywhere, and see anyone.
You find this thought thrilling. You find this thought frightening. You find this thought lonely. You find this thought so very sad.