The Norfolk Mystery. Ian Sansom

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СКАЧАТЬ facts, and about as significant or useful as a times table, or a knowledge of the workings of the internal combustion engine. I had of course absolutely no idea what Canada’s main imports and exports might be and took a wild guess at wood, fish and tobacco. These were not, as it turned out, the correct answers – ‘Precious metals?’ prompted my interviewer, as though a man without knowledge of such simple facts were no better than a savage – and the interview took a turn for the worse.

      ‘Could you give ten three-letter nouns naming food and drink?’

      ‘Rum, sir?’

      ‘Rum?’ My interviewer’s face went white, to match his moustache.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Anything else, Sefton – anything apart from distilled and fermented drink?’

      ‘Cod?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Eel?’

      ‘Satisfactory, if curious choices,’ my interviewer concluded. ‘You might more obviously have had egg or pea.’

      ‘Or pig, sir?’

      ‘A pig, I think you’ll agree, is an animal, Sefton. It is not a foodstuff until it has been butchered and made into joints. A pig is potential food, is it not?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Tell me, Sefton, are you able to adapt yourself quickly and easily to new sets of circumstances?’

      ‘I believe I am sir, yes.’

      ‘And could you give me an example?’

      I suggested that in my work as a schoolmaster I had encountered numerous occasions when I had been required to adapt to circumstances. I did not explain that one such occasion was when I had been found in a compromising situation with the headmaster’s wife. Fortunately, my interviewer did not ask for further elaboration and we returned promptly to questions of more import: the lives of the saints; folk customs; Latin tags; the classification of plants and animals. During the conversation he would glance concernedly at the egg-timer on his desk and thrum his fingers on the table, as though batting against time itself.

      ‘You seem to have a reasonably well-stocked mind, Sefton.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’

      ‘As one would expect. Languages?’

      ‘French, sir. Latin. Greek. German. Some Spanish.’

      ‘Yes. I see you were in Spain.’

      ‘I was, sir.’

      ‘A Byron on the barricades?’

      ‘I never considered myself as such, no, sir.’

      ‘No pasaran.’

      ‘That’s correct, sir.’

      ‘Unable to fight in Spain, I learned Spanish instead.’

      We spoke for a few minutes in Spanish, my interviewer remarking in a rudimentary way upon the weather and enquiring about the prices of rooms in hotels.

      ‘Your Spanish is certainly satisfactory, Sefton,’ he said. ‘Good. Do you have any questions about the position?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      My main question, naturally, was what the position was and what it might entail – I still had no clear idea. I cleared my throat and tried to formulate the question in as inoffensive a manner as possible. ‘I wondered, sir, exactly what it might … entail, working as your assistant?’

      My interviewer looked at me directly and unguardedly at this point, in a way that made me feel exceedingly uncomfortable. He had a way of looking at you that seemed violently frank, as though willing you to reveal yourself. And when he spoke he lowered his voice, as though confiding a secret.

      ‘Well, Sefton. I hope I can be honest with you?’

      ‘By all means, sir.’

      ‘Good.’ He carefully fingered his moustache before going on. The light of the lamps was reflected in his eyes. ‘I believe, Sefton, that there is a terrible darkness deepening all around us. We face not un mauvais quart d’heure, Sefton, but something more serious. Do you understand what I am saying?’

      ‘I think so, sir.’

      I was not at all sure in fact if the serious darkness he was referring to was the darkness I had encountered in Spain, and which haunted me in my dreams, or if it were some other, ineffable darkness of a kind with which I was not familiar.

      ‘I think perhaps you do see, Sefton.’ He stared hard at me, as though attempting to penetrate my thoughts, his voice gradually rising in volume and pitch. ‘Anyway. It is my intention to shed some light while I may.’

      ‘I see, sir.’

      ‘I hope that you do, Sefton. It has been my life’s work. What I see around me, Sefton, is the world as we know it rapidly disappearing: the food we eat; the work we do; the way we talk; the way we consort ourselves. Everything changing. All of it about to go, or gone already: the miller, the blacksmith, the wheelwright. Destroyed by the rhythms of our machine age.’ He paused again to stroke his moustache. ‘It has been my great privilege, Sefton, in my career to visit the great countries and cities of the world: Paris, Vienna, Rome. I intend my last great project to be about our own enchanted land.’

      ‘England, sir.’

      ‘Precisely. The British Isles, Sefton. These islands. The archipelago. Before they disappear completely.’

      ‘Very good, sir.’

      He fell silent, staring into the middle distance.

      I felt that my question about the job had not been answered entirely or clearly, and realised I might need to prompt him for a more direct answer. ‘And what exactly would the person appointed by you be required to do, sir, on your … project?’

      ‘Ah. Yes. What I need, Sefton, is someone to write up basic copy that I shall then jolly up and make good. The person appointed would also be required to make arrangements for travel and accommodation, and to assist me in all aspects of my researches on the project as I see fit.’

      ‘I see, sir.’

      ‘I shan’t give you a false impression of my daily rounds, Sefton. There is no glamour. It is tiresome work requiring long hours, endurance and determination.’

      ‘I understand, sir.’

      ‘And do you think you’re up to such a task?’

      ‘I believe so, sir.’

      ‘Are you married, Sefton?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Engaged to be СКАЧАТЬ