road.'
She didn't seem to understand 'no' and, with resignation, he folded his tall frame into the cramped passenger seat. She was sorry she couldn't adjust the seat, but the Mini doubled as a filing cabinet and there wasn't enough room. Jonathan's knees were almost touching his chin and he smiled rather sourly. The only thing he was grateful for was that none of his students could see him. Slumming it wasn't Dr. Hughes's style at all. George chattered like a little bird back to the pub, parked in a courtyard at the back, then solicitously helped him unfurl in order to march him upstairs to the private room where he was forced to accept the landlord's apologies.
It didn't go as well as she'd hoped. Roy Trent wasn't the type to eat humble pie, and Jonathan, who struggled with his own racism in a way that whites would never understand, was immediately reoffended to be called black. Despite his dark skin, he never thought of himself as black, only as an Arab. His irritation increased as George urged him forward, butting against his back with a large plastic carrier bag that she'd retrieved from the back of her car.
*4*
Inside, the two men eyed each other like a couple of silverback gorillas preparing to fight over a ripe female. Roy Trent, at a disadvantage because he was on his knees trying to bring the fire to life, or because he genuinely cared for the fat little gnome behind Jonathan, capitulated first. 'Listen, mate, I'm sorry,' he said, shoveling coal into the grate. 'I saw this big black geezer gripping old Jim's hand and giving him the evil eye, and I thought, shit, he's dressed up like a dog's dinner and he's talking like Laurence bloody Olivier. I mean, it's not normal, is it? We all know Jim's a miserable old sod, but we tend to switch off and let him get on with it. It's George's fault really. All she told me was that an author was coming-some fellow who'd written about poor old Howard-so I was expecting a puny little critter in an anorak. I mean, Howard's hardly front-page news, is he?' He flicked Jonathan an assessing gaze. 'The real trouble is, you don't have a foreign name. I mean, Jonathan Hughes-what could be more English than that? Now, if you'd been called Mohammed or Ali, there wouldn't have been a problem.' He stood up, wiping his coal-blackened hands on his trousers. 'Apology accepted?' he asked, proffering his right.
Jonathan, well aware that he'd been purposely maligned, grasped the hand firmly in his and bore down heavily on the man's metacarpal bones. 'As long as you accept mine.'
There was a flicker of irritation in Roy's eyes but he answered pleasantly enough. 'OK. What do you want to apologize for?'
'Making wrong-headed judgments about whites,' said Jonathan. 'It's a bad habit of mine. You all look the same to me.'
'Go on, I can take it. What's the punchline?'
'Germans are well educated, the French are well dressed, the Irish have talent and Americans are polite.' He shrugged. 'As the British are none of these things, I invariably make mistakes in my dealings with them.' He removed his raincoat and hung it on a hook beside the door before smoothing his jacket and hoping the shiny patches on the elbows wouldn't be noticed. 'I apologize for the suit. I wore it as a courtesy to the person I was meeting-' he felt George stir uncomfortably behind him-'but I should have realized how inappropriate it would be. Of course, if your pub had been called the Pig and Wallow, there wouldn't have been a problem-I'd have had an idea what to expect-but the Crown and Feathers suggested a classier establishment.'
There was a long pause while Roy thoughtfully massaged his fist. 'Just for the record, so you don't get it wrong another time, you can't tell a pub by its name, mate. The Pig and Wallow could be the best inn you'll ever come across.'
Jonathan smiled slightly. 'Thank you for enlightening me,' he murmured. 'Being black and foreign does make the vagaries of English naming traditions very difficult to understand.'
Roy jutted his chin aggressively. 'You left out our good qualities. We don't take life as seriously as the Germans ... we don't bellyache like the French ... we don't emigrate at the drop of a hat like the Irish ... and we don't worship money like the Americans.' He tugged his old jumper over his beer gut. 'I'll concede the bad dressing, though. So what nationality are you?'
'As British as you, Mr. Trent.'
'Except I'm English.'
The room was a small one with a table laid for two and a couple of leather armchairs on either side of the fire. Jonathan motioned to one of the chairs, inviting George to sit down. 'May I take your coat?'
She clamped her arms over her chest. 'No, I'm fine.'
He wondered what she was wearing underneath.
'Please.'
He crossed one elegant leg over the other and put on his spectacles. 'If you're asking what my racial roots are, Mr. Trent, then my father's family is Iranian and my mother's family is north African. I have an English name courtesy of my paternal great-grandfather, who was called Robert Hughes, and the reason I'm British is because I was born here and hold a U.K. passport. I attended a London comprehensive school, won a place at Oxford and am now a research fellow in European anthropology at the University of London. I speak English, French and Farsi fluently and can get by in German and Spanish.' He steepled his hands under his chin. 'So what are your racial roots? I'd say there's a lot of Welsh in you.'
'None at all,' said the burly man suspiciously. 'My parents are both Dorset folk.'
'Interesting. Yet your Celtic genes are so strong.'
'How do you make that out?'
