Babel : Or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution (9780063021440)

Babel scholars milled around holding rapidly warming glasses of wine, making tepid and petty conversation. Like all faculties at Oxford, the Translation Institute was rife with internal rivalries and jealousies over funding and appointments, a problem exacerbated by the fact that each regional specialist thought their language was more rich, more poetic, more literary, and more fertile for silver-working than others. Babel’s departmental prejudices were just as arbitrary as they were confusing. The Romanticists enjoyed most of the literary prestige,^* though Arabic and Chinese were highly prized mostly by virtue of how foreign and different they were, while languages closer to home like Gaelic and Welsh had almost no respect at all. This made small talk very dangerous; it was very easy to give offence if one displayed either too much or too little enthusiasm about one’s research. Walking around in the midst of it all was Reverend Doctor Frederick Charles Plumptre, Master of the College, and it was understood at some point that each of them would have to shake his hand, pretend that they believed he remembered them when it was obvious he hadn’t a clue what their names were, and suffer a painfully banal conversation about where they were from and what they studied before he let them go.

All this for three unbearable hours, for no one could leave before the banquet was over. The seating charts were made; their absences would be noticed. They had to stay until the sun had set, until all the toasts had been given, and until all the scholars present had had enough of pretending to enjoy socializing for a lifetime.

This is a disaster, Robin thought, glancing around. They would have been better off not showing up. None of them had their wits about them. He watched a graduate fellow ask Victoire a question three times before she finally registered his presence. Letty was standing in the corner, gulping down glass after glass of cold water as sweat dripped down her forehead. Ramy was faring the best, holding court with a gaggle of first years regaling him with questions about his voyage, but as Robin walked past him, he heard Ramy burst out in such an abrupt, hysterical peal of laughter that he nearly flinched back with fright.

Robin felt dizzy as he looked out over the crowded lawn. This was madness, he thought, sheer madness that he should be standing here among the faculty, holding a wineglass, concealing the truth that he’d killed one of their number. He wandered towards the buffet tables and filled a small plate with hors d’oeuvres, just to have something to do, but the thought of putting any of the rapidly spoiling tarts in his mouth was nauseating.

‘Feeling all right?’

He jumped and turned. It was Professors De Vreese and Playfair. They stood on either side of him like prison guards. Robin blinked rapidly, trying to arrange his features into something like a neutral smile. ‘Professors. Sirs.’

‘You’re sweating buckets.’ Professor Playfair scrutinized his face, looking concerned. ‘And you’ve got enormous shadows under your eyes, Swift. Have you been sleeping?’

‘Time lag,’ Robin blurted. ‘We didn’t – erm, we didn’t adjust our sleeping schedules on the return voyage as well as we should have. And besides we’re exhausted with, erm, with preterm reading.’

To his astonishment, Professor Playfair nodded in sympathy. ‘Ah, well. You know what they say. Student from studere, meaning “painstaking, dedicated application”. If you don’t feel like a nail struck constantly by a hammer, you’re doing it wrong.’

‘Indeed,’ said Robin. His strategy, he’d decided, was to come off as so boring that they lost interest and wandered off.

‘Did you have a good trip?’ inquired Professor De Vreese.

‘It was—’ Robin cleared his throat. ‘It was more than we bargained for, we think. We’re all very glad to be back.’

‘Don’t I know it. Those overseas affairs can be exhausting.’ Professor Playfair nodded to the plate in Robin’s hand. ‘Ah, I see you’ve found my inventions. Go on, have a bite.’

Robin, feeling pressured, bit into a tart.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ Professor Playfair watched him as he chewed. ‘Yes, it’s silver-enhanced. A fanciful little match-pair that I came up with on vacation in Rome. Pomodoro is a rather fanciful description for a tomato, you see – it literally means “apple of gold”. Now add the French intermediary, pomme d’amour, and you get a richness that the English doesn’t . . .’

Robin chewed, trying to look appreciative. All he could register was how slimy it was; how the salty juices bursting in his mouth made him think of blood and corpses.

‘You have pretoogjes,’ Professor De Vreese observed.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Pretoogjes.’ Professor De Vreese gestured at his face. ‘Fun eyes. A Dutch word. Twinkling eyes, shifting eyes. We use it to describe children who are up to no good.’

Robin had not the faintest idea what he was supposed to say in response to this. ‘I . . . how interesting.’