nodded.
'Thank you, sir.'
Avedissian got up and smiled. 'Perhaps you are right and I am wrong,' he said.
'Yes, sir,’ said the barman without considering as he picked up the glass and wiped the table.
For Avedissian the days came and went. He was marking time in a meaningless void where the only regulation was that imposed by the liquor licensing laws. One Friday evening as he returned to the flat with his senses suitably numbed he was aware of two neighbours talking in the hallway as he entered the building. 'Disgusting,' said one. 'Absolutely,' said the other.
It was when he was climbing the stairs that he suddenly realised that they had been talking about him and the thought soaked him like icy water. Disgusting? Him? His mind cleared but his feet still displayed unsteadiness as he unlocked the door and made for the bathroom. He switched on the light and stared at the dishevelled spectre in the long mirror, dark circles under his eyes, three days' stubble on his chin, the stain on the front of his shirt. 'God Almighty,' he whispered as he saw himself clearly for the first time in a long while.
Avedissian leaned heavily on one tap while he turned on the other one and began sluicing cold water up into his face. The act of bending over the basin forced some gin-flavoured bile up into his throat where it burned and disgusted him. Angrily he rammed two fingers into the back of his mouth and vomited the contents of his stomach into the basin. The smell made him retch again.
He searched for a disposable razor in the cabinet above the basin and threw aside everything that got in his way until he found one and started to shave zealously. He ran the bath until it was three-quarters full and immersed himself two or three times before scrubbing his body all over until his skin hurt.
Almost exhausted by the effort, he lay back in the bath and felt anger and frustration leave him, but only to be replaced by an apathy that sucked him down slowly like quicksand. Fighting against it, he got up and dried himself vigorously. At least, it started out with vigorous towelling but quickly degenerated into slow patting as his arms grew sore and tired. He looked at himself in the mirror again and blanched. He was still six feet tall and his hair was still black but these seemed to be the only similarities to the man who had strode the corridors of St Jude's. The man in the mirror had a sunken chest and a ring of flab round his middle. His shoulders drooped and he needed a haircut. The tan from two holidays a year had been replaced in this version by pallid white. The eyes that had been piercing blue were distinctly lack-lustre with whites that were yellow and flecked with veins. Avedissian put out his tongue and put it away again. He would feel better after a drink.
The letter was sandwiched between the electricity bill and an exhortation to provide life insurance for his loved ones. It looked interesting; pristine white and postmarked Cambridge. The paper felt pleasingly expensive as Avedissian unfolded it and saw the embossed coat of arms of Trinity College, Cambridge. He read it with disbelief then re-read it. He was invited to attend for interview on Thursday next at ten o'clock in the morning with a view to employment 'in a professional capacity'. What the hell did that mean? he wondered. He had not applied for any job and he did not know anyone in Cambridge.
Avedissian looked for signs of mistaken identity but reminded himself of what his father had said: if anyone said 'Avedissian', they meant it. It wasn't a name you mixed up with Smith or Brown. He read on. Expenses would be paid on a scale according to 'Grade 3' and at a rate of?34.15 per night plus second-class travelling costs. Was this some kind of sick joke? Why the hell should he go to Cambridge on the strength of an unsolicited letter? Because he had nothing else to do, that was why.
Chesterton Road was dark but the night was warm and friendly, one of those English summer evenings that optimists like to call 'typical' but which in reality are beautiful exceptions. The scent of blossom filled the air as Avedissian climbed the steps to check in at his hotel.
The hotel was all right but only in the way that many hotels are all right, anonymous decor, anonymous guests. But what it did have in its favour was its location. It stood on the banks of the River Cam.
After a snack taken in the bar, Avedissian walked slowly along the towpath and listened to the sound of talk and laughter coming from the houseboats moored against the sluggish flow. He had to duck his head as he came to a bridge span that was in no hurry to rise, and heard his footsteps echo on the damp stone.
There was a smell of lichen from the underside of the arch. It awakened in him a long-forgotten memory from childhood, a memory of summer days spent fishing beneath weeping willows. There had been a stream running through his village and he and his friends had spent a great deal of time on its banks. The underside of the bridge by the village church had smelled like this one.
Across the water the patrons of a riverside pub had spilled out into the courtyard to laugh and drink beneath the stars. The symbolism of laughter and gaiety being on the other side of the river while he walked alone in darkness did not escape Avedissian but he felt embarrassed at having even considered it. He continued his walk, leaving the towpath and climbing some steps up to the road beside Magdalene College. It had been a long time since he had been in Cambridge. He decided to see if he could still remember where Trinity College was. He could.
Avedissian awoke to the sound of bicycle bells and had the feeling that the sun was itching to fill the room. He checked his watch and relaxed; there was plenty of time. He felt good because he had refrained from drinking on the previous evening and the walk by the river had ensured that he had slept well.
Analysing how he felt about the interview was a different matter and not easy. His overriding feeling was one of curiosity but there was an element of annoyance there too. He was dancing to someone else's tune and that rankled, for by turning up at all, without question, meant that he had conceded the first round.
As Avedissian bathed, in preference to struggling with an ill-fitting shower curtain and makeshift sprinkler that had obviously been added for the benefit of the American summer trade, he wondered what role he should play at the interview. He could not appear as the eager candidate when he did not even know what the appointment was and had not applied for it in the first place. On the other hand he would hardly be negotiating from a position of strength for he was almost on his uppers. He suddenly realised that this had a lot to do with his feeling of annoyance. It stemmed from the fact that his interviewers must know this.
Avedissian walked out into the morning sunshine and crossed the road to look at the river as he walked towards Trinity College. It was good to be able to walk somewhere with purpose again. He opened the tall iron gate and entered the college grounds, pausing to admire the rolling greenery that swept back from the river, before looking for the entrance that the letter had decreed. He paused again on one of the bridges and watched the water slide slowly underneath. A solitary punt was moored nearby.
The courtyard was quiet as he crossed it, looking up to see the minute hand on the clock tower move on to three minutes to the hour. As he entered the building a uniformed porter stepped forward to meet him and before he could say anything, the man said, 'Dr Avedissian? This way, sir.'
The slowness of the lift's ascent obliged Avedissian to say something. 'It's very quiet.'
‘The vacation, sir,' replied the porter, without taking his eyes off the floor indicator.
'Of course,' said Avedissian, ending the conversation.
The corridor smelt of dust, leather and floor polish. Avedissian liked it. It had the timelessness of a library.
'In here, sir,' said the porter, opening a door and flattening himself against it to allow Avedissian to pass.
Inside the room Avedissian was met by a smiling woman in her early thirties. She held out her hand and said, 'How nice to meet you, Doctor. I'm Sarah Milek, Sir Michael's assistant.' Avedissian found the smile reassuring and was pleased to hear a name at last, for his letter had been unsigned.
'Sir Michael who?' he asked.
'Just Sir Michael,' replied the woman. 'Follow me, please.'
Avedissian followed the woman into a pleasant, sun-filled room where four men sat waiting at a table. They had their backs to the window. He would be facing it.
'Dr Avedissian,' announced Sarah Milek before turning to leave.
A silver-haired man got to his feet and gestured to Avedissian that he should sit. 'How nice of you to come,' said the smooth, cultured voice.
Avedissian managed a smile but felt patronised.
'May I introduce Mr Bryant, Mr Stapleton, Mr Carlisle.'
Avedissian nodded to each of the three men in turn. Stapleton and Carlisle said 'Good morning' but Bryant looked through him.
