The Anglophile (17 page)

I
rest my eyes after devouring several chapters of my British guidebook. A little boy of around three is circling his tower of Legos on the Terminal Seven floor. “Come with me to the potty, Brian,” a nearby mother says firmly. “Mommy knows the pee-pee dance when she sees it.”

I wish Kit caught that hilarious coinage.
Pee-pee dance.
I laugh to myself as I crunch my pickle slice, about the only thing edible in my turkey sandwich bought at the terminal. I was doing that very dance until Kit and I finally got through the security line. Who would be desperate enough to go through that snaking nightmare again? A smoker like Kit, apparently.

It's the first day of my thyroid treatment. I pop open the childproof bottle and shake a pill into my hand. I examine the little
L
on it, remembering that Dr. Zuck
erman told me I'd probably be taking a generic version of Synthroid, and drop it into my mouth.

“Shari?” I hear as the drug washes down into my stomach.

The voice is distinctly American. I crane my neck around. It must be high season for retirees—the only youthful man I see in my near vicinity is a probable bridegroom sleeping in his tux, withered red rose boutonniere still attached.

“Over here!”

I catch the eye of a man around my age. He has soft blues framed by dark brown hair, and a very appealing square jawline. There's something familiar about his good looks.

“Owen,” this unknown man says, his handsome face now beet-red. “You probably don't remember me. Owen Zuckerman.”

But I do. That crippling blush. For a split second I see his childhood features morph into his adult face. “Owen! I was just recently talking about you with—”

“My father. So I heard! How great that we run into each other like this. I was going to call you anyhow.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Me? I have research work overseas. Hey, you like pickles? I have one saved from my sandwich.”

“Hand it my way. I'm a pickle fiend.”

He drops a green strip on the open wrap that holds my sandwich. Still bright red he says, “You're in good company. Cleopatra was also a big pickle fan.”

I laugh. “Did you read that somewhere?”

“I sort of just know that.” His color is inching back
to normal now. “I'm a historian so I sort of know a lot of things.”

“Your Dad said you were doing that.”

Owen nods. “So you know I'm not lying.”

“Hey, I never said you were.”

“And I hear you're a linguist. Esperanto, is it?”

“Volapük. It's a—”

“Predecessor to Esperanto.”

I nod my own head in amazement. “You may be the only layperson to have ever filled in the blank.”

“I told you, I sort of know a lot of things.”

“So where are you off to via plane? To Alexandria to unearth some pickles?”

He smiles. I know he thinks I'm holding my own. Only since grad school have I been able to reference back and forth without feeling ashamed that I have a half-decent brain. My friend from back-in-the-day is as academic to the bone as I. And he's Jewish with white teeth. Since I know from his dad that he's single, I suppose if I'm really a good friend I should immediately send him over to Cathy. “No, I'm writing a book on the secrets of the British and American collaboration in World War II. I'm going to be at the British Museum for a few weeks.”

“That's great! Congratulations on the book. Your father told me a little about it. I heard Oxford is publishing it?”

“Yes,” he states proudly. “But Random House is talking to my agent for a book directed at a more general audience.”

I smart a little, remembering my Big Publishing
House plan I forged in Starbucks. “That's incredible,” I manage.

“And you?” Owen picks up. “What are you doing at the airport?”

“I'm a tourist, plain and simple. I'm trying to pick good places to see in England.”

“I know a fair bit about the place—what's the budget?”

“Well, I do have a place to stay in London. The friend I'm staying with is outside the terminal with a cigarette.”

“She better hurry up.”

“He,” I correct.

I'm flattered by the slight look of disappointment on Owen's face at my reveal. “It's good to have a place to stay, because hotels in London are so expensive. Where to then?”

“My friend and I are duking it out.”

“I lived there for three years. I did a postgrad degree at Cambridge.”

“So I heard. You know, so did my friend I'm traveling with. I know it's a big place, but you might know him, you never know—he did his undergrad years there, and I think some postgraduate work. What do you call the postgrad degree in England?”

He smiles knowingly at the question. “In Cambridge, you just say
read.
”

“I actually know that, but how do you tell if they are talking about a master's or Ph.D.?”

“You tell by their age. It's tacky to ask. It's wearying at first, but once you get in the mindset, you cringe when you hear Americans ask such details.”

“Did you cringe when I asked?”

“Shari. You don't mind me telling you these things do you?”

“No,” I say half-truthfully. “So how about my friend. We never discussed—”

“You're right. I probably never crossed with him. You know how it is. There
are
a hell of a lot of students there.” He goes on: “So what degree did you end up with after school? Oh and where did you go? Someone from the neighborhood thought you went to Yale—”

Who did I ever confess the Yale application to? Could he have talked to my guidance counselor? “Nothing so posh as Yale or Cambridge. I went to SUNY-Binghamton, and NYU for the master's, and that's where I'm doing my dissertation.”

“Don't say the
D
word ever again. Glad I'm through—”

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen traveling on British Airways flight 1702. We are now boarding our first-class passengers. First-class only, please.”

Only a few people respond, including a woman in a mink leading a well-dressed toddler toward the gate. I spot Kit and motion for him to hurry up. Enough with the slow British perambulation the actors from Monty Python so hilariously mocked. We're in New York, and they've announced boarding.

Kit picks up his carry-on briefcase holding his terminal seat for him and sits down.

“You got through!” I say.

“I feel a thousand times better.”

“We're about to board, so you're lucky. Hey, I want you to meet an old childhood friend of mine. This is—”

When I turn back to Owen his lips are twitching ever so slightly.

By the look on Kit's face, he is about equally disturbed.

“This is Kit,” I say. What is this about?

Owen speaks first. “We do know each other. You should have said your friend went to Trinity College, Shari. I wouldn't have brushed off your question.”

“Yes, we do know each other rather well,” Kit says harshly.

“Passengers for British Airways flight 1702. We are now boarding business class.”

There's more of a rustle this time.

“That's us,” Kit says.

“It is?” I say. “We're business class?”

“It's a surprise. That's why I wouldn't let you see the tickets. I said it's my treat.”

“Well, I'm lowly economy,” Owen says finally. “I guess I'll talk to you after we land.”

Kit is remote as we clamber on board and enter our plush business-class cabin.

“This is amazing!” I say. “Kit, this is far too nice a gift for someone—”

“Sleeper seats, too,” he interrupts, patting the armrest.

His demeanor continues to confuse me even after he chirpily assures the female flight attendant that all is well. He stares at the laminated emergency directions, miles away in thought.

After a gang-up of planes, it is our turn to taxi down the runway.

“Was he a good friend of yours?” Kit says as we lift off, a clear view of Queens below us.

I haven't been on too many flights in my life—six including the trip back and forth from Chicago—the off-we-go moment is still very hard for me to talk normally through. “Sort of.” Was anyone really Owen's friend? He was so, so shy.

Kit swallows air for a second as we continue upward at a forty-five degree angle. When we level off to horizontal he says, steadily, “He was a bit of a problem in Trinity, if you must know. A bit of a fragmented personality.”

Owen Zuckerman, a troublemaker? Does a person change that much? I look at him blankly. “Did you have any problems with him?”

“Why, did he say anything to you?”

“No, it's just the weird glance you gave each other.”

“We just didn't like each other.”

“Is that really it?”

I wait.

“I can't abide him. Leave it at that.”

“Why?”

No answer.

I tug at his shirt. “Seriously, Kit, why?”

He stares ahead as he answers. “Threatened by my background is my guess. He was pulling pints to supplement his income, and I never had to do that. First of all we don't have that kind of tuition you have, and then, well, as I guess you know, my family has money.”

Kit is so close-lipped about most of his personal details that I don't know much about his history yet, except that he lost his virginity around eighteen and that his family has country property. Maybe he is a bored lord looking for more in life than beagling for partridge and
grouse. I imagine when we visit his home I'll get the full picture. But meanwhile, Owen pulling pints? Jealous of money? Nothing he's saying squares with the facts. I think of Owen's gilded youth in that huge mansion in Queens. How many New York City families have an English Tudor to begin with?

I feel vaguely sick. What's unfolding has all the earmarks of deception, and I'm worried that it's Kit's. Owen's never had a reputation as either a rabblerouser or a fibber.

He raises his head again. “Come. Let's get on with the trip.”

He tries to kiss me but I just look up at him. “You look troubled,” Kit says.

“I am, a bit. Did you ever read
The Talented Mr. Ripley?
”

“I saw the movie. What, you think I'm going to drive you off someplace steep like the White Cliffs of Dover?”

I flinch, and he adds, “That was a joke. What is this about?”

“No, I'm just worried that I am traveling around a new country with someone I don't know well.”

Kit curls his lip in disgust. “Considering that I have just met every member of your family, who seemed to get on with me rather well I might add, I'm going to choose to ignore your silly comment. Your friend and I just hated each other's guts, that's all.”

“He was a very shy guy in school,” I say, quietly and tautly. “That just doesn't sound like Owen.” My head's in a considerable tailspin. Is what I perceived as British reserve in fact a well-oiled slipperiness?

Even though I haven't seen Owen in fifteen years, I trust him. He's from
back in the day
. I've met his family.

“Maybe he was shy as a kid. Let it lie. You've just been watching too many wonky psychodramas.”

A
majestic royal blue sky jeweled by a bright red sun greets our plane as we touch down for our early-morning landing.

Even the captain's weather forecast for the day is perfect, a crisp spring day with no rain.

Unaware of my brewing distrust, Kit leans over to peck me on the cheek. “Welcome to England. No lips until I brush my teeth.”

One dream I had about him last night was so horrific that I feel guilty when I smile back: Kit was chasing me through Heathrow, brandishing a fork (sure, it sounds ridiculous now), only for me to find out at the ticket counter that my pocket was full of useless wet credit cards. I also keep to myself that after Kit dozed with my dog-eared copy of Martin Amis's
Money
in his lap, I fixed his sleeper seat for him, and then mine, and I lay
prone, riddled with fear until I finally fell asleep. I wonder if Owen is peeved that I didn't go back to look for him. Surely he must have realized that I was in an awkward situation.

We're off the plane well before Owen's rear-end economy row. We need to collect our bags for customs. Kit lifts his expensive gray Samsonite suitcase, and my $29.95 bright blue duffel bag from Kmart, and places them on the British version of a Smartecarte.

My foreign citizenship slows us down. Kit fidgets a few feet ahead of me until I've cleared customs with my newly minted passport. Even though there's some Chicago hot sauce in his suitcase, Kit thinks the nothing-to-declare line should do the trick for both of us.

The guard looks at our paperwork, and waves us on.

Once through, Kit has a guilty look on his face. “If you roll the cart down to the entrance to the tube, and wait, I'll be there in a flash.”

“No taxi?”

“The best way to get in to London is by tube. There's a stop right here.”

“Of course I'll wait, but what's the rush?” Like I don't know.

“If I don't get a smoke I may kill. Wait just outside the door to the tube walk. I'll try and meet up with you as quickly as I can.”

“Go ahead. I'll figure it out.”

Kit breaks into a grateful trot.

As I'm getting my bearings in the tumult of a foreign crowd I hear someone call out, “Shari! Wait up!”

Owen.

“Hey, hi,” I say when he's next to me. “I was hoping I'd see you again.”

“Where's Kit?”

“Cigarette. He wants me to meet him by the tube sign.”

“Walk with me, I'll show you where that is. That's how I'm getting in, too.” Owen looks like he's going to ask something else, but he doesn't. “Good flight for you up in business class?”

I force a smile. It's a good thing Kit's not seeing Owen and me talk again. Could the two of these overeducated gentlemen possibly get into a fistfight in the airport? “Yeah. No turbulence. Food was great.”

“Oh, we had plenty turbulence in economy.”

“You did?” I say, and then laugh at my stupidity a second later.

“Did you have the chicken or fish?”

“Actually we had filet mignon,” I say sheepishly.

“Oh,
man.
We certainly didn't get that choice.”

“At the end of the day it's just a plane ride. You're here. And I'm here.”

“I'm not too jealous. I got the rear bulkhead, so I had room to stretch even if there were some awful scents from time to time.”

I force my lips up at the wisecrack. What would Owen say if I shook him and said, pleadingly, “Why should I suddenly be afraid of this lovely, well-mannered man? Why should my skin now go all goosey at his touch?”

Instead Owen and I catch up on innocuous Queens gossip; what stores have closed and which kids we went to school with have married. My old classmate has not
kept up with
anyone,
which is even more pathetic than my sole contact with perpetually unemployed Danielle Spivak, a single woman who I run into every now and then because she lives across the street from my mother's building.

“I'm guessing we're the most successful people from that class,” Owen says.

“Depends how you define successful. Who knows how happy anyone is?”

“Oh, come on, Shari, we were the ones with a future. Be as modest as you like, but it's true. Maybe they're happy, but what the hell could they be doing with their lives when half of them refused to go to college?”

Was Kit right? Was Owen much more competitive than I remember? I'm certainly not going to remind him of his running head start fuelled by family wealth. And has he forgotten the trio of science whizzes in our graduating class, two immigrants from Russia and one from China, all finalists in the national Westinghouse Search?

“What
is
Kit writing these days?” Owen not-so-subtly fishes.

Kit writes? “Papers, I'm assuming. He's a linguist, like me.”

Something about my answer bothers him. “A linguist? Are you sure?”

“I'm very sure.”

“Is he affiliated with a university? Is he a professor?”

I grin. “Now that we're in England, isn't that a little tacky to ask?”

“I'm doing independent research,” Kit answers from behind me. “That's all you need to know, Owen.”

“You're back,” I say.

The tension is palpable but Owen is anything but shy now. “Where are you living these days, Kit?”

“Westbourne Terrace.”

“North Side? South Side?”

“South. Near Hyde Park.”

“Nice area.”

Kit's facial expression screams,
Scram!
“Yes.”

Owen coughs to save face. “Well, I'll be spending the week in the British Museum reading room. You can look me up, Shari—that is if you want an alternative tour guide.”

Kit's eyes are peeled on the revolving belt as he says, “Take care, Owen.”

“He's going on the tube, too,” I say.

“I need to use the restroom. You two go ahead.”

“See ya,” I say appreciatively.

 

The walk from Paddington Station to Kit's place, a third-floor one-bedroom flat in a tall white stucco-fronted building, is short. The flat is somewhere in the middle of the street surrounded by many residences that look exactly alike.

After a cup of loose and strong green tea in what Kit calls the reception room, his demeanor brightens. Has he put the morning's encounter behind him? “Green tea is good for the brain. Gets you going.”

“You're looking alert.”

“I'm thinking we should sneak a morning activity in to reset our clocks.”

“I'm up for that—I read that you're supposed to go
directly out in the morning light even if you're sleepy.” I really hope I'm sounding normal here.

“Good. Are you sleepy?'

“A bit—” A lot.

“You didn't sleep well on the sleeper seat?”

“I'm just excited to be finally here.”

Kit smiles. “So, then, what do you want day one's activity to be?”

I don't know why I am still so unnerved by his peculiar reminiscences about Owen, but I am. Could I even back out of this arrangement now? Kit and I left this trip so open-ended—even my ticket home has an open return date. What could my excuse ever be? My stomach feels queasy. How could I have misjudged this person so much?

“Changing of the guard, and London Bridge,” I manage.

“That can be day two,” Kit says as he sits on an impressive Victorian couch with mahogany legs and plush red cushions that he earlier admitted was an authentic antique. “I'm going to hold you to your rule. There are certain sites you'll have to see on your own, like the Yeoman Warders—”

“Do I know what that is?”

“That's the Changing of the Guard tour—I thought you breathed this stuff.”

“Missed that term.”

“Well, anyhow, you can easily get there by tube when you want to go.”

As he unpacks his black leather suitcase, Kit finishes the leftover half of a bacon and onion muffin he bought
at Heathrow. I discreetly discarded mine in the airport women's room. My first overseas lesson: the savory muffin. Just like their film and book endings, the British like their pastries salty and not sweet. My American tongue was not happy.

“By the way, we'll have to go shopping if we stay in London for a few days. All I have to offer are month-old frozen chops. I eat out a lot these days.”

“Do you shop in Sainsbury's?”

“I do,” he says, a touch of confusion in his brow.

“It's the supermarket in a lot of British sitcoms.”

He laughs like he did back in my apartment. “Please think about what you want to do while I shower.”

I scout around Kit's flat as I sip my tea. Since he couldn't have expected to bring back a New Yorker from his conference jaunt, I have to assume the place is always this neat. He has a trio of inoffensive decorative objects set out on a coffee table—a deep blue glass bowl, a green-and-white complete glass chess set, a vintage tin clown toy on wee stilts—but other than the amazing couch and the strong scent of some manly brand of soap I noticed while peeing in his spotless bathroom, this home seems devoid of any real sense of hearth and familiarity. It's unnerving. Even in his decorating, he gives nothing away.

There is some very pricey video-editing equipment on a desk. I know from the many NYU film students I cross paths with that the G5 Mac that's part of the package is the most expensive option on the market. His silver mouse lays on a three-inch-long Persian carpet, the only nod to Kit's dry sense of humor.

I panic when I spot a room decor detail I definitely didn't see before: a display case of monarch butterflies stuck to the surface with thin pins. Thinking about it more, I shudder slightly. Weren't pinned butterflies in the serial killer's house in
Silence of the Lambs?

Get yourself together!
I chide myself as I catch myself tracing S.O.S. with my finger on my lap.

When Kit emerges from the shower he sports a white Turkish robe.

“Any more thoughts on where to go?” I say with skimpy enthusiasm. “I'm going to let you be lead attorney.”

“Yes, I've been thinking of something that I could enjoy, but you would love, too.”

“So what tourist activity will least offend you?”

He hesitates a second before he speaks. “I'm appreciative that you have accepted that a trip to the teapot museum is not top priority. If we're fixing our jet lag, I thought a drive out to Greenwich might be nice.”

“As in Greenwich time?”

“Yes. It's nice there by the old observatory, and you can see the telescope Halley used to find the comet.”

“That's sounds pretty good—”

“Or we can plan a lovely walk down Abbey Road for my favorite Beatles freak.”

The thought of touching the gates of the most famous recording studio in the world thrills me and instantly quells my paranoia. “Abbey Road!” I breathe air out loudly.

“There we go. There's my girl. Welcome back.”

“What do you mean welcome back?”

“You've been so—off.”

I smile big. The Beatles' stomping grounds! “I'm really in bloody London, aren't I?”

“You really bloody are.” His own big smile warms me up all over again, and I say, in a sudden swerve to receptive, “I want to do it all, make the most of things while I'm here.”

“Don't exhaust yourself. We're not strangers who just met on a train. I'm assuming we can do more another time—”

“Well we did just meet three weeks ago on a tour…”

Kit raises an eyebrow. “That was then. Aren't we an item now?”

“Of course we are,” I say as reassuringly as possible.

“Let's flip a coin then for today's agenda. Heads, Greenwich. Tails, John and Paul. So what will it be?”

“Let me see that coin first. Whose head?” All of my money is still American—Kit had plenty of pounds and was insistent that the foreign exchange stations rip you off at the airport.

“Are you kidding? You know that without even looking. Who do you think?”

I curtsy to the twenty-pence piece and flip it over. On the other side of the queen is a crown nesting on some sort of roselike plant.

“Heads or tails?”

“Tails.”

He slams the silver coin on his knee. “The Beatles then. There's a man I've heard about that might interest you—”

“Yeah?”

“I think he's called the Beatle Brain of Britain, and he takes you around to the important London Beatles sites. Touristy, but he's supposed to be good.”

I grab my red Danish bookbag and unroll the
Time Out London
Kit bought me in the terminal. I read the two Beatle Brain tours out loud, then call the number listed to find out more information.

After the last of Kit's socks and jocks are in his drawer, we're headed out for a quickie breakfast and the Tuesday option, the guided walk the magazine dubs
The Magical Mystery Tour.

“You want a flannel?” Kit asks.

“I thought we weren't sleeping yet. Jet lag cure, remember?”

“Not pajamas, silly. For your shower—”

“Oh, you're talking about a washcloth?”

“Yes, a
wa-a-a-shcloth,
” he repeats in a long nasal tone that's really not fair to me at all. I couldn't be deceiving myself that much about my lack of Queens accent.

The buzzer rings and when Kit goes to answer it there is a quite elderly woman at the door.

“I saw you coming in, Kit.”

How could she see anything? Her eyes are clouded with age, and I'm betting she's half-blind.

“Hullo, Mary, this is my friend Shari.”

“Oh, this the girl you called about, the one you extended your stay for?”

Kit blushes a little. I'm not sure he wanted me to hear that. “Yes,” he says, and turns to me. “Shari, Mary is my amazing neighbor, and friend.”