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

‘Now you’re part of the tower,’ Professor Playfair told them as he locked the drawers. ‘Now the tower knows you.’

Ramy made a face. ‘Bit creepy, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all,’ said Professor Playfair. ‘You’re in the place where magic is made. It’s got all the trappings of a modern university, but at its heart, Babel isn’t so different from the alchemists’ lairs of old. But unlike the alchemists, we’ve actually figured out the key to the transformation of a thing. It’s not in the material substance. It’s in the name.’

Babel shared a buttery in the Radcliffe quadrangle with several other humanities faculties. The food there was supposedly very good, but it was closed until start of classes tomorrow, so instead they headed back to the college just in time for the tail end of lunch service. All the hot food was gone, but afternoon tea and its trappings were on offer until supper. They loaded trays with teacups, teapots, sugar bowls, milk jugs, and scones, then navigated the long wooden tables in hall until they found an unoccupied one in the corner.

‘So you’re from Canton, then?’ asked Letty. She had a very forceful personality, Robin had noticed; she asked all her questions, even the benign ones, in the tone of an interrogator.

He’d just bitten into a scone; it was dry and stale, and he had to take a sip of tea before he could answer. She turned her gaze on Ramy before he could. ‘And you – Madras? Bombay?’

‘Calcutta,’ Ramy said pleasantly.

‘My father was stationed in Calcutta,’ she said. ‘Three years, from 1825 to 1828. Could be you saw him around.’

‘Lovely,’ said Ramy as he slathered jam over his scone. ‘Could be he pointed a gun at my sisters once.’

Robin snorted, but Letty blanched. ‘I’m only saying I’ve met Hindus before—’

‘I’m Muslim.’

‘Well, I’m just saying—’

‘And you know,’ now Ramy was buttering his scone with great vim, ‘it’s very irritating, actually, the way everyone wants to equate India with Hinduism. “Oh, Muslim rule is an aberration, an intrusion; the Mughals just interlopers, but tradition – that’s Sanskrit, that’s the Upanishads.”’ He lifted his scone to his mouth. ‘But you don’t even know what any of those words mean, do you?’

They’d got off to a bad start. Ramy’s humour did not always work on new acquaintances. One needed to take his glib tirades in one’s stride, and Letitia Price seemed capable of anything but that.

‘So, Babel,’ Robin interjected before Ramy could say anything else. ‘Nice building.’

Letty cast him an amazed look. ‘Quite.’

Ramy, rolling his eyes, coughed and set down his scone.

They sipped their tea in silence. Victoire clinked her spoon nervously around her cup. Robin stared out of the window. Ramy tapped his fingers against the table but stopped when Letty shot him a glare.

‘How have you found the place?’ Victoire tried valiantly to rescue their conversation. ‘Oxfordshire, I mean. I feel like we’ve only seen a fraction of it so far, it’s so big. I mean, not like London or Paris, but there are so many hidden corners, don’t you think?’

‘It’s incredible,’ Robin said with a bit too much enthusiasm. ‘It’s unreal, every single building – we spent the first three days just walking around, staring. We saw all the tourist attractions – the Oxford Museum, the Christ Church gardens—’

Victoire arched an eyebrow. ‘And they’re letting you in wherever you go?’

‘Actually, no.’ Ramy set down his teacup. ‘Remember, Birdie, the Ashmolean—’

‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘They seemed so certain we were going to steal something, they made us turn out our pockets on the way in and out, as if they were convinced we’d stolen the Alfred Jewel.’

‘They wouldn’t let us in at all,’ Victoire said. ‘They said unchaperoned ladies weren’t allowed.’

Ramy snorted. ‘Why?’

‘Probably because of our nervous dispositions,’ said Letty. ‘They couldn’t have us fainting against the paintings.’

‘But the colours are so exciting,’ said Victoire.

‘Battlefields and breasts.’ Letty put the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘Too much for my nerves.’

‘So what’d you do?’ Ramy asked.

‘We came back when a different docent was on shift and pretended this time to be men.’ Victoire deepened her voice. ‘Excuse me, we’re just countryside lads visiting our cousins here and we’ve nothing to do when they’re in class—’

Robin laughed. ‘You didn’t.’

‘It worked,’ Victoire insisted.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘No, really.’ Victoire smiled. She had, Robin noticed, enormous and very pretty doe-like eyes. He liked listening to her speak; every sentence felt like she was pulling laughter out from inside him. ‘They must have thought we were about twelve, but it worked like a dream—’

‘Until you got excited,’ Letty cut in.

‘All right, it worked until we were just past the docent—’

‘But then she saw a Rembrandt she liked and let out this squeak—’ Letty made a chirping noise. Victoire shoved at her shoulder, but she was laughing too.

‘“Excuse me, miss.”’ Victoire pulled down her chin in imitation of the disapproving docent. ‘“You’re not supposed to be here, I think you’ve got turned around—”’