tear.
“Sorry we almost killed you, George, but tell me,” Henry said, “what are all those bruises on your face and the stitches?”
“Oh, these darlings?” George said casually. “A common misunderstanding.”
“Have you been to hospital?” the professor asked.
George shook his head. “There’s little point—the human body is capable of sustaining much worse.”
“Well, George—I’m Professor Peterson, an archaeologist digging here in Athens, and I have rooms at the university, you understand. Let’s go there now. Henry here—who has a certificate in first aid—can patch you up properly and make sure you don’t need any X-rays.”
“If you really think I need looking after,” George said. “I’ll go with you.”
Henry helped George climb into the long backseat of the Renault.
“It’s filthy back here,” George muttered.
“Would you mind driving, Henry?” the professor said.
“Why is it so dirty back here?” George said again.
“Ever hear of a Nigerian Hercules Baboon spider?” the professor exclaimed.
“Definitely not,” George said.
Henry watched him in the mirror—not with coolness or relief, but with a compassion that extended beyond the moment, as though behind the bruised eyes and the quivering mouth he could sense the presence of a small boy the world had forgotten about.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Professor Peterson’s office was the most dangerous place on campus. Books piled ten feet high leaned dangerously in various directions. On the tallest tower of books, a note had been hung halfway up:
Please walk VERY slowly or I may fall on you without any warning, whatsoever.
There were three oak desks with long banker’s lamps that the professor liked to keep lit, even in his absence. On his main desk were hundreds of Post-it notes, each scribbled with some important detail or addendum to his thoughts. There were also hundreds of pins stuck in a giant map that had been written on with a fountain pen. The ashtrays were full of pipe ash and the room had that deep aroma of knowledge: old paper, dust, coffee, and tobacco.
“This is my dream home,” George said, trailing Henry through the stacks toward a battered chaise.
“It’s like a museum, isn’t it, George?”
“A museum that should be in a museum,” George said.
“Don’t mind the stuffing,” Henry said, when they reached the chaise. “This couch once belonged to a princess of Poland whom the professor said he was in love with.”
“So how did he end up with her chaise?”
“Who knows,” Henry said. “I can’t imagine Professor Peterson with a woman unless she’s been mummified.”
“Nice you spend so much time together,” George said.
“Well, we work together.”
“That’s even better.”
“What was he like growing up?”
“Growing up?”
“Did your mother come along too?”
“My mother?”
“To the archaeological sites, I mean,” George said ardently.
“No,” Henry said, quite confused. “My mother never came to work with me.”
“So it was just you and your father.”
Henry laughed. “Professor Peterson is not my father, George.”
“He’s not?”
“Well, in a way—he’s like my second father.”
“It shows,” George said, looking around the room. “Don’t suppose you have anything to drink here?”
Henry eyed him with mild scorn. “Well, perhaps after I’ve patched you up. The professor has some single malt somewhere.”
George sat on the battered chaise.
“If you want me to look at your knees you’d better take your trousers off.”
George quietly undressed.
“I’ll unbutton my shirt too,” George said. “I have a feeling my back is grazed.”
“Okay.”
“Is my nose bleeding?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
George stripped down to his pinstriped boxer shorts, but kept on his black oxford shoes, black socks, and sock garters. Henry opened a rusty tin box with a red cross on it and removed pads, gauzes, swabs, and disinfectant. Then he
“Sorry we almost killed you, George, but tell me,” Henry said, “what are all those bruises on your face and the stitches?”
“Oh, these darlings?” George said casually. “A common misunderstanding.”
“Have you been to hospital?” the professor asked.
George shook his head. “There’s little point—the human body is capable of sustaining much worse.”
“Well, George—I’m Professor Peterson, an archaeologist digging here in Athens, and I have rooms at the university, you understand. Let’s go there now. Henry here—who has a certificate in first aid—can patch you up properly and make sure you don’t need any X-rays.”
“If you really think I need looking after,” George said. “I’ll go with you.”
Henry helped George climb into the long backseat of the Renault.
“It’s filthy back here,” George muttered.
“Would you mind driving, Henry?” the professor said.
“Why is it so dirty back here?” George said again.
“Ever hear of a Nigerian Hercules Baboon spider?” the professor exclaimed.
“Definitely not,” George said.
Henry watched him in the mirror—not with coolness or relief, but with a compassion that extended beyond the moment, as though behind the bruised eyes and the quivering mouth he could sense the presence of a small boy the world had forgotten about.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Professor Peterson’s office was the most dangerous place on campus. Books piled ten feet high leaned dangerously in various directions. On the tallest tower of books, a note had been hung halfway up:
Please walk VERY slowly or I may fall on you without any warning, whatsoever.
There were three oak desks with long banker’s lamps that the professor liked to keep lit, even in his absence. On his main desk were hundreds of Post-it notes, each scribbled with some important detail or addendum to his thoughts. There were also hundreds of pins stuck in a giant map that had been written on with a fountain pen. The ashtrays were full of pipe ash and the room had that deep aroma of knowledge: old paper, dust, coffee, and tobacco.
“This is my dream home,” George said, trailing Henry through the stacks toward a battered chaise.
“It’s like a museum, isn’t it, George?”
“A museum that should be in a museum,” George said.
“Don’t mind the stuffing,” Henry said, when they reached the chaise. “This couch once belonged to a princess of Poland whom the professor said he was in love with.”
“So how did he end up with her chaise?”
“Who knows,” Henry said. “I can’t imagine Professor Peterson with a woman unless she’s been mummified.”
“Nice you spend so much time together,” George said.
“Well, we work together.”
“That’s even better.”
“What was he like growing up?”
“Growing up?”
“Did your mother come along too?”
“My mother?”
“To the archaeological sites, I mean,” George said ardently.
“No,” Henry said, quite confused. “My mother never came to work with me.”
“So it was just you and your father.”
Henry laughed. “Professor Peterson is not my father, George.”
“He’s not?”
“Well, in a way—he’s like my second father.”
“It shows,” George said, looking around the room. “Don’t suppose you have anything to drink here?”
Henry eyed him with mild scorn. “Well, perhaps after I’ve patched you up. The professor has some single malt somewhere.”
George sat on the battered chaise.
“If you want me to look at your knees you’d better take your trousers off.”
George quietly undressed.
“I’ll unbutton my shirt too,” George said. “I have a feeling my back is grazed.”
“Okay.”
“Is my nose bleeding?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
George stripped down to his pinstriped boxer shorts, but kept on his black oxford shoes, black socks, and sock garters. Henry opened a rusty tin box with a red cross on it and removed pads, gauzes, swabs, and disinfectant. Then he
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