London impressed him.
Like New York, the City was intrinsically cosmopolitan, so much so that at times he lost awareness of what part of the world he was in. Blacks, Asians, Latinos, at times seemed to dominate the Whites. In the USA they called Blacks African-Americans. Even those who had been born and bread in the States for ten generations. Darn silly, Sacha thought. And what of African Americans who were born in the USA and then decided to emigrate to Africa? Would they be American-African-Americans or African-American-Africans? Or would anybody care? Other than the AAAs or the AAAs. He supposed that back home, in the States, immigrants from Europe should have been called European-Americans. Unless they were European-Canadians, of course. As for himself, he would be European-Canadian-American. That would leave the Indian tribes who could safely assume the title of Americans without any qualification. Only they didn’t. They called themselves Native Americans.
Go figure.
In Europe they had different hang-ups, but colour wasn’t considered offensive. After all, no Blacks were really black, even as no Whites were white. More like sickly pale pink. But you couldn’t go around referring to people as Sickly-Pale-Pinkos, could you? It would sound silly.
After installing himself in a bed-and-breakfast room in South Ken, Sacha wandered the streets soaking up their diversity. In LA, no matter what minority one met, they all seemed to have been cast in the same mold––the American Melting Pot. They complained about the same things, spoke with a similar accent, or at least employed the same street vernacular. From what he’d heard, they even watched the same TV programs. In London you could literally forget which part of the world you were in. People retained their native characteristics without flaunting them. The country of origin was their business and nobody else’s. Some time later, Sacha learned the reason why. In Britain if you visited a village ten miles away from your own, you were regarded a foreigner. What’s a few miles, or a few thousand miles, more or less? After all, in Old English ‘foreign’ meant ‘outside’ or ‘exterior’. It did not specify outside of what. A foreigner is a foreigner. Who can tell the difference between one foreigner and another? On the other hand, most foreigners simply qualified as bloody foreigners; an appellative, reputedly illegal, though frankly no longer offensive––merely descriptive. He wondered if most people in London were foreigners.
Some months later he found that there was another reason for such visible diversity.
Back home, most people tried to create an impression of something or someone they were not. They exaggerated their incomes, their positions, the size of their houses, even the year in which their automobiles had been manufactured. They aspired to be more then they really were. Regrettably, their aspirations were limited only to their material guise. They desired not just to keep up with the Joneses, but to supplant them.
Not so in the Old Country.
In Britain if you pretended to be something you were not, you invited immediate ridicule. People were touchy about their heritage, but not jealous of others. As for your automobile, nothing was as fashionable as an old relic. The British regarded their vintage automobiles, ‘cars’ down here, the way the French regard their wines. Actually, there was a way you could cheat in Britain. You could understate your financial status. Sacha soon discovered that the Scots were best at this. He’d never met a Scot who admitted to being rich. He also discovered that Scots were among the most generous of people.
Sacha was glad he’d flown in on a Canadian passport. In Buckingham Palace resided his queen.
On Wednesday, the day of his arrival, he partook in a venerable British institution, the queue, to buy tickets to the Covent Gardens. The great Baranoff was in town to sing Boris Goudonov. In LA he’d read that not since Chaliapin, did any man resurrect Tsar Boris from the grave, and made him walk the stage. He got tickets for Friday performance.
The opera illustrated the struggle of People versus Authority. This struggle interested him more and more. From the libretto he’d gathered that there are only two stars in the Boris Goudonov: The Tsar and the People. Sacha sided with the people. Yet he felt sympathy for Boris. The Tsar was one against the many. Whatever his faults, Sacha felt a strange allegiance to the Tsar’s paradox. History was peppered with individuals attempting to advance the lot of humanity. Not that Boris did. Yet, the many seldom wanted to be helped.
Sacha had six more days before catching a bus to Oxford.
From his room in South Kensington he could walk to see most of the famous landmarks, though to traverse the whole of London on foot would have taken him a good few months. Taxis were out. They took too long. There was always the Tube––the Underground train––what the French in Montreal called the Metro. Perhaps a good place to observe people, if you wanted to observe them from very close. Sacha was grateful that oral hygiene was well developed in London. He was fascinated by people but did not feel the need to have their shirt buttons form impressions on his chest. Yet he found them amazing. Sandwiched together like sardines in a can, they managed to remain aloof, almost distant.
Very British, he thought.
So for the most part Sacha walked, or took a bus. At least from the double-decker he could see the history of the city. It was faster than walking, though not much. Not in the West End or the City, which was the way the Londoners referred to Downtown. The City also incorporated the financial district, with the buildings dating back to the prime of the British Empire.
Sacha had landed in the Old Country the day after he’d turned sixteen. He decided to celebrate his birthday, belatedly, with a pint of ale in the East End. He hoped that they wouldn’t ask him to show proof of adulthood. He’d read that the East End had changed more in recent years than any other part of London. What once was de facto an ocean of slums had been replaced with brand new developments. “Our future lies in the East,” announced the mayor, when opening the Olympia Center built by two Jewish gentlemen from New York. Or were they from Toronto? No matter. Money has no nationality.
Though in a brand-new building, the interior was designed to simulate pubs of yesteryear. Dark, musky and… noisy. That last came in as a bonus: a number of TVs had volume turned full on. The only thing missing was the smell of stale smoke.
Sacha perched himself on a stool at the end of a brightly polished bar counter, watching people discussing the latest match (still on TV) between Tottenham and Arsenal––soccer teams to which the local aficionados referred to as Spur and the Gunners, respectively. The factions were equally divided. Sacha surmised that a number of burly fans were about to add physical persuasion to win their argument. He managed a long quaff from his tall glass when, without warning, the lights went out. Next moment they came on again, greatly dimmed. He found himself sitting in semi-darkness. Unwittingly, he pulled his shoulders in to be a little less conspicuous.
He needn’t have worried. As if by a wave of Hudini’s wand, the pub transformed itself into an Ol’ Tavern, filled with so much acrid tobacco smoke that no one would recognize him.
“Another one, guv?”
A man with long hairy arms, and proportionately as long sideburns, regarded him from a great height. The floor behind the counter must have moved up a foot or two. The publican was as impressive, thanks to his towering height, as he was disarming by the grace of his boisterous smile.
“Ay, the same please,” Sacha heard himself saying.
If they were to make a movie of a tavern as envisioned by Charles Dickens, it would look exactly like this. At least judging by what he could see through the blue and yellow vapors. Not surprisingly, Sacha started coughing. Until he confirmed the smoky presence, the fumes didn’t seem to affect him. Now he felt vaguely sick. Nauseated. It was evident that he’d entered the time frame of the dream he’d had just before he’d left LA.
A nightmare?
The publican put an enormous tankard in front of him. Sacha reached into his pocket and threw a coin on the worse-for-ware counter. Evidently it had been polished by thousands of elb
ows rubbing its surface but it also showed scars of many a battle being fought in its immediate vicinity.
Sacha was rapidly loosing his self-confidence.
The next moment he saw his own severely spotted reflection in the mirror adorning the wall over the back counter. He cringed at the thought that he must have recently lost a bout with smallpox, until he realized that it was the mirror that suffered the malady. His reflection was further sliced by shelves, and punctured by bottles and tankards, but it was clear that he was looking at himself. He was a tall man, his hair just turning gray at the temples were peeking from under a silken top hat. He must have been about forty, reasonably good-looking, with broad shoulders and elegant attire of which Nicholas Nickleby would be proud.
“Will Miss Maxine be joining you today, guv?”
Sacha felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He glanced sideways without moving his body. A smallish man was bending low at his elbow. When erect, his face reached the elevation of Sacha’s nose, which being attached to Sacha’s face, could not avoid the odious confrontation. Contrary to people in the Tube some centuries later, the man’s breath could kill all the roaches in immediate vicinity. Sacha held his own as studied the man more closely.
“And what’s that to you?” he asked. He was surprised at the aggressive tone of his own voice.
“Thought you might want a roid, loik the last toim.” The man smiled exposing the remnants of yellowish-brown teeth.
“I’ll let you know.” Sacha dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Sacha vaguely remembered the man. He used to pick up floozies in this pub and take them for a ride in his hansom for, what they called in his circles “a bit of hanky-panky.” He remembered the man because contrary to the man’s breath, his hansom, a two wheeled, one horse, covered conveyance was spotlessly clean. A rare circumstance at best. Also the hansom was for two people only and the driver had an elevated seat at the back, which offered total privacy to the couple in the carriage.
Sacha’s presence in this reality began to grow its own roots.
Since his wife died, his medical practice had lost its clientele. He or his professional services were no longer fashionable. It had been his late wife’s influence that drew the elite to his elegant offices in Harley Street. Now, he catered to whoever could afford his, considerably reduced, fees. As for social life, there was no money at all. Except for a bit of slap’n tickle.
At this very moment a young woman festooned appropriately in a long dress and bodice that squeezed her none-too-flamboyant pulchritude as high up as it would go, barged into the tavern. After a quick glance around she pushed two men roughly to the side, and made for the stool on which Sacha was sitting.
“A spin ‘round the block, luv? Fer ol’ toim saik?”
She sounded like a bad imitation of Elisa Doolittle.
“And just how did you know I was here?” he smiled. The girl had large blue eyes filled with professional innocence that belied her chosen profession.
“I can tell when ya’re around, guv. I can just tell...” she teased. Her ‘I’ sounded more like an ‘Oi’. Then a hurt pout formed on her full lips. “Oi missed ya somethin’ awful, Oi really did, luv. Somethin’ awful.”
For a moment she was busy wiping a non-existent tear with her sleeve.
“Oi did, Sir,” she confirmed, just to make sure Sacha, or whoever was the tall man she was tempting, got the message. Sacha realized that he would never have given his real name in such surroundings. It wouldn’t do any good for his shrinking practice.
Sacha threw another coin on the counter and allowed himself to be led outside the tavern. The girl held on to his elbow, while the man who previously offered the services of his hansom led the way. He felt a little like a lamb being led to slaughter. He knew he would succumb to the girl’s charms. He was that lonely. He also knew that he was risking contracting a disease if he went too often too far. But what did he have to lose?
Outside the air hit him with a wallop, but the visibility did not improve. A wet white blanket embraced him with penetrating coolness. The last sound he heard was a distant plaintive wail of a river foghorn, reaching him from some errant scow groping its way along the Thames. The moan was followed by a surprising pain in his neck.
The fog thickened into absolute darkness that prevailed until he opened his eyes. “I must have lost consciousness. Momentarily,” he thought.
He found himself slumping over the counter. He was delighted that he could breathe. Not exactly the fresh breath of the Pacific, but nevertheless real air. Carefully, to avoid the pain in his neck, he straightened up. He was back in the twenty-first century. The argument for and against Arsenal and Tottenham got a bit rowdy. One of the bottles, or some other untoward object, had landed, probably quite accidentally, at the back of his head. It would be sore tomorrow. He put the incident down to experience.
I’m learning, he thought. And then he remembered the time-warp. He decided not to drink any more. He simply wasn’t used to British ale. Or any ale.
He never found any need for it.
A week later a bus took him to Oxford.
Sitting back, he relived some scenes from Boris Goudonov. The opera was everything he’d imagined it would be. And he was right. The Tsar was one against the many. He was a tyrant. He was also the loneliest man in the world. Why did I choose to see this particular opera, he wondered? Am I not lonely enough all by myself? Like attracts like, he mused...
He dismissed the cobwebs before he had a chance to start feeling sorry for himself.
They say that accidents don’t happen and that there is no such thing as a coincidence. If so, how come he arrived in Oxford on the last day, just in time to enroll for an exam for a scholarship? He decided to play a hunch. Thanks to Dr. McBride’s connections he was allowed to sit, and thanks to his own efforts, he had already passed the entry exams. But he decided to sit for them again. Just for fun. If he passed, he would qualify for a resident’s grant. He would live on campus and be paid for it. He couldn’t resist the opportunity. Not that he needed the money, but it may well have been the only way to gain admittance to, what Desmond McBride had called, the bursary.
Oxford was unique. There were more than three thousand post-graduates in the Arts and Humanities alone. Out of a total of 16,500 students, a quarter came from overseas. They represented some one hundred and thirty nationalities.
A month after his arrival in England, Sacha was declared the youngest winner of the recently forged Bertrand Russell Liberal Arts Scholarship. More so, he had won the scholarships against tremendous competition. That was the beginning. Within a week he’d learned that all he had to do now was to qualify for the Blues, the rowing team, and his reputation would be established. The studies were coincidental. In fact, he had to be careful not to show off his knowledge. Nobody likes a show-off. Not the students––not the teaching staff. He recalled mother telling dad, “Nobody likes a Smart Alec, Alec,” she’d said. The phrase stuck in his mind.
The next three years passed like a whirlwind. Sacha had joined all the societies he could think of. He ran, rowed, threw the javelin, and played chess. He also studied. This last for appearances only. He also paid close attention to make sure that he was always in the first five in his year. Not first, but also not lower then fifth. This too created a challenge. Except for the final thesis. There he could finally be himself.
Finally, Sacha left Oxford as an honorary member of the Royal Society. They were threatening to actually put his name up for Fellowship of the British Academy. He escaped just in time.
The British cherished their titles.
But what Sacha cherished much more, were the memories of the town itself. He defied anyone not to get lost in London at least once. Not so in Oxford. He could embrace its scale. The Departments and Colleges were scattered all over town. When time permitted, he loved just walking the historical streets, many free of traffic, or strolling the alleys of the University Parks maintained with meticulous care
. Only the English knew how to maintain their gardens. When he wanted solitude, he would walk to Christ Church Cathedral and the adjacent Meadow. But the greatest love he reserved for the Bodleian Library. There he consumed the tomes as fast as he could get them.
“Here comes the Canadian Glutton...” he heard whispers as he approached the counter with a half-dozen books under his arm. “He swallows books whole… cover and all…”
This too was part of the process of learning.
Next, his insatiable hunger took him to the Sorbonne. There he’d spent a whole year observing, learning, and soaking up what made people tick. Day by day he was becoming more proficient. He was a postgraduate now.
Some say that Paris is a city of lights. To Sacha, Paris was a city of couples. Whereas in London he was aware of history at every step he took, in Paris his attention was directed towards people. In London people were busy. They went about their business, and they minded their own business. Paris was a city of lovers. Sharing was in their nature. They strolled among impressive buildings, past and present, seemingly designed to boost, with their unabashed monumentality, their national egos. The English loved their countless dainty gothic churches. Early English, curvilinear, decorated, finally Tudor, but all small, parochial, scaled down to simple human needs. The French preferred huge, towering cathedrals, where heaven and Earth met well below the apex of the soaring arches. Yet it was here, surrounded by this splendor that, yet again, Sacha realized just how lonely he’d become. As he strolled along the banks of the Seine, he was the only human who was alone. Nineteen and alone. In Paris––it seemed wrong. Everyone else had their arms entwined around each other. Ignoring the monuments, they were lost in each other’s eyes.
SACHA 18+273 days
The problem of loneliness was not easy to resolve. Back home, we were a very close-knit family. When I first arrived in England, I telephoned home, particularly my mother, on a weekly basis. I soon found, and poor mother agreed, that somehow the telephones seemed to increase the distance between us. They emphasized how long the ‘long distance’ really was. Also, they did little to free myself off the apron strings.
Sacha—The Way Back (Alexander Trilogy Book III) Page 13
