The Universe versus Alex Woods
Page 19
In the end, I decided that the best thing would be to meander through our bibliography more or less at random, jumping back and forth in time as necessary. This seemed like the approach Kurt Vonnegut would most approve of. But then, having thought about it some more, I realized that there was no reason a non-chronological order had to be a random order. It should still have some kind of logical flow. So I sat down with fourteen small strips of card on which I wrote the names of the fourteen Kurt Vonnegut novels and then spent half an hour juggling them into the perfect non-chronological sequence, taking into account things such as theme, form and character.
Mr Peterson said that it seemed like I was planning a doctoral thesis, not a book club. But, beyond that, he refused to offer any constructive advice. He said that this was my project, and I’d have to figure out how best to make it fly.
This was a worrying thought.
It probably sounds stupid, but before then, even with all the planning and recruiting I’d already done, it hadn’t really occurred to me that this was my project, or that I had to ‘make it fly’. Before, I’d just kind of assumed that it could fly on its own – that once I’d set things in motion, they’d have their own life and trajectory. But now I could see that this might not be the case. It was possible that once I’d assembled my book club, it would still require planning and structure to keep it airborne. I’d need a strategy to make things work.
My breakthrough came one morning after I’d emptied my head with an especially long and peaceful meditation. It was a simple idea that popped into existence almost of its own accord and which I included as an instruction in my first group email: while reading that month’s book, everyone should make a note of any sentences or paragraphs that they found especially pleasing, pick a favourite and bring it along to our first meeting.
This, I thought, was an extremely practical plan, what with Kurt Vonnegut being so quotable. It was also extremely democratic, and would provide nine separate springboards with which to launch ideas.
Nine was the number of people my book club eventually ended up with.
My final recruit was Gregory Adelmann, who also saw my poster in the library. He’d been reading another notice at first – an advert for a pudding club, which is a club where a bunch of people get together periodically to try new puddings – but said that my poster had stolen his attention because of its large number of question marks and unconventional lengthening of etc.
Gregory Adelmann was thirty-two years old and a freelance food writer. This meant that most of his work involved eating in restaurants and then saying what he thought of his meal. He ate in restaurants all over the west of England – sometimes as far away as Exeter. Unfortunately, though, Greg Adelmann suffered from a major handicap for a food critic: he found it very difficult to write bad reviews. This was because his mother had always taught him that if you don’t have anything nice to say, it’s better to say nothing at all. She’d also taught him that it wasn’t good to be a fussy eater – not when so many people in the world were malnourished. So, in some respects, Gregory Adelmann had made an odd choice of career.
You could always tell when Gregory Adelmann had really disliked a meal because he’d spend most of his word count talking about the restaurant’s décor or its location or parking facilities. He’d also devised an alternative rating system to get around his dislike of saying unpleasant things. This used a ten-point scale where five out of ten was the lowest possible score. Five out of ten on the Greg Adelmann scale was equivalent to one out of ten on anyone else’s. Four out of ten was equivalent to food poisoning.
Gregory Adelmann was neat, well mannered, slightly round and, according to Mr Peterson, as gay as the Venusian night is long (one thousand four hundred and one hours). But I only had his word to go on. As you’ll probably understand, because of all the misinformation I’d been bombarded with at school, I didn’t have a very good gaydar.
Let me tell you: it’s a very strange experience watching something you’ve created – something you’ve conjured from air, born of your brain – take form as a living, breathing, interacting entity. And it was with what I imagined to be an inventor’s sense of achievement that I watched events unfolding on that first Sunday in October, in the low morning sun of Mr Peterson’s front room. Two sofas and four smaller chairs were set out in a pair of semicircles, one against the bay window, the other on the facing wall. There was coffee and tea and Diet Coke laid out on the unfolded dining table (which I’d had to dust – I don’t think it had been unfolded for some years). Everyone seemed to be getting on with everyone else. Dr Enderby was deep in conversation with Sophie Haynes. Fiona Fitton was laughing at something Barbara Blessed had said, her smile lines out in force. Mrs Griffith had made flapjacks and was dispensing them from a foil platter.
I was standing a couple of paces back, holding on to my iron–nickel meteorite. As always, holding on to that very cold, very dense, four-and-a-half-billion-year-old piece of asteroid made me feel secure, anchored to something considerably greater than myself. Mr Peterson was standing beside me. The look of vague bafflement that had adorned his face for much of the previous half-hour had, by then, faded back into his characteristic grimace. I don’t think he’d actually believed that anyone was going to turn up until we’d heard the first knock on the front door. Later, he’d tell me that he had almost no idea how I’d managed to persuade so many people to sign up for such an esoteric book club, but he thought it must have something to do with naïvety. It took a lot of naïvety to enthuse so many people. For a long time, I didn’t have a clue what he meant by that.
The Secular Church of Kurt Vonnegut ran successfully for the next thirteen months, but regarding that first meeting, and the twelve that followed, there’s little to tell. The only meeting I really need to tell you about is the last one, for reasons that will become extremely obvious. But I’ll get to that in due course. For now, all you need know is that things got off to an auspicious start. Within a few minutes of the last person arriving, Mr Peterson banged his crutch three times on the floor, all other noise dispersed like smoke in a fume cupboard, and I began by thanking everyone for coming. I’d never had to make a speech before, but I was surprised to find I didn’t feel nervous in the slightest. I felt at home.
MICROFRACTURES
To: m.z.weir@imperial.ac.uk
From: a.m.woods.193@gmail.com
Date: Fri, 15 May 2009 5:07 PM
Subject: Meteorite
Dear Dr Weir,
I hope that this email finds you well and that your recent paper on the concentration of rare earth elements in the Omolon pallasite was well received. I myself am now in much better health. I have not had a major seizure for many months. Dr Enderby is very pleased with my progress and says that eventually it might even be possible for me to come off my carbamazepine – although this hypothetical time is still a way off yet. To tell you the truth, I’m not too worried either way. Taking my pill each morning has become such a routine that it’s like brushing my teeth. If I didn’t have to do it, it would be one less thing to bother with, but really it’s not too much of a chore. As for my daily meditation, I don’t plan to stop that whatever happens re my epilepsy. I’m much more serene these days.
The main reason I’m writing to you today is as follows. As I’m sure you’re aware, in just over one month’s time – on Saturday, 20 June – it will be five years to the day since the meteor hit. And on Sunday, 21 June, it will be five years to the day since you came to recover the fragment that broke through our bathroom roof and put me in a coma for two weeks.
For some time now I’ve been thinking that I’ve probably held on to that fragment for long enough. When you visited me in hospital, I remember you telling me that you thought there were lots of people who’d like to see my meteorite for themselves, and I’m sure you were right. It’s difficult to explain why precisely, but this feels like the right time for me to say goodbye. I guess I don’t feel like I really need to keep my meteorite for myself any more. P
erhaps it’s because I’m feeling so much better.
Anyway, I thought you’d probably be the best person to ask how I should proceed with this matter. I’d be happy to hand my meteorite over to your custody at Imperial College if it would help your research or if there’s a suitable home for it there, but as I’ve said, really I’d like to donate it to some kind of museum or gallery where as many people as possible can see and enjoy it. If you could suggest somewhere, I’d be very grateful.
Yours sincerely,
Alex Woods
To: a.m.woods.193@gmail.com
From: m.z.weir@imperial.ac.uk
Date: Sat, 16 May 2009 10:32 AM
Subject: RE: Meteorite
Dear Alex,
I’m very well (thank you for asking), and I’m delighted to hear that you’re feeling so much better.
With regard to your meteorite, this is an extremely generous offer (and a very welcome one!) but I need to be sure that it’s definitely what you want. You shouldn’t feel compelled or obliged to do this. No one would dispute your right to hold on to your meteorite, and certainly no one would think less of you for doing so.
Having said this, it is a marvellous specimen, and given its unique historical significance, I know that there are many thousands of people who would love the opportunity to see it ‘in the flesh’ (as it were). Either way, this is your decision, and you should be one hundred per cent certain before you choose.
If you do wish to proceed, then I would suggest that there could be no better home for your meteorite than the Natural History Museum. They already have a wonderful assortment of meteorites from all around the world, and I know they would be absolutely thrilled to add yours to the collection. I should warn you, though, that the museum will wish to publicize your donation, and it’s likely to attract some media attention too. At the very least, I’m sure that they’ll want you to deliver your meteorite to the museum in person, so that they can meet you and hear your story firsthand.
Although I shall be awaiting your reply very eagerly, I advise that you take a few more days to think about this before you make up your mind. This isn’t something you should rush into. Furthermore, I feel it would be remiss of me to allow you to proceed without first making sure you understand the monetary value of your meteorite, which is considerable. As you may be aware, metal meteorite usually sells for £1 per gram on the open market, but large specimens, and those prized for their historical or scientific significance, often go for much, much more. Given the significance of your meteorite, I would think you could easily add a zero to the end of its normal market value. So, please, take some more time to think about this! If you still wish to proceed later on, I’ll be happy to get in touch with the museum on your behalf and make all the necessary arrangements. And if you have any questions in the meantime, please email or phone me at work and I’ll get back to you asap.
Warmest regards,
Monica Weir
To: m.z.weir@imperial.ac.uk
From: a.m.woods.193@gmail.com
Date: Sat, 16 May 2009 3:15 PM
Subject: RE: RE: Meteorite
Dear Dr Weir,
Thank you for your suggestions. You can call the Natural History Museum straight away and make whatever arrangements are necessary. I appreciate why you think I should take a few days to think things over, but, as I’ve said, I’ve already thought matters through very carefully over the past few months, and I’m quite certain that this is what I want to do. It’s the right time for me.
As for how much my meteorite might be worth, this doesn’t really matter too much as I know I could never bring myself to sell it. It would feel like a betrayal, if that makes sense. The best analogy I can draw is that I’d never, ever sell my cat either – but I could let her go free to a good home if that was the best thing for her, especially if I could still visit every once in a while. I hope this clears things up to your satisfaction.
Regarding coming to London to deliver the meteorite ‘in person’ – I’d very much like to visit the museum because I’ve never been before. (I went on the website after your email, of course, and it looks like a fascinating place.) However, I’d rather there wasn’t any publicity or media – at least, not during my visit. If the museum wants to put something on their website, then that’s okay, but perhaps this can be delayed until after I’ve been and gone?
As I mentioned, the date I had in mind was 20 June. It seems fitting. And since it’s a Saturday, I won’t need to take any time off school. Could you ask the museum if this date is okay for them? And, of course, I’d like it if you could be there too – so long as it’s convenient.
The only problem I can foresee for myself is that it’s very unlikely that my mother will be able to bring me to London. Saturday is always an extremely busy day for her – especially in the summer. Also, she has to get up before dawn the next day for the solstice. However, I’m sure that someone will be able to give me a lift to Bristol Temple Meads, and from there it’s only one hour forty-five minutes to London Paddington. But I think someone might have to meet me there as I’ve never been to London and I don’t know my way around. I’ve been looking at maps of the Underground, but I’m not one hundred per cent sure I understand how it works. Perhaps you could send me directions? The forums I’ve been on haven’t been very helpful.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours sincerely,
Alex Woods
Following Dr Weir’s directions, I took a series of escalators down into Paddington Tube Station – which really was shaped like a tube – and then caught a train southbound on the Circle line and got off at South Kensington. As she’d promised the museums – the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum – were clearly signposted along the underpass, and once I was back above ground, I swiftly identified the NHM as the building to my right. It was a very large, sandy-coloured oblong – approximately the same hue as a hen’s egg – with many windows and decorative arches, and two turrets rearing in the distance. It looked very grand and austere in the grey morning light, quite unlike any museum I’d ever encountered. To tell you the truth, the building it most reminded me of was Wells Cathedral, and this impression was not diminished when I went inside. There was something similarly solemn and reverent in the atmosphere of the broad halls and corridors – especially when I was first admitted, when the museum was still and silent and empty.
Dr Weir had arranged for me to be admitted half an hour before the official opening time so that I could meet the museum’s Director of Science and see the gallery where my meteorite was to be exhibited. As promised, she was waiting for me at nine twenty at the bottom of the wide stone steps that led up to the main entrance on Cromwell Road. I hadn’t seen her for five years, but I recognized her at once. She still dressed like her mind was on Higher Things. Today, she was wearing a knee-length tweed overcoat, smart black trousers and hiking boots. I was wearing jeans, fairly traded trainers and my latest cagoule.
Dr Weir smiled solemnly and extended her hand as I approached. I felt the weight of the meteorite shift in my backpack as I took her hand.
‘Hello, Alex,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you again.’
‘Hello, Dr Weir,’ I said.
‘You’ve grown!’
‘Yes,’ I acknowledged.
‘I’m sorry – that’s a moronic thing to say, I know.’
‘That’s okay. I suppose I am fifty per cent older than the last time you saw me. I probably look a bit different.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Except for my scar, of course.’
‘Yes. That’s quite remarkable.’
‘The impact site.’
Dr Weir nodded thoughtfully.
‘I was told that it would probably fade with time, but of course, it hasn’t – not yet. And for some reason my hair doesn’t want to grow there any more. I end up with this fine white line.’
‘Yes, I see. Still, not all scars are bad, Alex. Some are worth hanging on to,
if you understand what I mean.’
‘Yes, I think so. Or, at least, I think I’d miss it if it wasn’t there.’
‘Yes, precisely. Well, shall we go inside? The director’s very keen to meet you.’
‘I’m keen to meet the director,’ I replied.
The Director of Science turned out to be a tall, grey-haired gentleman with a tie-less suit and the voice of a 1950s BBC newsreader – the type to be found narrating in the archive footage of Yuri Gagarin’s post-orbit visit to Britain, for example. He was another doctor, of course – Dr Marcus Lean. I’d made a point of researching him online a couple of days earlier. He’d once been an eminent biologist in Cambridge, where he’d spent many years studying extremophiles, which are tiny organisms that live and thrive in extremely hostile environments – around the vents of underwater volcanoes, or in concentrated acid solutions, or under ten metres of ice at the South Pole and so on. His research had proven of great interest to astrobiologists, who believed that if extraterrestrial life were to be discovered in the solar system, it would most likely be of a similar form – microbes that could eke out an existence in the sunless seas of Europa or the frigid methane lakes of Titan.
Given Dr Lean’s eminence as a scientist, I was keen to make a good first impression, but, sadly, this was not to be. The moment I met him my attention was diverted by the diplodocus skeleton visible over his left shoulder, which was as big as a bus and mounted on a huge rectangular plinth. While my jaw didn’t quite hit the floor, my mouth was certainly agape, and with my attention elsewhere, my handshake was rather limp and lifeless, and unaccompanied by any serious attempt at eye contact. It’s a shame, as usually my handshake is one of my particular strengths. Luckily, though, Dr Lean was forgiving of my faux pas. He said that he’d be very happy to show me around the main exhibits once we’d been up to the Vault, which was the name of the gallery where all the meteorites and other precious stones were on display.
‘If you’d like to follow me,’ Dr Lean said, ‘it’s on the mezzanine. Up the main staircase and right at Darwin.’