The Last Samurai

My teeth started chattering. Magnusson seemed to have used a different text from the one Sibylla had given me; I thought I could work out the extra bits. Then I remembered I wasn’t going to be going to the North Pole. There was nothing going on in the house. I went back to the Circle Line and ate my sandwiches.

I let four days go by and then I had to go back. I sat on the wall and made myself read a whole chapter on aerodynamics just to prove I could still do it. I ate a peanut butter sandwich. I was still reading Njal’s Saga. I hadn’t worked on it very much. It was stupid to stand here. I couldn’t really work, either I should do something or I should go somewhere else where I could work. It would be stupid to go away after standing outside at a bus stop for a week.

Then I knew what I would do.

I would ask my father for an autograph.

I came back the next day, and I took with me a paperback copy of Stout Cortez (the book with the Balinese woman), which I had bought at an Oxfam shop for 50p. I also had Brennu-njalssaga, Magnusson, Gordon, the book on Laplace transforms and a book on edible insects which the library was selling off for 10p. I could spend the rest of the day on the Circle Line. I wasn’t expecting this to take long; it was just something I had to do.

I reached the house at 10:00. A window was open on the ground floor; people were talking quietly. I stood by the wall listening.

Are you sure you don’t want to come? You hardly ever get to see them.

It’s not really my kind of thing. It won’t help if I’m bored out of my skull, and if we do something else they’ll hate me. The only question is, are you sure you don’t mind?

It’s not that I mind, I just thought you’d like to spend some time with them.

I would, obviously, but they’ve got school all week. They’ve got their own ideas about how they spend the weekend. It’s not the end of the world.

A car drew up outside the house and three children got out.

The car drove off.

The children looked up at the house.

Well, come on, said one.

They headed up the walk. The door opened. There was some sort of discussion just inside it. The children came back down the steps with the woman I’d seen before. The man stood in the doorway.

We’ll go to Planet Hollywood when you get back, he said.

They got into a car and drove off. He closed the door.

I was tired of walking up and down the street and watching that door. I didn’t want to walk away again. I was tired of wondering whether it was a bad time. I was tired of wondering whether it would be better to interrupt him before he’d had a chance to start work.

I went to the door and rang the bell. I waited a minute. Then I counted a minute, and then I counted two minutes. I knocked on the door and counted another minute. If he didn’t come I would go away. I thought I’d annoy him if I kept knocking and ringing the bell. Two minutes went by. I turned and went down the steps.

A window shot up on the second floor.

Hang on, I’ll be down in a minute, he shouted.

I went back to the door.

A couple of minutes went by, and the door opened.

What can I do for you? he asked.

His hair was medium brown, with some grey; his forehead was quite deeply lined; there were grey hairs in the eyebrows, and the eyes under them were large and light, a little like a night animal’s. His voice was rather light and soft.

Can I help you? he asked.

I’ve come for the Christian Aid envelope, I found myself saying.

I don’t see it anywhere, he said, not looking. Anyway, we’re not Christians.

That’s OK, I said. I’m a Jewish atheist myself.

All right, I’ll ask, he said smiling now. If you’re a Jewish atheist what are you doing collecting for Christian Aid?

My mother makes me, I said.

But if you’re Jewish, doesn’t your mother have to be Jewish too? he asked.

She is, I said. That’s why she won’t let me steal from Jewish charities.

It worked like a charm. He laughed helplessly. He said: Shouldn’t you save this for Comic Relief?

I said: A red nose is funny? I know, I know, they only laugh when it hurts.

He said: Why do I get the feeling you’re not here for Christian Aid?

I said: I wanted an autograph, but you have to break these things gradually.

He said: You want an autograph? Really? How old are you?

I said: Why, is your signature 15-certificate?

He said: Well, there may be a few people who think my name is a dirty word, but no. You seem a little young, though. Or is this another scam? Are you going to flog it?

I said: Could I get a lot of money for it?

And he said quite confidently: I think you’ll have to wait a while.

I said: Well, I don’t mind. I’ve got a book with me.

I took off my backpack.

He said: Is it a first edition?

I said: I don’t think so. It’s a paperback.

He said: Then it won’t be worth a lot of money.

I said: Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep it.

He said: I guess you will. Come inside and I’ll sign it for you.

I followed him down a corridor to a kitchen at the back of the house. He asked whether I would like anything. I said an orange juice.