Extreme Magic Read Online Free PDF Page A

Listening with a pang of remembrance, Weil docketed the accent: not quite Oxford or B.B.C., but within the gates—of Knightsbridge say, Kensington, or St. John’s Wood. And could it be, yes, relaxing already into a certain Americanism? Looking, he saw what he used to think of as one of their blended faces, too browned and water-slapped for a man of intellect, too veiled for a man of sport.
    He approached him, and they exchanged amenities on the wind and the weather, and on how Pines was settling in; it didn’t occur to Weil that Pines might not have caught his name. Those around them, all students, melted back in deference to this faculty meeting. From a group across the room, Portia-Lou waved to Weil and called out an inquiry about Hertha. The young man included himself in her wave, and signaled back. “Hi!” he said.
    To Weil’s surprise, Mrs. Mabie’s nod seemed sullen. “You are quite comfortable at the Mabies’?” he asked.
    “Oh yes, rather. She’s been incredibly, well—very kind really. Yes!”
    “She seems a little—quiet,” said the professor.
    “Rather hard to take someone in, don’t you know. Privacy, and so on,” said Pines. “By the way, you pronounce it pri-vacy here, with the long ‘i’?”
    Weil nodded. “The great vowel change. Among others.”
    “Rather think I may have got her back up a bit, though. You see, I asked her to coach me in American. It was before I knew that she, er well, that she—”
    “That she was so very British?” said Weil.
    Mr. Pines began to laugh, then thought better of it. “You see—I hadn’t the faintest. You see—I offered to exchange.”
    Weil grinned. “Poor Portia-Lou. When I was in London, I always felt one had to be très bien élevé to be able to say ‘bloody.’”
    Mr. Pines smiled, eyes hooded. “There during the war?”
    “Yes.”
    There was a pause, during which Mr. Pines took a frail sip of punch, then set his cup decisively down.
    “You drink wine?” asked Weil.
    “When I can get it. But I was given to understand that one doesn’t do, here.”
    “They don’t,” said Weil. “But I do.” He smiled. “And if you play it right—I should think you could.” He saw a clear path to the door. Clapping on his beret, he shook hands in adieu. “We must have a bottle, some night. See you in the department.”
    When Mr. Pines returned to his quarters at ten in the evening, the Mabies were still up. He passed them with a greeting, and went up the stairs. Mrs. McFarland’s deafness had been rather exhausting; they had however established that his own father had once stayed at Dysart, not a stone’s throw from her own town of Kirkcaldy on the Firth of Forth, at a time when she might very well still have been there. Curious how people insistently sought out these little fraternities of time and space; at the thought he went back downstairs, carefully making a noise, and stuck his head around the living-room arch. “Sorry to barge in, but would you mind telling me the name of a chap I met this afternoon,” he said, looking at Dr. Mabie.
    “If it’s a student, they’re all so like,” said Mrs. Mabie.
    “Oh no, no, no—a don.” He thought the term might please her, but her regard remained cold. “Short, round sort of chap. Little Jew, with a beret.”
    “Why, that’s Hans, Hans Weil. He’s in your own department.”
    “Oh, that’s Weil, is it? Stupid of me. Thank you very much.” He turned to go.
    “He may happen to be a Jew,” said Mrs. Mabie, rising from her chair. “He’s also very distinguished. And a refugee. And our very good friend.”
    “Charming fellow, very,” said Mr. Pines. “Good night.”
    When he had gone back up the stairs, and she had listened for the sound of his door shutting, she turned back to Ernest. “I knew it. I knew there was something about that guy. All that going on about wonderful America—he’s what they call smarmy. Maybe what they call a spiv —or worse.”
    “N-now, now,” said