by Helen Dewitt
Then I had an idea. My father wrote a lot of journalism, and he always got a lot of things wrong. Science held a fatal fascination for him. He had never really mastered the difference between the special and general theories of relativity, but for some reason could not keep from bringing both into his articles whenever he could. Sometimes he would take a word which had both a technical meaning and an ordinary meaning (chaos, string, relativity, positive/negative, half-life, you get the idea) and then take statements applicable to the word in its technical sense to support generalisations about the word in its common sense. Sometimes the technical meaning would be something that could only be expressed in mathematics, so that it didn’t really have a correlate in ordinary language— that never stopped him. It was really just a matter of waiting for his next piece to come out & then writing to correct the mistakes in an engaging, innocent, boyish way, signing the letter Steven aged 11—this would be bound to get a response, and with luck he would put his address on the letter.
The next day was Monday. I went back to the library and went through all the Sunday papers, but there was nothing by my father. I went through all the Saturday papers, but there was nothing there either. Then I went through the papers for Monday, 30 March. Nothing there. I had known who he was for 10 days.
I went back to the library every day to go through the papers. There was nothing by my father. I would stand at the table, leafing through the pages, and sometimes I’d see an interesting story and get excited and suddenly remember. I knew who he was.
On Saturday I went back to the library again, and this time there was a piece in the Independent Magazine on the Galapagos. It talked about extinction and selection. There were lots of logical fallacies, and also some factual mistakes about dinosaurs, and he seemed to have misunderstood the selfish gene theory. Here was my chance!
I wasn’t going to point out the logical errors, which might put his back up, and I decided not to say anything about the part where he mixed up DNA and RNA because I thought that would be too embarrassing, but I thought I could safely point out more abstruse errors of fact, and this would be the type of thing I could sign Steven aged 11. It was hard to know how simply I should put the selfish gene theory: since he hadn’t understood it I didn’t want to make the explanation complicated, but I thought it would sound obnoxious if I stuck to words of one syllable.
I wrote the letter ten times trying to sound clever and not obnoxious. I could have printed it out on the word processor, but I thought my atrocious handwriting might be more appealing, so I wrote the final version out by hand.
It took two days to write. I could have written it in 15 minutes if I hadn’t had to worry about sounding obnoxious. Still, as Sibylla would say, it’s not nice to go around constantly offending people.
A week went by and I thought the Independent might not have passed it on straight away.
A week went by.
A week went by and I thought he must have it by now.
Three days went by and April was over. I thought he might actually be travelling. A day went by and I thought he might have a secretary to deal with correspondence. Four days went by. The secretary might have instructions not to answer letters unaccompanied by SAE.
His letter came the next day.
I took it to my room to read.
The address was handwritten; I thought this looked promising. The envelope was one of those self-stick envelopes; he’d written in black ballpoint. I opened it slowly; there was a sheet of A5, folded once, inside. I unfolded it. It said:
6 May, 1998
Dear Steven,
Thank you for your letter. As you probably know, there are a lot of different theories about why the dinosaurs became extinct. I admit I used the one most convenient for my argument. The point about the selfish gene theory would be fair enough if that was what I was relying on, but in fact Dawkins’ theory does have some rivals.
I hope you won’t be discouraged if I stand my ground. I think it’s wonderful that you show such a grasp of the importance of the theory, and I’m thrilled that you like my writing.
Yours,
Val Peters
I had told myself not to expect anything, but I must have been expecting something. In spite of the article, in spite of all the books, I’d kept hoping for something so brilliant I couldn’t have thought of it myself. I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand with its bold careless signature, and I wished more than anything in the world that it had not been written by my father.
If anyone else had written it, I would have written back to point out that the whole article talked as if selection at the level of genes, individuals and species were the same thing and that he needed to clear up this confusion even if he was arguing against Dawkins as the article claimed to, and I would have pointed out that he hadn’t answered any of my arguments. I still didn’t want to annoy, however, so I let it pass. The crucial thing was that he had put his address at the top of the page. I looked the street up in the A-Z, and it was not far from the Circle Line.
5
For David, with best wishes
I took the Circle Line and I went to my father’s house and stood outside.
I knew I had two half-brothers and a half-sister, but I was pretty sure they lived with their mother. At about 10:30 a woman came out of the house. She got in a car and drove off.
I wasn’t sure whether to go up to the door. I didn’t know what I’d say—I thought I’d blurt out something stupid. I crossed the street and looked at the windows. I couldn’t see any movement. At about 11:00 I saw a face.
At 11:30 the door opened again and a man came out and down the steps. He looked older than I’d imagined him; the pictures I’d seen must have been taken years ago. He was less handsome than I’d imagined, even after the pictures; I’d forgotten that she had been rather drunk by the time she kissed him.
He reached the street and turned right. At the corner he turned right again.
I went back again the next day. I had in my backpack the introduction to aerodynamics, a book on calculus for engineers, the Penguin translation of Njal’s Saga, Brennunjalssaga, Gordon’s Introduction to Old Norse and The Count of Monte Cristo in case I got bored, plus four peanut butter and jam sandwiches and a tangerine. There was a bus stop with a low wall beside it across the street from his house. I sat watching the house, reading Njal’s Saga and flipping back and forth between the Icelandic and the Penguin.
Njal and his sons were at a court called the Althing. Skarp-Hedin, one of Njal’s sons, had killed a priest. I did not really understand how the court worked. Njal’s son-in-law Asgrim and the Njalssons went from booth to booth looking for support. First they went to Gizurr’s booth and then they went to the Olfus booth to see Skapti Thoroddson.
‘Lát heyra at,’ segir Skapti.
‘Let us hear your errand,’ said Skapti.
‘Ek vil biðja ik liðsinnis,’ segir Ásgrímr, ‘at ú veitir mér lið ok mágum mínum.’
‘I need your help,’ said Asgrim, ‘for myself and my kinsmen.’
I had been working on Icelandic for three weeks so it wasn’t too bad. There were some things I couldn’t do without a dictionary. Nothing happened in the house.
‘Hitt hafða ek ætlat,’ segir Skapti, ‘at ekki skyldi koma vandræði yður í híbýli mín.’
‘I have no intention,’ said Skapti, ‘of letting your troubles into my house.’
Ásgrímr segir: ‘Illa er slíkt mælt, at verða mnnum á sízt at liði, er mest liggr við.’
Asgrim said, ‘These are mean words; you are of least use when the need is greatest.’
The postman came to the house with the second post. The woman came to the door to take it; there seemed to be a lot of letters. I ate a peanut butter sandwich.
‘Hverr er sá maðr,’ segir Skapti, ‘er fjórir menn ganga fyrir, mikill maðr ok flleitr, ógæfusamligr, harðligr ok trllsligr?’
‘Who is that man,’ said Skapti, ‘the fifth in the line, that
tall, fierce-looking, troll-like man with the pale, ill-starred look?’
Nothing happened in the house.
Hann segir: ‘Skarpheðinn heiti ek, ok hefir ú sét mik jafnan á ingi, en vera mun ek ví vitrari en ú, at ek arf eigi at spyrja, hvat ú heitir. ú heitir Skapti óroddsson, en fyrr kallaðir ú ik Burstakoll, á er ú hafðir drepit Ketil ór Eldu; gerðir ú ér á koll ok bart tjru í hfuð ér. Siðan keyptir ú at prælum, at rísta upp jarðarmen, ok skreitt ú ar undir um nóttina. Síðan fórt ú til órólfs Loptssonar á Eyrum, ok tók hann við ér ok bar ik út í mjlsekkum sínum.’
‘Skarp-Hedin is my name,’ he replied, ‘and you have often seen me here at the Althing. But I must he sharper than you, for I have no need to ask you your name. You are called Skapti Thoroddsson, but once you called yourself Bristle-Head, when you had just killed Ketil of Elda; that was the time you shaved your head and smeared it with tar, and bribed some slaves to cut you a strip of turf to cower under for the night. Later you fled to Thorolf Loptsson of Eyrar, who took you in and then smuggled you abroad in his flour sacks.’
Eptir at gengu eir Ásgrímr út.
With that they all left the booth.
Nothing happened in the house.
Skarpheðinn mælti: ‘Hvert skulu vér nú ganga?’
‘Where shall we go now?’ asked Skarp-Hedin.
‘Til búðar Snorra goða,’ segir Ásgrímr.
‘To Snorri the Priest’s booth,’ said Asgrim.
Njal’s Saga was a bit hard in places but not too hard. The aerodynamics was a real killer. I read a couple of pages but I wasn’t in the mood. Nothing happened in the house.
I went back to Njal’s Saga. Snorri said that their own lawsuits were going badly, but he promised not to take sides against the Njalssons or support their enemies. He said:
‘Hverr er sá maðr, er fjórir ganga fyrir, flleitr ok skarpleitr ok glottir við tnn ok hefir øxi reidda um xl?’
‘Who is that man, fifth in the line, the pale, sharp-featured man with a grin on his face and an axe on his shoulder?’
‘Heðinn heiti ek,’ segir hann, ‘en sumir kalla mik Skarpheðinn llu nafni, eða hvat vilt ú fleira til mín tala?’
‘My name is Hedin,’ he replied, ‘but some call me Skarp-Hedin in full. Have you anything else to say to me?’
Snorri maelti: ‘at at mér, ykki maðr harðligr ok mikilfengligr, en ó get ek, at rotin sé nú ín en mesta gæfa, ok skamt get ek eptir innar æfi.’
‘I think you look very ruthless and formidable,’ said Snorri, ‘but my guess is that you have exhausted your store of good luck, and that you have not long to live.’
The Asgrimssons went from booth to booth with mixed success and each time someone said there is just one thing I’d like to know, who is that ill-starred looking man the fifth in line and each time Skarp-Hedin said something insulting with predictable results. It was quite different from Homer or from Malory because it was very plain but I still rather liked it. There was a glossary in Gordon and some grammatical tips so it was not too bad on the whole.
I read a few more pages and then I read The Count of Monte Cristo for a couple of hours and went home.
I went back the next day and I read three pages of aerodynamics but I wasn’t in the mood. Then I read some more of Njal’s Saga.
At about 12:30 he passed by a window on the ground floor eating a sandwich. I had four peanut butter and jam sandwiches and two banana and Marmite sandwiches and a bag of crisps in my backpack. I ate one of the sandwiches and then read The Count of Monte Cristo. Nothing else happened in the house.
I let two days go by. It was raining hard and cold. Then the weather cleared. I went back to sit on the wall. I had three peanut butter and jam sandwiches, one peanut butter and honey sandwich and a bottle of Ribena.
It started to rain again, so I walked back to the Circle Line and spent the rest of the day reading The Count of Monte Cristo. I could have worked on aerodynamics but I wasn’t in the mood.
Third week of May, typical English cold snap. 283 degrees above absolute zero. I went to the house just to look at it. I saw him talking to the woman in an upstairs room but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I made myself sit reading on the wall just in case I ever had to go to the North Pole.
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.