The Universe in Miniature in Miniature

by Patrick Somerville

  Still. Weren’t such things insignificant? In a life? And was it really that bad? The guy was fine. The guy attacked him—everyone saw. Tom apologized a bit, helped him up. The guy pushed him away. Tom tried to give him a dollar, the guy ignored him. Tom went back to work. Soon forgotten. But it wasn’t so bad, was it? That thing? Don’t you have to look out for yourself?

  2

  ELIZA

  Eliza sits alone on a bench just outside the train station’s entrance. She’s come in at Piccadilly. It’s a gloomy day, not quite raining but it may as well be. The air is heavy with moisture and the wind is gusting with enough force to play with the tails on trench coats.

  She watches others walk, watches the cabs and cars pull to the curb and pull away. A policeman with a whistle is keeping order, tooting here and there, swinging his arm, strolling up to vehicles and tapping on the glass, small smile on his face at times. It’s choreographed—it’s a thing that he’s worked on. He seems to be enjoying what he’s doing.

  Eliza’s legs are crossed; one booted foot taps absently through the empty air. One hand holding her phone, although she doesn’t look down at it. She watches the people. She’s irritated that her escort is not here and has half a mind to hail a cab and find the office herself. Just as she’d told them, she didn’t need an escort in the first place, but they’d insisted. And why Manchester? They’d insisted. For the trip, she’s had to take a day off of work. It’s all very irritating.

  But. That’s not the overall feeling. The overall feeling is still excitement.

  Not only that, but if Eliza is being honest, it’s the kind of excitement she hasn’t felt since she was ten years old. She is determined to mask it, as giddiness is inevitably a weakness. But she woke up this morning and it felt like Christmas. She felt like a fool as she noted the racing of her heart as she showered. She’s still somewhat in shock, it’s only been a week since the lawyer (the lawyer who she recognized, although she didn’t quite know it until after he’d gone) appeared at her flat, but the new world has been here long enough to have settled into a deeper sense of disorientation. Her life has changed. It’s changed dramatically. That all this seems to be completely real and not some hoax, not some game show, not some reality television scheme, is astounding.

  Still, she did not dress up for this—dressed down a little, even, perhaps as a tacit screw off to the wealth and power that has slithered up to her so sneakily and suddenly, entreating with its sibilant innocence, but she doesn’t quite remember doing it on purpose—because of the lingering worry that despite the assurances and despite the very real appearance of the documentation from within Cedric Grayspool’s briefcase, there’s a lie here somewhere, she’s certain of it, and it would be more humiliating to finally learn the truth and be dressed up in her most posh clothes. There are cameras everywhere, of course, but are they the BBC and not security? Can you believe this woman believed what we told her? Amazing!

  She glances up at the ceiling of the overhang above her head and wonders about the man or woman stationed before a monitor in some dark room, observing all of this. She feels bad for that person. She tries to say it to him/her as she stares into the lens.

  Instead of dressing up, she went simple. Now she’s cold. She’s wearing her dark green cargo pants and a T-shirt she bought from a street-artist last summer. It’s got a human/bunny hybrid painted on the front:

  COOL CUSTOMER

  She also has a light coat folded over her bag that she does not feel like putting on and nothing else to speak of. She has no luggage—she doesn’t plan to be here for more than a few hours. Then, back to London.

  She’s a social worker—27 years old. Children’s services. Her parents died nine years ago already, just late enough in her life that she was grown and could take care of herself and could get herself into the proper school and get on the track she wanted and make a life, yes, although that did not quite tell the story of what it had been like to learn of their deaths, what it had been like to move forward, mechanically, ever since. That story might be too long to tell. (We’ll see.)

  Eliza looks down at her phone.

  It’s another fifteen minutes before the black sedan with tinted windows pulls up to the curb and she sees Cedric Grayspool get out of the front passenger’s side door and hurry toward her, head bowed (already) apologetically. He’s in a cream great-coat and is wearing the same black bowler he’d had on when he’d appeared at her door last week; in his right hand is the same cane, which he taps in a perfunctory manner whenever his right foot touches the ground. He’s gaunt, tall, tends to smile. Eliza, watching him approach, imagines that he is probably some child’s beloved grandfather.

  He arrives before her, somewhat out of breath, and bows his head again, this time formerly. “Ms. Dagonet,” he says. “So sorry. We had a minor delay at the airport.”

  “It’s fine,” Eliza says, standing, and Grayspool goes upright and nods. She sees his cool brown eyes; she’s reminded of the documentary she watched about a philosopher, how he talked about eyes. They are the only part of us that don’t age—matter-wise, not vision-wise. The only parts that renew themselves over time. Our eyes are always young—even if they’ve stopped working.

  “Shall we be off, then?”

  “I’ve remembered where I met you before, Mr. Grayspool,” she says.

  Grayspool hesitates. “Ah,” he says. “That.”

  “You might have said something at my flat,” she said.

  “Yes, well,” says Grayspool. “I was instructed to make no mention of it.”

  She’d had the feeling the entire time he’d been in her living room. She’d seen him somewhere, maybe even spoken with him. Couldn’t quite place it. As the content of his speech became more and more outrageous, however, she had concentrated less on figuring out how she knew him and more on determining whether or not the man was completely bonkers.

  It was only hours later, as Eliza sat alone in the pub on the corner, drinking pilsners and smoking (she was not a smoker—such was her state following Grayspool’s message) that it finally, finally came back to her: her advisor. Grayspool was her advisor.

  In graduate school, first year, first week. Her advisor for one day.

  An administrative email had told her to go to an office for a meeting. So she went. Not exactly on campus, actually, but in a building close enough to make it seem as though it could simply have been a small offshoot of the university. In hindsight, there had maybe been a few red flags: say, for example, the advisor’s name, a Dr. Hannibal Yellowyarn, handwritten on a piece of stationary and taped to the door of the office. Like so:

  “I suppose next you’ll be asking me about Pangea,” Eliza says.

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” Grayspool says, turning a bit, one hand hovering behind her back in order to compel her toward the car. If she didn’t know better, she’d guess he was embarrassed. No touching. Eliza notes it. Grayspool, whoever he really is, is a gentle man. A gentleman. She smirks to herself, realizing (how can it be for the first time, just now?) that this is where the word comes from. She imagines gentlemen, across time, stabbing one another in the chests with rapiers.

  “Please,” says Grayspool, motioning toward the car. “After you.”

  As Eliza walks, she half-turns and says, “You should know, I’ve spoken with a lawyer. He wanted to come along but I told him there was no need.” This is not exactly true. It’s not true at all, actually—she’s spoken to no one. But she assumes it might be wise to at least make mention of it.

  “Yes, probably for the best,” says Grayspool, hustling along beside her, nodding vigorously. “That’s quite all right. No doubt you’ll be needing a dozen attorneys once we’re all through. A hundred! It’s no small sum. Now’s not quite the time, though. However. There’s something else.”

  They’ve reached the car, and Grayspool leans forward. Hand on the door, he says, “There’s another passenger inside.”

  “Who?”

  “An Ameri
can. It’s who we were picking up at the airport. He is—” Grayspool’s lips make a flat line. “Well, he’s somewhat intoxicated. I apologize in advance. For the smell. His behavior.” Grayspool looks at the doors of the sedan. “In fact,” he says. “Why don’t you ride up front? I’ll ride in back with him.”

  “You’re putting me into this car with a drunk American?” Eliza says. “How lovely.” She turns her head and looks at the tinted window. “Who is he?”

  “That’s somewhat complicated,” says Grayspool, opening the front door for her. “You’ll find out everything at the meeting.” He raises his eyebrows and nods at the door. “Please,” he says.

  Before Eliza can move to get in, though, the tinted back window creaks to life and slowly begins its electric descent.

  She and Grayspool both watch it fall.

  There is a man in the back seat.

  He’s wearing sunglasses and looking at them.

  “Hey,” says the man.

  “Hello,” says Eliza.

  “I’m Tom,” he says. He strains to reach his arm out the window and holds out his hand. “Tom Sanderson. Unemployed alcoholic.”

  “Eliza,” she says. She takes his hand. “Dagonet.”

  He removes his sunglasses with his free hand. He has bloodshot blue eyes. He stares at her.

  “Pleasure to meet,” she says as they shake.

  “Likewise,” says Tom. His hand keeps pumping. He puts the glasses back on.

  She tries to let go, but he keeps shaking.

  “Although probably,” he adds, raising his eyebrows, “more pleasure for me than you.”

  So the guy is a huge creep. It flashed through her mind when they shook hands, but the idea didn’t take hold until a few minutes into the ride toward Grayspool’s office. There’s something off with his whole vibe. It’s not even that he’s American. It goes much deeper. He’s loud and strange in the back seat for the trip through Manchester, talking to Grayspool about whatever seems to come into his mind, but it’s not that, either, it’s not just that he’s chatty. Even though he’s not talking about himself back there—he’s talking about things like British government and a movie called Ski Patrol and what he ate for lunch on Thursday and how many drinks he managed to have on the plane before they cut him off and his theories about Boursin cheese, and maybe from a certain point of view it would all be sort of humorous—Eliza can’t help but feel a general, powerful narcissistic energy radiating out from his area of the car. She has met some people who talk too much who are not narcissistic in the least. They just talk too much. But this is more of an elaborate, constructed performance. This is some grander and more complex psychological principal at play that brings two words to mind: personality disorder.

  She tries to tune him out and looks out the window at the old buildings of the massive industrial city. She’s only been here twice in her life and never fancied it much.

  Manchester.

  The driver beside her is silent but for the occasional muttered comment to another car. He is Pakistani, surprisingly young, and has a thin mustache he reaches up to stroke whenever the car comes to a stop.

  When there’s a break in the Americans’ ramblings: “And how was the train, Ms. Dagonet?” Grayspool.

  “Fine, fine,” she says. “Call me Eliza.”

  “Yes, Grayspool,” says Tom. “Call her Eliza, will you?”

  “Of course,” Grayspool says. In the rearview, Eliza sees the faintest of smiles on Grayspool’s lips as he settles further into his seat, both hands on the top of his cane. There is something particularly English about it—a minor amusement at the American’s unnecessarily emphatic insistence on informality. Perhaps she agrees with Grayspool a bit on this matter. At the same time, she can’t help but be reminded of the same patronizing nods and smiles she receives whenever she tells people—particularly English men—that she’s a social worker. Perfect, they are thinking. How perfect for the young lass.

  “Where have you come from, Mr. Sanderson?” Eliza asks, turning her (mirrored) eyes to him. She’s beginning to wish that she’d chosen to sit in the back of the car, despite Grayspool’s insistence. She and the American are far more allied than any other pairing—after all, they are the only two who are completely confused.

  “Chicago,” he says. “Chicago, America.”

  “And I take it you are the ‘other’ relative our Lost Uncle Herman so adored?”

  “Oh,” he says. “Oh, yeah. I see. So you’re the other one.”

  “We’re both the other one.”

  “Right,” says Tom, squinting out the window.

  “All will be revealed very soon,” says Grayspool. “No need to—”

  “Can I ask you a question, Eliza?”

  “You may.”

  “Was your first reaction to all this,” he says, “that it was complete bullshit?”

  Eliza twists in her seat, looks back at the American. He’s looking back at her without a hint of a smile—she guesses that somewhere, beneath the clownish exterior, there’s a serious side to him. She likes finding this in people.

  “It was,” she says. She’s embarrassed, though, remembering how quick she was to believe Grayspool’s words. Almost immediately.

  “And is that still how you’re feeling?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Well,” she says. “I suppose I’ve come to see.”

  “Do you know what he left you?”

  She turns forward.

  “No,” she lies.

  Tom shuts up and they ride the rest of the way in relative silence; the only penetrating sound is the traffic and the muttering of the driver. It seems to Eliza the stereotypical gothic gloom of the North has made itself manifest for the visit.

  Eventually, they pull up alongside an unremarkable stone building. Grayspool ushers them out of the car and into a lobby, and then the three cram into a very small lift. Grayspool inadvertently forces her rather close to Tom, and she can (for the first time) smell the alcohol on his breath. She thinks to ask him about his jet-lag but decides she would rather not engage him. She’s never actually known an American. Funny. Just like she’s never actually seen, say, a polar bear. But this specimen of American lives up nicely to her expectations. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, cavalier, obnoxious, drunk. Skeptical, mediocre, twenty pounds overweight. Self-centered, conservative. Not as funny as he thinks.

  “Is this elevator supposed to have this much weight in it?” Tom asks, as if on cue. “It moves like there’s some guy in the basement pulling us up with a rope and a pulley.”

  “Only one more floor,” says Grayspool cheerily, and soon the lift rumbles to a halt and Grayspool pulls open the accordion door.

  As far as Eliza can tell, they are at a boutique law firm. She notes the plaque behind the receptionist’s desk: Grayspool, Groberman, Leafing and Stewart. They pass quickly, though, and soon Grayspool has shepherded them into a larger conference room. Already seated at the table are three suited men, all of them over 60, and Grayspool leads both her and Tom to chairs and introduces them to the partners.

  Stewart has a pipe—the room is smoky.

  Groberman tilts his head at them, almost like a challenge.

  Leafing appears to look quite like Wilford Brimley.

  There is also a short, bearded man standing in the corner. He is wearing a potato sack. He smiles and nods at Eliza.

  “Is that the man who’s going to rape us?” Tom asks, looking at him dubiously.

  The potato-sack man frowns.

  “Ho! Ho ho!” laughs Grayspool. “How indecent. And I do say, Herman did like that about you, Mr. Sanderson.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your indecent jokes.”

  Tom says nothing.

  Then Tom says, “What? Was he watching me?”

  “Now,” continues Grayspool. “Let’s get down to real business.”

  “Okay,” says Tom. “Let’s.” He looks over at the bearded man one more time. Eliza looks, too. She has no idea wh
at to think.

  “Welcome, welcome,” says Leafing. “We trust you both had excellent travels. A very exciting day for us all, I must say.”

  Stewart, with his pipe in his mouth, nods deeply and makes an “Mmmnmnm” sound.

  Grayspool clears his throat. “As you both know, you each share a relative. A heretofore unknown relative. And that’s why you’re here. Although I would hasten to add that the two of you are not blood relatives yourself…” As Grayspool begins what feels to Eliza like the formal, possibly rehearsed part of the presentation, the receptionist rolls into the room pushing a cart. Eliza is impressed to see an actual slide projector atop the cart, not a digital projector. It’s very quaint.

  The receptionist pulls the screen at the front of the room and cuts the lights on her way out.

  Once the machine has warmed up, Grayspool kicks in the first slide in the carousel. Stewart’s smoke twirls lazily in the cone of light coming from the projector. This is what the image shows:

  “As you can both clearly see,” says Grayspool, “your shared relative, Mr. Herman Lyons, was the son of William Sanderson—Tom’s grandfather—and Beatrice Lyons—Eliza’s grandmother. According to our employer, the two had a brief affair in 1945 and never spoke again. William Sanderson never knew of the pregnancy. In fact, he never knew the name of the woman he’d impregnated.”