David Lodge - Small World Read Online Free PDF Page A

are never many zees.” Persse looked. “It says here that you’re a non-resident.”
    “Ah, yeah, Philip Swallow said something about staying with him. How’s it going, the Conference?”
    “I can’t really say. I’ve never been to a conference before, so I’ve no standards of comparison.”
    “Is that right?” Morris Zapp regarded him with curiosity. “A conference virgin, huh? Where is everybody, by the way?”
    “They’re at a lecture.”
    “Which you cut? Well, you’ve learned the first rule of conferences, kid. Never go to lectures. Unless you’re giving one yourself, of course. Or I’m giving one,” he added reflectively. “I wouldn’t want to discourage you from hearing my paper this afternoon. I went over it last night in the plane, while the movie was showing, and I was pretty pleased with it. The movie was OK, too. What size of audience am I likely to get?”
    “Well, there are fifty-seven people at the conference, altogether,” Persse said.
    Professor Zapp nearly swallowed his cigar. “Fifty-seven? You must be joking. No? You’re not joking? You mean I’ve travelled six thousand miles to talk to fifty-seven people?”
    “Of course, not everybody goes to every lecture,” said Persse. “As you can see.”
    “Listen, do you know how many attend the American equivalent of this conference? Ten thousand. There were ten thousand people at the MLA in New York last December.”
    “I don’t think we have that many lecturers over here,” said Persse apologetically.
    “There must be more than fifty-seven,” growled Morris Zapp. ‘Where are they? I’ll tell you where. Most of them are holed up at home, decorating their living-rooms or weeding their gardens, and the few with two original ideas to rub together are off somewhere at conferences in warmer, more attractive places than this.” He looked round the lobby of Lucas Hall, at its cracked and dusty floor tiles, its walls of grimy untreated concrete, with disfavour. “Is there anywhere you can get a drink in this place?”
    “The bar will be opening soon in Martineau Hall,” said Persse. “Lead me to it.”
    “Have you really flown all the way from America for this conference, Professor Zapp?” Persse enquired, as they picked their way through the slush.
    “Not exactly. I was coming to Europe anyway—I’m on sabbatical this quarter. Philip Swallow heard I was coming over and asked me to take in his conference. So, to oblige an old friend, I said I would.”
    The bar in Martineau Hall was empty except for the barman, who watched their approach through a kind of chrome-plated portcullis that stretched from counter to ceiling.
    “Is this to keep you in, or us out?” quipped Morris Zapp, tapping the metal. “What’s yours, Percy? Guinness? A pint of Guinness, barman, and a large scotch on the rocks.”
    “We’re not open yet,” said the man. “Not till twelve-thirty.”
    “And have something yourself.”
    “Yes, sir, thank you sir,” said the barman, cranking the portcullis with alacrity. “I wouldn’t say no to a pint of bitter.”
    While he was drawing the draught Guinness, the other conferees, released from the second lecture of the morning, began to straggle in, Philip Swallow in the van. He strode up to Morris Zapp and wrung his hand.
    “Morris! It’s marvellous to see you after—how many years?”
    “Ten, Philip, ten years, though I hate to admit it. But you’re looking good. The beard is terrific. Was your hair always that colour?”
    Philip Swallow blushed. “I think it was starting to go grey in ‘69. How did you get here in the end?”
    “That’ll be one pound fifty, sir,” said the barman.
    “By taxi,” said Morris Zapp. “Which reminds me: you owe me fifty pounds for the cab fare. Hey, what’s the matter, Philip? You’ve gone white.”
    “And the Conference has just gone into the red,” said Rupert Sutcliffe, with doleful satisfaction. “Hello, Zapp, I don’t suppose you remember