The Campus Trilogy

by David Lodge

  “I didn’t know how to, without risking compromising you,” said Philip. “I thought you wouldn’t want me to, anyway. You seemed so cold that morning I left Genoa, I thought you wanted to forget the whole thing had happened.”

  “I did,” said Joy, “but I found that was impossible.”

  “Then it wasn’t long before I read in the newspaper that you were dead.”

  “Yes, I never thought of that. The papers did publish a correction.”

  “I must have missed it,” said Philip. “Anyway, you could have written to me, especially when your husband… I mean, when you were…”

  “Free? I didn’t want to interfere with your life. I looked you up. I know all about you. You’re married, with three children, Amanda, Robert and Matthew. Wife Hilary, née Broome, daughter of Commander and Mrs. A. J. Broome. I didn’t want to break up your marriage.”

  “It’s not much of a marriage,” said Philip. “The children are all grown up, and Hilary’s fed up. We nearly separated ten years ago. I think we should have done.” The image of Hilary’s breast had almost faded from his memory, expunged by the more recent, keener sensation of Joy’s blunt, cylindrical nipples stiffening under his touch. “I’ve stood in Hilary’s way,” he said earnestly. “She’d do better on her own.”

  …

  “This is where Asia meets Europe,” said Joy, as a battered taxi rushed them across a vast, new-looking suspension bridge. Far below, huge tankers and a multitude of smaller craft churned the waters of the Bosphorus. To their right, green hills dotted with white houses rose steeply from the narrowing channel. To their left, domes and minarets punctuated the skyline of an immense city, behind which the water broadened out into a sea. “Sea of Marmara,” Joy explained. “The Black Sea is at the other end of the Bosphorus.”

  “It’s wonderful,” said Philip. “This combination of water and sky and hills and architecture reminds me of Euphoria, the view I used to see every morning when I woke up and drew the curtains. It’s the Bay Area of the ancient world.”

  “I tell you what we’ll do,” said Joy. “We’ll take this cab down to the Galata bridge, and take a ferry boat up the Bosphorus to Bogazici, where I live. That’s the best way to get your first impressions of Istanbul, from the water.”

  Philip squeezed her knee. “You are my Euphoria, my Newfoundland,” he said.

  …

  Half an hour later they stood hand in hand on the deck of a white steamer as it surged up the Bosphorus, away from the teeming quayside. Joy pointed out the landmarks. “That’s Santa Sophia, that’s the Blue Mosque. I’ll take you to see them later. The Golden Horn is behind the bridge. That’s the Sea of Marmara, with all the wrecks.”

  “Why so many?”

  “There’s far too much traffic on the water here, the ships keep colliding, especially the big tankers. Sometimes they crash into the houses at the edge of the Bosphorus. I took an apartment well up in the hills.”

  “Am I going to stay with you?” Philip asked.

  Joy frowned. “I don’t think it would be a good idea. I have a Turkish girl living in, and the children would be inquisitive. There wouldn’t be much privacy. I know a nice hotel not far away, I’ll come and see you there. But you can eat with us, of course.”

  “But won’t you be able to spend the night with me?” Philip pleaded. “I want to wake up in the morning and find you beside me.”

  “You can’t have everything you want,” she said, smiling.

  The ferry boat stitched its way up the Bosphorus, stopping frequently at small wooden jetties that were like aquatic bus-stops. The boat would swerve inshore, pull up amid much foaming and rattling as the screws were reversed; passengers carrying shopping bags and briefcases briskly disembarked, new passengers scurried aboard, a bell rang, and in seconds, it seemed, they would be off again. The houses on the shore gradually took on a less antique aspect, the landscape in the background became boskier, as they proceeded. At one of the stops, which had a relaxed, seasidey air to it, Joy led him ashore, and they took a taxi to Joy’s apartment, situated on a road that twisted steeply between walled gardens matted with flowering vines. Childish shrieks and cries were heard from the windows as Philip paid the taxi driver the fare for which Joy had bargained at the outset of their ride (“If you don’t beat them down by at least half, you’ve been diddled,” she had warned him). “The children are surprised to see me back home so soon,” she said.

  “What will you tell them?”

  “Oh, that my meetings were cancelled, or something.”

  The children were already running down the garden steps to meet their mother, followed by a plump, smiling girl with small black eyes set in a round brown face like currants in a bun. “Be careful!” she cried. “Gerard! Miranda! Not so fast.”

  Philip recognized Gerard, who treated him to the same slightly hostile scrutiny that he remembered well from Genoa. Miranda, who looked about three years old, smiled rather sweetly when she was introduced.

  “Have you got presents for us, Mummy?” Gerard asked.

  Joy looked crestfallen. “Oh, dear, I didn’t have time. I came home so unexpectedly.”

  “I’ve got something,” said Philip. “Do you two like Turkish Delight?” He opened his briefcase and brought out a cardboard box packed with rose-hip and almond flavoured delight. “This comes from Ankara—I was told it’s the best you can get.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t mean to give that to someone else?” said Joy.

  “Oh, no,” said Philip, who had bought it for Hilary. “Anyway, I can always get some more here.”

  “Just one piece each for now, then.” said Joy. “Give the box to Selina, and say thank you to Professor Swallow.”

  “Please call me Philip,” he said.

  “Thank you” said Gerard, rather grudgingly, his mouth full of Turkish delight.

  “Thank you Flip,” said Miranda.

  “Well, show Philip the way, Miranda,” said Joy.

  The little girl put her sticky hand in Philip’s and led him up the steep steps that led to the house. He found himself strangely taken with this child, her trusting eyes and ready smile. Later, as he sat with Joy on the balcony of her first floor apartment, he watched Miranda at play with her dolls in the garden below. They were drinking coffee (a pleasure so rare in Turkey it almost made one faint) and Joy was telling him in condensed form the story of her recent life. “Of course I could have stayed in England and lived on my widow’s pension, but I thought that would be just too dreary, so I persuaded the Council to let me train as a librarian and to give me a job. They weren’t too keen, but I was able to exert a certain amount of moral pressure. Anyway, I’m a good librarian.”

  “I’m sure you are,” said Philip abstractedly, peering down into the garden. Miranda had seated her dolls in a semicircle and was earnestly talking to them. “I wonder what Miranda’s telling her dolls.”

  “She’s probably telling them about you,” said Joy. “She’s greatly taken with your beard.”

  “Is that so?” Philip laughed, and stroked his beard self-consciously. He felt ridiculously pleased. “She’s a most attractive little girl, isn’t she? Reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who it is.”

  “Can’t you?” Joy gave him a rather strange look.

  “Well, it’s not you…”

  “No, it’s not me.”

  “It must be your husband, I suppose, though I don’t remember him very well.”

  “No, she doesn’t take after John.”

  “Who then?”

  “You,” said Joy. “She takes after you.”

  …

  Four days later, gazing down at the snow-crusted Alps from the window of a Turkish Airlines Boeing 727, Philip could still go hot and cold at the memory of that extraordinary moment, as the import of Joy’s “She takes after you” sank in, and he realized that the little girl playing in the garden beneath him, a fragile assemblage of brown limbs and blonde hair and white cotton smock, scarcely bi
gger than the dolls she handled, was a child of his loins; that for the past three years, all unknown to him, this little fragment of flesh had been in existence, orbiting his conscious life in silence and obscurity, like an undiscovered star. “What?” he breathed. “You mean—Miranda is my… our… Are you sure?”

  “Not sure, but you must admit the likeness is striking.”

  “But, but…” he groped for words, gasped for breath. “But you told me, that night, that you were, you know, that it would be all right.”

  “I lied. I was off the pill, John and I were trying to conceive again. I was afraid that if I told you, it would break the spell, you might stop. Wasn’t that wicked of me?”

  “No, it was lovely of you, wonderful of you, but, my God, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “At first I didn’t know whether I was pregnant by you or by John. The shock of the crash brought on the birth. As soon as I saw Miranda’s eyes, I knew she was yours. But what would have been the point of telling you?”

  “I could have divorced Hilary and married you.”

  “Exactly. I told you this morning, I didn’t want that.”

  “I’m going to anyway, now,” said Philip.

  Joy said nothing for a few moments. Then she said, not looking at him, but painting rings on the plastic-topped table, dipping her finger in a pool of spilled coffee: “When I heard that you were coming to Turkey, I decided to avoid meeting you, because I was afraid that it would end like this. I arranged to go to Ankara just over the days when you would be in Istanbul—Alex Custer had been on at me for some time to meet the people up there to discuss policy. I got hold of your schedule and worked it all out so that I would arrive in Ankara just as you left. But I miscalculated by just a few hours. When I got to the Custers, they told me you were coming that evening.”

  “It was fate,” said Philip.

  “Yes, I came to that conclusion myself,” said Joy. “That’s why I joined you on the train.”

  “You cut it jolly fine,” said Philip.

  “I wanted to give Fate a chance for second thoughts,” said Joy.

  …

  Low cloud covered southern England. As the plane dipped through it, the sun disappeared like a light being switched off, and underneath the cloud it was raining. Moisture dribbled down the windows of the aircraft as it taxied on Heathrow’s wet tarmac. Waiting in the stuffy, humid baggage hall, Philip felt himself wilting and shrinking as the intensity of the last few days leaked away. He sank onto a seat, allowed his eyelids to droop, and projected upon their inner surface a home movie of Istanbul, its sights, sounds and smells: churches and minarets, water and sky, the acres of slightly damp carpet under their stockinged feet as they gazed up at the dome of the Blue Mosque, the stained glass glowing like gems in the Palace Harem, the prison-like staircases of Istanbul University with an armed soldier on every landing, the labyrinthine alleys of the great covered bazaar, the waterside restaurant where the wash of a passing ship suddenly slopped through a low window and drenched a whole table of diners; the hotel where he and Joy made love in the afternoons while huge Russian tankers slid past the windows, so close they momentarily blocked out the light that filtered through the venetian blinds. When the sun shone full upon the window, he angled the blinds so that bars of white-hot light striped Joy’s body, kindling her blonde pubic hair into flame. He called it the golden fleece, mindful that the Hellespont was not far away. When he kissed her there, his beard brushing her belly, he made a wry joke about the silver among the gold, conscious of the contrast between her beautiful, still youthful body and his scraggy, middle-aged one, but she stroked his head reassuringly. “You make me feel desirable, that’s what matters.” He nuzzled her, inhaling odours of shore and rockpool; the skin of her inner thighs was as tender as peeled mushrooms; she tasted clean and salty, like some mollusc from the sea. “Ah,” she whimpered, “that’s divine.”

  Philip opened his eyes to find his suitcase taking a lonely ride on the carousel. He snatched it up and, somewhat incommoded by the sexual arousal induced by his reverie, ran all the way to Terminal One to catch his connecting flight to Rummidge.

  …

  Up, briefly, into the sunshine again, in a noisy Fokker Friendship; then down again through the grey clouds to the sopping fields and gleaming motorways that ringed Rummidge airport. He was surprised and disconcerted to be met by Hilary. Usually he took a taxi home, and he had counted on solitude, during this last stage of his journey, to rehearse what he was going to say to her. But there she was, in her old beige raincoat, waving from the balcony of the terminal building, as he and his fellow passengers descended the steps from the aircraft and picked their way through the oily puddles on the apron.

  Inside the terminal Hilary rushed up and kissed him enthusiastically. “Darling, how are you? I’m glad to see you back safe and sound, the most exciting things have been happening—did you see the review?”

  “No,” he said. “What review?”

  “In the TLS. Rudyard Parkinson reviewed your Hazlitt book in the most glowing terms, nearly two whole pages.”

  “Good Lord,” said Philip, feeling himself turning pink with pleasure. “That must be Morris’s influence. I’ll have to write and thank him.”

  “I don’t think so, darling,” said Hilary, “because Parkinson was frightfully rude about Morris’s book in the same review. He did you together.”

  “Oh dear,” said Philip, feeling an ignoble spasm of Schadenfreude at this news.

  “And the Sunday Times and the Observer have asked for a photograph of you, and Felix Skinner—he’s ever so excited about it—says that means they’re going to review it too. All I could find was an old snap of you at the seaside in shorts, but I expect they’ll only use the head.”

  “Good Lord,” said Philip.

  “And I’ve got something else to tell you. About me.”

  “What?”

  “Let me go and get the car first, while you wait for your luggage.”

  “I’ve got something to tell you, too.”

  “Wait till I get the car.”

  When she brought the car round to the entrance to the terminal, Hilary offered to move over into the passenger seat, but Philip told her not to bother. She drove rather boisterously, revving the engine hard between gear changes, and pulling up sharply at traffic-lights. As the familiar suburban streets slipped past the windows, she told him her big news. “I’ve found a job, darling. Well, not a job, exactly, but something I really want to do, something really interesting. I’ve had a preliminary interview and I’m pretty sure they’ll accept me for training.”

  “What is it, then?” said Philip.

  Hilary turned and beamed at him. “Marriage Guidance,” she said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” She returned her attention to the road, not a moment too soon. “I see,” said Philip. “That should be very interesting.”

  “Absolutely fascinating. I can’t wait to start the training.” She glanced at him again. “You don’t seem very enthusiastic.”

  “It’s a surprise,” said Philip. “I wasn’t prepared for it. I’m sure you’ll be very good at it.”

  “Well,” said Hilary, “I feel I do know something about the subject. I mean, we’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re still together after all these years, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” said Philip. “We are.” He gazed out of the car window at the names of shops: Sketchleys, Rumbelows, Radio Rentals, Woolworths. Plateglass windows stacked with refrigerators, music centres, televisions.

  “And what was it you wanted to tell me?” said Hilary.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Philip. “Nothing important.”

  PART IV

  1

  whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

  To some people, there is no noise on earth as exciting as the sound of three or four big fan-jet engines rising in pitch, as the plane they are sitting in swivels at the end of the runway and, straining against its brakes, prepa
res for takeoff. The very danger in the situation is inseparable from the exhilaration it yields. You are strapped into your seat now, there is no way back, you have delivered yourself into the power of modern technology. You might as well lie back and enjoy it. Whhheeeeeeeeeeeeee! And away we go, the acceleration like a punch in the small of the back, the grass glimpsed through the window flying backwards in a blur, and then falling out of sight suddenly as we soar into the sky. The plane banks to give us one last glimpse of home, flat and banal, before we break through the cloud cover and into the sunshine, the no-smoking sign goes off with a ping, and a faint clink of bottles from the galley heralds the serving of cocktails. Whheeeeeeeee! Europe, here we come! Or Asia, or America, or wherever. It’s June, and the conference season is well and truly open. In Oxford and Rummidge, to be sure, the students still sit at their desks in the examination halls, like prisoners in the stocks, but their teachers are able to flit off for a few days before the scripts come in for marking; while in North America the second semester of the academic year is already finished, papers have been graded, credits awarded, and the faculty are free to collect their travel grants and head east, or west, or wherever their fancy takes them. Wheeeeeeeeee!

  The whole academic world seems to be on the move. Half the passengers on transatlantic flights these days are university teachers. Their luggage is heavier than average, weighed down with books and papers—and bulkier, because their wardrobes must embrace both formal wear and leisurewear, clothes for attending lectures in, and clothes for going to the beach in, or to the Museum, or the Schloss, or the Duomo, or the Folk Village. For that’s the attraction of the conference circuit: it’s a way of converting work into play, combining professionalism with tourism, and all at someone else’s expense. Write a paper and see the world! I’m Jane Austen—fly me! Or Shakespeare, or T. S. Eliot, or Hazlitt. All tickets to ride, to ride the jumbo jets. Wheeeeeeeeee!

  The air is thick with the babble of these wandering scholars’ voices, their questions, complaints, advice, anecdotes. Which airline did you fly? How many stars does the hotel have? Why isn’t the conference hall air-conditioned? Don’t eat the salad here, they use human manure on the lettuce. Laker is cheap, but their terminal at LA is the pits. Swissair has excellent food. Cathay Pacific give you free drinks in economy. Pan Am are lousy timekeepers, though not as bad as Jugoslavian Airlines (its acronym JAT stands for “joke about time”). Qantas has the best safety record among the international airlines, and Colombia the worst—one flight in three never arrives at its destination (OK, a slight exaggeration). On every El Al flight there are three secret servicemen with guns concealed in their briefcases, trained to shoot hijackers on sight—when taking something from your inside pocket, do it slowly and smile. Did you hear about the Irishman who tried to hijack a plane to Dublin? It was already going there. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!