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

The girls were not allowed to live in college, which was why they hadn’t crossed paths with Robin and Ramy until the first day of instruction. Instead, Victoire and Letty lodged about two miles away in the servant annex of one of the Oxford day schools, which was apparently a common arrangement for Babel’s female students. Robin and Ramy accompanied them home because it seemed the gentlemanly thing to do, but Robin hoped this would not become a nightly routine, as the road really was quite far away and there was no omnibus at this hour.

‘They couldn’t put you anywhere closer?’ Ramy asked.

Victoire shook her head. ‘All of the colleges said our proximity risked corrupting the gentlemen.’

‘Well, that’s not fair,’ said Ramy.

Letty shot him a droll look. ‘Say more.’

‘But it’s not so bad,’ said Victoire. ‘There are some fun pubs on this street – we like the Four Horsemen, the Twisted Root, and there’s this place called Rooks and Pawns where you can play chess—’

‘Sorry,’ said Robin. ‘Did you say the Twisted Root?’

‘It’s up ahead on Harrow Lane near the bridge,’ said Victoire. ‘You won’t like it, though. We took a peek and walked right back out – it’s awfully dirty inside. Run your finger around the glass and you’ll find a wadge of grease and dirt a quarter of an inch thick.’

‘Not a haunt for students, then?’

‘No, Oxford boys wouldn’t be seen dead there. It’s for town, not gown.’

Letty pointed out a herd of meandering cows up ahead, and Robin let the conversation drift. Later, after they’d seen the girls safely home, he told Ramy to head back to Magpie Lane on his own.

‘I forgot I’ve got to go and see Professor Lovell,’ he said. Jericho was conveniently closer to this part of town than it was to Univ. ‘It’s a long walk; I don’t want to drag you over there.’

‘I thought your dinner wasn’t until next weekend,’ said Ramy.

‘It is, but I’ve just remembered I was supposed to visit sooner.’ Robin cleared his throat; he felt terrible lying to Ramy’s face. ‘Mrs Piper said she had some cakes for me.’

‘Thank heavens.’ Amazingly, Ramy suspected nothing. ‘Lunch was inedible. Are you sure you don’t want company?’

‘I’m all right. It’s been quite a day, and I’m tired, and I think it’ll be nice just to walk for a bit in silence.’

‘Fair enough,’ Ramy said pleasantly.

They parted on Woodstock Road. Ramy went down south straight back to the college. Robin cut right in search of the bridge Victoire had pointed out, unsure of what he was looking for except for the memory of a whispered phrase.

The answer found him. Halfway through Harrow Lane he heard a second pair of footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a dark figure following him up the narrow road.

‘Took you long enough,’ said his doppelgänger. ‘I’ve been skulking here all day.’

‘Who are you?’ Robin demanded. ‘What are you – why do you have my face?’

‘Not here,’ said his doppelgänger. ‘The pub’s round this corner, let’s go inside—’

‘Answer me,’ Robin demanded. A belated sense of danger had only now kicked in; his mouth had gone dry; his heart was hammering furiously. ‘Who are you?’

‘You’re Robin Swift,’ said the man. ‘You grew up without a father but with an inexplicable English nursemaid and a never-ending supply of books in English, and when Professor Lovell turned up to carry you off to England, you said farewell to your motherland for good. You think the professor might be your father, but he hasn’t admitted that you are his own. You’re quite sure he never will. Does that make sense?’

Robin couldn’t speak. His mouth opened, and his jaw worked pointlessly, but he simply had nothing to say.

‘Come with me,’ said his doppelgänger. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

Book II

Chapter Five

‘I don’t care for hard names,’ interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh. ‘You know the fact, and that’s enough for me.’

CHARLES DICKENS, Oliver Twist

They found a table in the back corner of the Twisted Root. Robin’s doppelgänger ordered them two glasses of a light golden ale. Robin drained half his glass in three desperate gulps and felt somewhat steadier, though no less confused.

‘My name,’ said his doppelgänger, ‘is Griffin Lovell.’

Upon closer inspection, he and Robin were not so alike after all. He was several years older, and his face bore a hard maturity that Robin’s hadn’t yet acquired. His voice was deeper, less forgiving, more assertive. He was several inches taller than Robin, though he was also much thinner; indeed, he appeared composed entirely of sharp edges and angles. His hair was darker, his skin paler. He looked like a print illustration of Robin, the lighting contrasts amplified and the colour blanched out.

He’s even more of your spitting image than the last.

‘Lovell,’ Robin repeated, trying to find his bearings. ‘Then you’re—?’