Ever since they had realized they were in this town for the same reason, Berenice and Andreas had agreed they must arrange meetings together with each of the twins, much longer and better targeted ones than their single encounters. Paul should come first, since he was the one that Andreas hoped would write the twins’ joint biography. Since visiting Paul’s factory, Andreas had kept minimally in touch with him, through emails and sometimes a note left at his boarding house. It was through such a note that Paul was invited to have dinner with Andreas and Berenice; Paul was asked to choose the date and restaurant.
On an evening in early October the three of them met at the bistro Paul had picked — Barr’s Grill, “the best meat in town,” Paul announced. “At the moment I’m recovering from an overdose of surf and surf.” “And they surely carry McEwan’s Export,” Andreas added. Paul smiled pleasantly.
Pleasant smile or not, Andreas knew that he must stick to the approach that he and Berenice had agreed on: Andreas would make no reference to his plan of enrolling Paul as an author until the three of them had shared a meal and enough time together to establish at least a decor of familiarity. Berenice made sure that Paul’s plate was kept full; Andreas monitored the refills of his favorite Scottish ale. Both of them were professionally experienced in spinning agreeable conversation with strangers whose cooperation they needed — Andreas having to soothe an author’s impatience with publication delays, Beatrice connecting to a child with Down syndrome.
They kept the focus of the conversation on Paul. Since he had already talked shop with him, Andreas took the lead in inquiring about his work; but Beatrice had her moment, too. She asked Paul for news of “Mehmed and Ahmet, or is it Mehmet and Ahmed, I know I’m hopeless with Arab names.” Paul: “You had it right the first time. They’re both fine — they like our ways. They don’t even mind that there’s no mosque.” He was happy to talk about his business. He volunteered an account of his education, too, since it was so important in preparing him for his career.
“I was lucky. From the age of six to seventeen I boarded (there were family problems) at a school called Newell Academy, a really good place. It was there I completed my primary and secondary classes. They taught a broadly traditional curriculum in mathematics, literature, and world history (including cultural history) — it wasn’t quite classical — I had small Latin and no Greek — but it was mind-expanding all the same. Better than that: since many of the school’s pupils came from poor families, it made sure that if any subject had practical extensions, they too would be taught. The history of architecture was complemented by courses in carpentry, masonry, basic engineering. Our study of the industrial revolution included mechanics and the first principles of running a business.
“The idea was that any graduate of the school would be able to find himself a decent job without too much sweat. In big cities, where good plumbers and carpenters were rare, a diploma as a pipe fitter or a cabinet maker ensured a starting wage. Smart prison inmates knew this; so did the directors of Newell Academy. Manual workers also relished being freed at least from the tyranny of respectable clothing (jacket, shirt, and tie) — a man in overalls with a hammer looped to his hip could enter a gentleman’s club without raising an eyebrow.
“I’d guess a good third of my class could write computer code by the time they left. Not me — I went for construction and business savvy. I had additional luck in catching the attention of a teacher called Ned Linnen, an architect by trade. He thought I had promise. He made sure I was on top of all my subjects (meaning any hint of slacking brought him down on me hard) and he helped me along whenever he could. He told me one day, ‘You’ll probably have to earn your living by selling something, and to succeed at that you have to master a few basic constants with invariable rules, whether you’re selling encyclopedias or sardines: inventory, logistics, marketing, things like that — when you can manage these, you’ve got a chance.’
“I was accepted by three good universities when I graduated, but I wasn’t interested. I wanted to test myself in the commercial world. After twelve years and a bit, I can say I’ve done OK. I started off as a bricklayer. It’s a tough trade, and I was very good at it, working mainly on big municipal projects, learning all I could about how buildings actually get built.
“Ned Linnen sent me to see a well-known architect who took me under his wing, and I went on learning. It was with him that I got interested in textiles, which he used in clever new ways. So when I’d saved enough money to start my own business, which was essentially the same one that I set up here, it was manufacturing and selling textiles for architectural use. Most of my big jobs are commissioned abroad. Two months ago I was able to buy up a couple of hundred bales of Thai silk on the cheap, lots of different colors. I cut them up and reassembled them in abstract designs of my own and sold them to a retail bank in Ljubljana to line the walls of their reception areas. I do all right locally, too — I’ve woven curtains and carpets in a soothing shade of mauve for the waiting room of our clinic. And I’ve made a killing with my first venture into fashion.”
“Fashion?” Berenice asked. “I wish I’d known. There were a few fiendishly hot summer days when I dreamt of gauze djellabahs.” “No, nothing that elaborate. But you see the couple sitting
