The Blasphemer: A Novel by Nigel Farndale Page A

reached his office door he checked his watch again – still had a few minutes before his meeting was due to start – and tapped in four digits on a security keypad on the wall. The heavy door clicked open. ‘Come in, come in.’
    Wetherby took off his fedora to reveal a domed head barely covered by a tonsure of side-parted hair. He removed his coat and shook it before hanging it up behind his door. Next came his leather gloves, peeled off one finger at a time. Steady,Wetherby. Not too Gothic. Might frighten her. He smoothed down the hairs at the side of his head and checked his reflection in his glass-fronted bookcase. Not handsome in an obvious way, but distinguished. A donnish look which bluestockings found attractive. Grrr. ‘How is your mid-term paper coming along?’ he said.
    ‘Getting there.’ She shrugged again, yawned and shivered.
    As Wetherby looked through his drawer for an old poppy he kept in there, Hai-iki wound up the metronome on his baby grand piano and set it ticking. She ran a finger over a spindly crucifix on the wall, felt the weight of a rosary hanging from it and trailed her finger along an open shelf of books, playing the leather spines as if they were piano keys.
    Wetherby slipped the poppy into his lapel and looked up, aquestion on his face. ‘There is a project I am working on. I need a research assistant. Are you interested?’
    Hai-iki cocked her head again. ‘Why me?’
    Wetherby hesitated for a beat before answering. ‘Because you listen to the Third Programme.’
    ‘I do think they play too much jazz though.’
    ‘Any jazz is too much jazz.’
    ‘And I’m not keen on the world music.’
    Wetherby mimed sticking a finger down his throat.
    The student smiled at this. ‘I have to listen to Radio 3.’ She patted her pockets. ‘Can’t afford the Royal Opera House.’
    ‘You have never been?’
    ‘Never.’
    ‘Then you must go, you must.’ Wetherby was sorting through papers on his desk again. ‘I have a spare ticket for Covent Garden on Tuesday night.’ He said this nonchalantly, without looking up.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘ La Bohème .’
    She had heard a rumour about how the professor always seduced his students with Puccini. ‘I find Puccini too saccharine,’ she said.
    ‘As do I,’ he said. ‘As does everyone, that is why I have a spare ticket. I will make it up to you afterwards with dinner at my club.’
    ‘Your club?’
    ‘The Athenaeum. We can leave the opera at the first interval and be there by nine.’ He checked his reflection again. He was wearing a three-piece suit made from prickly, thorn-proof tweed and it had four buttons on its cuff, two of which had come open. He fastened them and ran a finger under his collar before adjusting the stud under his tie.
    Hai-iki said, ‘Can I think about it?’
    ‘Of course, of course.’
    The student scratched an itch on her wrist. ‘What was it you wanted to show me?’
    ‘I must swear you to secrecy first.’
    The student blinked. ‘Sure. Whatever.’
    ‘Swear. Not a word to anyone.’
    ‘I swear.’
    Wetherby handed her a pair of latex gloves. ‘Put these on.’ She looked at him suspiciously. Did as he asked.
    He handed her a pair of tweezers and a yellowing letter in a plastic folder. She held it at an angle so that the light from the window wasn’t reflecting on it.
    ‘You can take it out.’
    ‘I can see it clearly enough. German?’
    ‘You speak it, do you not?’
    ‘Enough to get by.’
    ‘That was the other reason for asking you. There are some archives in Berlin …’
    Hai-iki turned the letter over and saw the signature at the end. ‘Gustav?’
    ‘Mahler.’
    She turned it over again. ‘And who is Anton?’
    ‘His cousin in Geneva … A collector sent it to me for authentication.’
    As Hai-iki read the letter the whites of her eyes enlarged. When she reached the end, her mouth was slightly open, exposing an arc of pearly teeth and pink, wet gums. ‘Is it genuine?’
    ‘Oh yes.’