‘Dr Bloom, so good of you to come.’
‘How could I resist such an eloquent invitation?’ Dr Ridgeway smiled, but a fash of irritation sped across his face. ‘Indeed. Now I’m sure you appreciate why I asked you here today?’ ‘Your letter was a trife brief, so perhaps you could enlighten me.’ The vice-chancellor prickled again at Bloom’s politely disrespectful tone. ‘Your little accident last term at dinner, Dr Bloom. You do remember that?’ ‘With Takeshi Tokoro? Yes, indeed. An unfortunate and indeed tragic accident.’ ‘Unfortunate? It was a major diplomatic incident. Good God, man, you can’t go
around killing the cultural attaché of a major international power without people noti-cing, Bloom.’
‘It was an accident, vice-chancellor. I might also remind you that Mr Tokoro was proud of introducing a dish that is of great cultural importance in Japan. I believe it was the frst time that Fugu had been served at Oxford.’
‘And the bloody last.’ Ridgeway rose to his feet hoping to give these words greater impact. Bloom merely looked at him impassively. Ridgeway sank back into his chair.
‘Bloom, it may be culturally important to the Japanese, but it is poisonous as you have amply proven. Do you know who in Japan is forbidden from eating this ugly little fsh?’
‘Yes, I believe the Japanese Emperor is forbidden from eating it, presumably to avoid this sort of… event.’
Ridgeway sat back in his chair and glared at his adversary. Seeing no signs of Bloom faltering, the vice-chancellor changed tack.
‘What disturbs me most, Bloom, is that I’ve heard that this was part of some ludicrous secret dining society.’
He enjoyed the look of surprise in Bloom’s eyes. ‘He was indeed invited by our shadow faculty of gastronomic science, but as we have
in the past petitioned the chancellor himself regarding the merits of gastronomic science it can hardly be described as secret.’
‘Be that as it may, I have decided that this ridiculous boys’ club has put the university in a bad light and therefore must be disbanded. Now, what do you have to say about that?’
A pall of silence fell on the room, each second passing slower than the last. ‘With the greatest respect,’ replied Augustus fnally, ‘I don’t believe you have any
jurisdiction over the private activities of the fellows of St Jerome’s.’ ‘Don’t try my patience, Bloom. If I hear of any more antics like this I shall take action
and, trust me, the question of jurisdiction won’t save you. If the coroner hadn’t been so obliging – at my request I might add – you would be in gaol right now as an accessory to murder.’
Walking back down St John’s Street, Augustus refected on this conversation. It had gone much as he had expected apart from the bit about being an accessory to murder. Guilty as he felt over the whole incident, he did feel that was a bit much. Augustus had put on a good front with the vice-chancellor but, truth be told, he found himself a little shaken by the memories of Mr Tokoro’s death. He was forced to stop abruptly to avoid colliding with a man who emerged unexpectedly from one of the doorways.
‘Good God, Arthur, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Augustus, shocked at the appearance of Professor Plantagenet, whose normally ruddy complexion was show-ing distinct signs of pallor.
‘No, just pondering the prospect of becoming one.’ ‘What in God’s name does that mean?’
‘According to my physician, I’m going to die rather soon.’ Chapter 4
Reverend Charles Pinker, the college chaplain, was a rather nervous creature most of the time. Within the confnes of the chapel, he undoubtedly gained a modicum of confden-ce and could deliver a fne homily when the need arose. The most remarkable alteration came over Charles Pinker when it came to playing the organ, an instrument at which he truly excelled, particularly when he was playing the works of J.S. Bach. Today was a day when he had a particular need for that transformation. The Reverend Charles Pinker had taken news of the meeting with the vice-chancellor far harder than Augustus Bloom had imagined. In search of solace, Charles found himself early that morning sitting at the organ in the chapel. For reasons he couldn’t fathom himself, this wasn’t a Bach day. With the briefest of delays for air to breathe life into the ancient pipes, the chapel erupted with the opening chord of Olivier Messiaen’s Dieu parmi nous , a piece a much younger Charles Pinker had once heard being performed by Messiaen himself in the church of La Sainte Trinité in Paris.
Playing the organ with its myriad of stops, pedals and multiple manuals is a prodigious feet of human coordination. This made Charles Pinker’s ability to play so effortlessly while thinking about something entirely different all the more remarkable. Would the vice-chancellor drag them before Congregation, the parliament of Oxford dons, to be dis-graced? It was hardly their fault if a Japanese expert poisoned himself at dinner. It wasn’t as if any member of the university had died or even suffered, apart from the shock and the embarrassment, of course. The coroner had recorded a verdict of misadventure, so surely the vice-chancellor couldn’t shut down a perfectly respectable academic society because of an accident? As the sounds of the last notes seeped away into the silence, he slowly lifted his fngers from the keys. While he had been playing, the world had continued to rotate on its axis without his intervention into a position that seemed that bit more bal-anced and manageable. The music did not have the same positive effect on everyone. In the wine cellars beneath the chapel a fgure sat in a wooden chair. He cautiously lifted his hands from his ears, hoping the cacophonous noise had stopped. It certainly wasn’t Bach and for the ethereal Reverend Hieronymus Bloch, it wasn’t even music.
By the time Charles had reached his rooms in Old Quad, his anxiety and pessimism were seeping back. Now convinced that the vice-chancellor would act, he decided it was
too dangerous to have all the records of the shadow faculty on open view in his rooms. It was surely an act of public folly to have the framed napkin on which their constitution had frst been written hanging on his wall 3 . He was too committed to the cause of gast-ronomy to contemplate abandoning the faculty, but decided it would be prudent if they went to ground for a while. So he gathered his collection of menus from all the previous dinners and his carefully recorded notes of their equally important tasting meetings.
With arms full to the brim with the precious documents and constitution, Charles teetered down the narrow staircase. At the bottom of the stairs he paused to see if the coast was clear. He stood for a moment, framed in the stone archway, which was still adorned with faded chalk markings boasting the achievements of long-since graduated rowers. Old Quad was unusually deserted for this time of day, so Charles committed himself to the short dash to the chapel. As he emerged into the full light of the morn-ing, the quadrangle was suddenly awash with people. The crows fying overhead had a wonderful view of nine people with armfuls of books and papers appearing almost sim-ultaneously from the nine openings into Old Quad. The four staircases, the passage to the library, the junior common room, senior common room, porter’s lodge and the pas-sage through to the chapel all disgorged members of the college into what until a second before had been a totally deserted and peaceful quadrangle.
‘Good morning, chaplain.’
‘Morning, Mr Potts.’
‘Could I help you with those, sir?’
‘No, no Potts, that’s fne; everything’s under control, just a spot of tidying up.’ ‘Chaplain, could you pop in later? I need to talk to you about the chapel roof.’ ‘Indeed, Bursar, of course, of course, later. Yes, I’ll see you later.’ Then disaster struck. A distracted young undergraduate walking backwards out of the
junior common while shouting his last words towards the door, reversed straight into the overburdened chaplain. Books, papers and the framed napkin bearing the constitution of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science were scattered across the fagstones, accom-panied by shards of glass from the broken frame.
Suddenly sixteen eyes were locked on the chaplain who
was fervently wishing he were somewhere else and had his own eyes frmly shut. Apologies and more than a few curses were mumbled as the assembled pile of books and papers were collected togeth-er. In the confusion, a single menu had been gathered up by the very student who had caused the accident, and unwittingly fled away within the pages of the copy of Plato’s Republic that he had just borrowed from the library.
Charles reached the chapel in a state of nervous exhaustion. He crossed the threshold and as the door clicked shut behind him, collapsed against the wall. His eyes closed again and he slowly slid down the cool stone until he was sitting on the foor. He waited in the silence until his heart’s pounding had waned to a dull thud. He then opened his eyes. Reassured by the peaceful isolation, he struggled to his feet. Mr Potts, the head porter, had gathered up the constitution and broken frame, so the chaplain was left with just the menus and his notes. He re-balanced his load and made his way up to the organ loft. With great relief he placed his precious pile on the organ seat while he gathered them into some sense of order and then set off for his fnal destination.
Out of sight at the back of the organ was a concealed door in the wood panelling. Behind the door was a narrow and steep staircase cut into the stone fabric of the chapel. Charles slowly made his way up the staircase, leaning on the stone walls to keep his balance. At the top he stepped into a small room in the eaves of the western end of the chapel. The tallest organ pipes rose up through holes in the foor and light struggled in through a louvered opening high up on the gable wall. This room was a masterpiece of eighteenth-century architecture. Every feature was designed to ensure a steady fow of air to keep the organ at an even temperature come summer or winter. The plan had worked perfectly for over two hundred years and the original organ pipes were still in perfect condition. It was also one of the least-known corners of the college. Charles knew the papers would be safe up here from both prying eyes and the elements. 3 The origins and signifcance of this napkin are fully explained in the appendix describing the early history of the faculty.
Chapter 5
‘Enter,’ shouted Augustus.
The door opened a few inches to reveal the timid looking features of a young man. ‘Er, good morning, sir. Am I too early?’
‘Not at all. Come in, come in.’
Speaking over his shoulder while huddled in a small alcove containing a small two-ring hob, Bloom was making a frantic clanking noise with a fork and a small bowl.
‘Have a seat, Eccles. Do you prefer to be called Eccles or Patrick by the way?’ ‘Oh, either or whatever you prefer of course, sir.’ Bloom turned round, still beating his small bowl of eggs. The noise of this was now
joined by the sputtering of salty Welsh butter in the pan behind him. He looked intently at the young man.
‘As Eccles is a rather prestigious name in physiological circles these days, we’ll just call you Eccles if that’s all right.’
Not waiting for an answer, he continued his conversation facing back into the alcove. This was not how Eccles had visualised his frst tutorial at Oxford.
‘So, frst time away from home?’
‘No, well, I was off visiting… ’
‘Know how to scramble eggs?’
‘Oh, you mix them up in a pan and cook them.’
‘Milk?’
‘No thank you, I’m fne.’
This at least caused Bloom to turn around and inspect his new student. ‘I meant do you add milk to scrambled eggs?’
‘Oh, I think you do, don’t you?’
‘First thing you’ve learnt at Oxford. Never put milk in scrambled eggs. Destroys them. Salted butter, preferably Welsh, fresh well-beaten eggs, gentle heat. Don’t forget the fresher the eggs the more you have to scramble them frst. Much thicker white in a fresh egg.’
Bloom returned to the alcove and his preparations. ‘What’s the next thing you’ll learn at Oxford?’
‘I couldn’t begin to imagine, sir.’
Eccles was almost relaxing into the situation now, which was developing a charming Alice in Wonderland tea party feel.
‘When to take them off the heat… Do you know that?’ ‘When they’re cooked?’
‘Logical enough, but wrong. Just before they are cooked: moist, shiny and mobile but not slimy. See?’
The pan was offered for inspection for the briefest fraction of a second before being swung back into the alcove for the last step.
‘And my secret ingredient, which must go in at the very last moment. Too much heat can kill the favour.’
Bloom uncorked a small bottle and with great care added a few drops of the precious liquid. Then stirring vigorously placed the pan right up to Eccles’ face.
‘Now what’s that smell?’
An extraordinary aroma started to permeate the room, and Bloom involuntarily closed his eyes and breathed deeply while waiting for the reply.
‘It’s wonderful, but I couldn’t place it I’m afraid.’ ‘White truffe, Tuber magnatum pico , young man. One of God’s great gifts to man-
kind. Now, time to taste it.’
A fork was produced and Eccles took a taste. These were truly the fnest scrambled eggs he had ever had. While he pondered on their taste and this bizarre tutorial, Bloom fnished off the remains of his creation, making curious noises as he wandered around his seated student. Despite what you might be thinking, Patrick Eccles had in fact been accepted into the college to read medicine and while he knew his frst few years would be mostly physiology and what is delightfully called morbid anatomy – the anatomy in question being that of dead volunteers – this really wasn’t what he expected.
‘Now, a quick cup of tea and we can get going,’ said Augustus, returning to the al-cove.
Eccles hadn’t quite understood the concept of ‘going’ on a tutorial until Bloom marched him out of the door and down the staircase. They then headed off together to-wards Christchurch Meadow. Bloom didn’t slow his pace until he reached the wide ar-cade of trees called Dodgson’s Walk that leads down to the river. Named, of course, after Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, mathematician and fellow of Christchurch College and bet-ter known as Lewis Carroll, who had shared Bloom’s belief in the power of walking to stimulate the brain during tutorials. Finally, matters physiological were brought into the conversation.
‘I don’t suppose you are related?’
‘To whom, sir?’
‘Jack Eccles, the synapse man. Worked here in Oxford for a while before going back to the colonies.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Pity that. He won the Nobel Prize for medicine six years ago with those Hodgkin and Huxley chaps from Cambridge, but I guess you were a little young to notice back then. Anyway I thought I’d start with the three of them. Brilliant scientists and between them they got to the very heart of how a nervous system works. The brain is the most fantastic and awe-inspiring organ, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, indeed.’
‘So for next week I want you to know all about squid giant axons and the action po-tential. I’ll drop a list of the references into your pigeonhole. Track down their Nobel Prize acceptance speech too. It’ll be in the Bodleian Library somewhere.’
‘Of course, giant squid axons, yes, sir.’
Eccles walked on in uncomfortable silence with Dr Bloom for a few minutes, con-fused about whether or not he’d been dismissed. Eccles rehearsed some lines of conver-sation in his head. He even moved his lips to form some such words but none of them could quite escape from his mouth. So on they walked, accompanied only by the inco-herent splashing sounds created by novice boats on their frst outings and the bellowed orders of their coaches. Finally, as they headed up beside the Cherwell River, the silence was broken by the substantial bounding form of Professor Arthur Plantagenet, coming from the other direction.
‘Good morning, Arthur. You’re looking in remarkably good form. How are things?’ asked Augustus.
‘Have you forgotten already, Augustus? I’ve been told I’m going to die.’ ‘
I know that. I’m just wondering why you’re looking so happy now. Has your doctor
changed his mind or has he found a cure?’
‘Bah, not at all. I’m on a mission, Augustus. That damned quack has given me orders I can follow with relish.’
‘Orders?’
‘He told me that if there is anything I had always wanted to eat then I should eat it now. So I’ve been drawing up a list at the Bodleian, great fun. I’ve also been inspired by Mr Tokoro’s wonderfully gastronomic death and I’ve thought up a particularly brilli-ant plan for this fne body when I’m gone. I shall go down in the annals of gastronomy forever.’
Professor Plantagenet gave as neat a pirouette as a man of twenty stone can muster. ‘And how will gastronomy beneft from your death?’ said Augustus, quite forgetting
his student Patrick Eccles was still beside him. Fortunately, Arthur was more circum-spect and replied while tapping his nose with his fnger.
‘It’s still a bit hush-hush while I get the details ironed out. You’ll be the frst to know, Augustus, but trust me it will be the most extraordinary experiment in the history of gastronomy. Anyway, have a look at these.’
Professor Plantagenet held up a small bag of what looked like pears at frst inspection. Augustus Bloom stooped to examine the contents of the bag while Eccles, feeling he was intruding in a private discussion, decided the best thing to do was continue walking. ‘Quince. The golden apples of the ancient Greeks. Old Benson in the botanical gar-dens started growing them for me a few years back and this is the frst decent harvest,’
said Arthur.
‘My goodness, haven’t seen one of these for years.’ Augustus slowly turned the quince he was holding, examining it from all angles.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 3