The Last Samurai

If it didn’t work out I could always go to Cambridge at 13 instead. It might work out. At least it would be better than another winter on the Circle Line.

He was looking at me sympathetically.

I said: I don’t know.

I thought: Why wouldn’t it be right not to tell him? Sibylla would be happy. He’d be happy. He’s obviously been going around for years feeling guilty because there was nothing he could do, and now there’s something he can do. What’s wrong with letting him think there’s something he can do?

The phone rang.

He gave me a sort of rueful is-there-no-end-to-it smile. He said: I won’t be a moment.

He went to the desk and picked up the phone. He said: Sorabji!

He said: Yes, what seems to be the problem?

There was a long pause.

He said: I couldn’t agree with you more, Roy, but what do you imagine I can do about it? I’m not even on the committee—

There was another pause.

He said: I’d be only too delighted to help if there were anything I could usefully do, but I really don’t see any way round it—

There was another pause.

He said: That’s a very interesting suggestion.

He said: It would certainly be unorthodox, but that’s not to say—

He said: Look, Roy, could I call you tomorrow? I’m in the middle of something right now. I don’t want to raise false hopes, but let’s not rule out any possibilities.

He said: Good. Yes. Thanks for calling.

I kept looking at him. I couldn’t work out what was going on. I couldn’t work out what had been going on with Dr. Miller, and I couldn’t work out what had been going on with the Australian astronomer; I couldn’t even really work out what was going on with his three children and the pages of problems. All the relevant evidence did not seem to be available; I could not see any way of getting all the relevant evidence. Based on the evidence available, the last person I would ask for further relevant evidence was Sorabji.

I thought that if I let him do something I would have to be his son. I wouldn’t have guessed, from the TV show, that if you went to him in a crisis he’d start interrogating you on petroleum by-products—but was that the end of the world? I could avoid him in a crisis. The rest of the time he would probably take me up in a helicopter and teach me to climb a rope ladder, or take me flying across the Channel, or explain things that were so hard it helped to have them explained. There was obviously more to him than met the eye, but how much more? How much did it matter?

It seemed to me that things were easier in the days when I just had Val Peters to worry about. He had his faults. Mixing up DNA and RNA. Dabbling in sexual tourism. One could go on. But no one would ever blame me for having a father like that—he just came that way. Whereas—

I said: What was that about?

Sorabji looked astonished. He said: Curiosity killed the cat.

Then he smiled and shrugged. He said: Just some administrative kerfuffle. Somebody’s nose out of joint.

I knew I couldn’t do it. I thought: But why do I have to tell him?

I wanted to say I would send the application and then just not send it. It would be easy because once I left he would never find me. If he talked to the woman he would find out that she had not had a child. If he didn’t talk to her then he would never know.

I knew I was going to have to tell him. I thought I’d better do it before I lost my nerve.

I said: You might not want to write me a reference

He said: What, because someone might suspect something? They won’t think anything of it. A brilliant, self-taught boy comes to my attention; I do what I can to put him in contact with the right sort of people—what could be more natural? There’s the resemblance, of course, but a lot of boys have their hair shorter than that—if you get yours cut before you go I don’t think anyone will notice.

I said: You might not want to write me a reference because I’m not really your son.

He said: What?

I said: I’m really not your son.

He frowned as if to say What?

I said: I made it up.

He said: You— He said: Don’t be absurd. I can understand your resentment but you can’t go around with a chip on your shoulder. You look exactly like me.

I said: My mother says you look like Robert Donat. Are you related?

He stared at me. He said: So you— He said: Might I ask why?

I explained about Seven Samurai.

I don’t know what he was expecting. He said: That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t make any sense.

I said I thought it made sense.

He looked down at the pages of Fourier analysis and spread them slightly on the table with his hand. Then he crumpled them up suddenly and dropped them in the bin. He said: So I have no son.

He said: Of course it would have been quite impossible for her, I should have seen that at once.

He looked at me.

I said: I’m sorry.

He said: Come here.

I stayed where I was. I said: I tried to tell you.

He said: It’s stupid, if you were going to make it up what was the point of telling me?

I said: Is it still natural to put me in contact with the right sort of people?