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

Robin would live in University College. His guidebook informed him that it was commonly referred to as ‘Univ’, that it housed all students enrolled in the Royal Institute of Translation, and that in aesthetic it was ‘sombre and venerable, a look befitting of the university’s oldest daughter’. It certainly looked like a Gothic sanctuary; its front wall was all turrets and uniform windows against smooth white stone.

‘Well, here you are.’ Professor Lovell stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking slightly uncomfortable. Now that they’d been to the porter’s lodge, acquired Robin’s keys, and dragged Robin’s trunks off High Street onto the paved sidewalk, it seemed obvious that a parting was imminent. Professor Lovell simply didn’t know how to go about it. ‘Well,’ he said again. ‘You have a few days before classes start, so you ought to spend them getting to know the city. You’ve got a map – yes, there – though the place is small enough you’ll learn it by heart after a few strolls. Perhaps seek out the members of your cohort; they’ll likely have moved in by now. My residence here is up north in Jericho; I’ve written you directions in that envelope. Mrs Piper will join me there next week, and we’ll expect you at dinner the Saturday after next. She’ll be very happy to see you.’ All this he rattled off like a memorized checklist. He seemed to have a hard time looking Robin in the eyes. ‘Are you all set?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll be very happy to see Mrs Piper as well.’

They blinked at each other. Robin felt that surely there were other words that should be said, words to mark this occasion – his growing up, leaving home, his entering university – as momentous. But he couldn’t imagine what they might be, and apparently neither could Professor Lovell.

‘Well, then.’ Professor Lovell gave him a curt nod and turned halfway towards High Street, as if confirming he was no longer needed. ‘You can manage your trunks?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, then,’ Professor Lovell said again, then headed back out to High Street.

It was an awkward phrase to end on, two words that suggested more to come. Robin watched him for a moment, half expecting him to turn around, but Professor Lovell seemed focused solely on hailing a cab. Strange, yes. But this did not bother Robin. This was how things had always been between them: conversations unfinished, words best left unsaid.

Robin’s lodgings were in Number 4, Magpie Lane^* – a green-painted building halfway down the crooked, narrow alley that connected High Street and Merton Street. Someone else was already standing at the front door, fiddling with the lock. He had to be a new student – satchels and trunks were scattered on the cobblestones around him.

He was, Robin saw as he drew closer, very clearly not native to England. South Asia was more likely. Robin had seen sailors with the same colouring in Canton, all from ships arriving from India. The stranger had smooth dusky skin, a tall and graceful build, and the longest, darkest eyelashes that Robin had ever seen. His eyes flickered up and down Robin’s frame before settling on his face, questioning – determining, Robin suspected, just how foreign Robin was in return.

‘I’m Robin,’ Robin burst out. ‘Robin Swift.’

‘Ramiz Rafi Mirza,’ the other boy pronounced proudly, extending his hand. He spoke with such proper English diction he sounded nearly like Professor Lovell. ‘Or just Ramy, if you like. And you – you’re here for the Translation Institute, aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ said Robin, then added, on a hunch, ‘I’m from Canton.’

Ramy’s face relaxed. ‘Calcutta.’

‘Did you just get in?’

‘To Oxford, yes. To England, no – I came in through Liverpool on a ship four years ago and I’ve been holed up in a big, boring estate in Yorkshire until now. My guardian wanted me to acclimatize to English society before I matriculated.’

‘Mine too,’ Robin said eagerly. ‘What did you think?’

‘Awful weather.’ One side of Ramy’s mouth quirked up. ‘And the only thing I can eat here is fish.’

They beamed at each other.

Robin felt a strange, bursting feeling in his chest then. He’d never met someone else in his situation, or anything like it, and he strongly suspected that should he keep probing, he would uncover a dozen more similarities. He had a thousand questions, but he didn’t know where to start. Was Ramy also orphaned? Who was his sponsor? What was Calcutta like? Had he been back since? What brought him to Oxford? He was suddenly anxious – he felt his tongue stiffen, unable to choose a word – and there was also the matter of the keys, and their scattered trunks, which made the alley look as if a hurricane had emptied a ship’s hold onto the street—

‘Should we—’ Robin managed, just as Ramy asked, ‘Shall we open that door?’

They both laughed. Ramy smiled. ‘Let’s drag these inside.’ He nudged a trunk with his toe. ‘Then I’ve got a box of very nice sweets which I think we should open, yes?’