Mark,
Agreed re: missing each other in Philadelphia. Positively sinful. Thrilled, though, to hear that we’ll finally be meeting face-to-face on this side of the pond. Well done on convincing Paul to make the trek, and to spend the week “doing work” in London prior. Am unsure what said work will entail, though I’m sure I’ll manage to come up with something (wink). Must admit, though, a wedding in Dorset sounds ghastly. Nothing but sheep and assaulting accents, I fear. But duties must be done, pensions paid, etc. Suppose that’s love. Meantime, no more talk of hotels. You two shall stay here, in my flat on Bermondsey Street. It’s not large, so we must think of ways to get creative with space. Oh well. Shall send you to the rural banality of the Jurassic Coast with fond memories of the city (double wink).
More forthcoming.
Alcott
*
“Hey. Kid.” Mark shakes Paul’s shoulder, but he just mumbles something and repositions himself in his seat. Turns his head. Pushes his left cheek against the British Airways insignia on the headrest. Mark shakes him harder.
“Paul. We’re almost there.”
He jolts and rubs his eyes.
“Huh?”
“The captain just announced that we’ve started our initial descent.” Mark reaches into the seat-back pocket in front of him. He hands Paul a plastic-wrapped toothbrush and a small tube of Crest. “Go brush your teeth.”
Paul rubs his eyes again. He unbuckles his seat belt and stumbles toward the bathroom. Mark lifts the window shade halfway and morning light spills into their row. Five miles below them, the English countryside rearranges itself geometrically. Squares and hexagons and other angular shapes are stamped out like grassy emeralds. He sips his coffee and digs a fingernail into the Styrofoam cup. He doesn’t know why he told the flight attendant he wanted some. He rarely drinks the stuff. Boredom was the reason, he figures. Too much time vacillating between reading theoretical texts under a less-than-luminary light and watching Paul dream.
He’s not tired, even though he didn’t sleep. Not a single wink over the past six hours. But then, that’s not necessarily surprising—he never sleeps on red-eyes. There are too many observations that require his attention, too many minor phenomena to study. The ways in which his fellow passengers attract and repel one another. How they share each other’s space only to create individual burrows in their seats. Piles of blue felt blankets and paper-wrapped pillows. Avoidance turned into a communal effort. Although they typically live in colonies, the arctic lemmings are predominantly solitary animals. They breed and feed alone—facts that prove problematic, given their tendency toward rash and individualistic decision-making.
They land and clear customs and, once they’re in a cab and on the way to Alcott’s flat, Mark begins to wonder whether they should stop somewhere along the way so Paul can pull himself together a little bit more. He had him use the bathroom at Heathrow so he could wash his face and comb his hair, but dark circles still shadow his eyes, and his cheeks are red and creased, like he’s had his face pressed against a grill for the past eight hours. Mark leans over and kisses his cheek: he could use a shave. And a clean shirt.
Traffic on the M4 is light, and the cab makes good time. Mark crosses his legs and Paul leans his head against the window. On each side of them the sloped roofs of West London align themselves in imperfect rows. Brick chimneys belch smoke. A council flat, a dusty cathedral, an old television antenna obscure the city’s skyline.
Paul asks, “So what is it that you’re going to be doing again?”
The cab swerves around a Fiat. Mark clears his throat.
“Alcott’s running a clinic,” he says. “Looking at the way capuchin monkeys approach risk and group problem solving in captivity. He’s already gathered all the raw data. He just needs someone to help analyze it.” He adds, “He said he’d give me a coauthor credit when he publishes.”
“Where’d he observe them?”
“The monkeys?”
“Yeah.” Paul yawns.
They hit traffic—a small, contained pocket of it—and the cab pulls up next to the sort of miniature white van that Mark associates with European florists.
“The London Zoological Society,” he says.
“That’s it?”
“I think so.”
“Hardly seems accurate.”
Paul runs a hand through his hair, and it stands straight up on its ends. He looks young—a freshman the morning after his first college party. Mark weighs potential opportunities: this could be a good or a bad thing, depending on Alcott’s tastes.
He says, “Why’s that?”
“Who’s to say all monkeys are the same? Who’s to say French monkeys don’t do things differently than British ones?”
Paul tries to suppress a grin. He’s unsuccessful. The cab jolts over a pothole, and he smiles.
Mark pinches his thigh, and the smile erupts into a laugh.
The traffic begins to open up, and cars unpeel themselves from one another. The cabdriver tunes the radio to the news and cranks up the volume. Gear up for another hot day in London.
“What night are we having dinner with your mother and sister?”
“I don’t even want to think about it.” Paul sighs and puffs his cheeks. Mark catches the driver eyeing them in the rearview mirror.
“I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised.”
“I think the chances of that are very, very low.”
“But what night…”
Paul says, “Tuesday. Of next week. Donna gets in the night before. And then on Friday Alice has to go to that godawful bachelorette party.”
Mark reaches into his bag for a bottle of water.
“You’re not even a little bit upset that you weren’t invited?”
The blocks closer to the city’s center are fuller, cleaner, better cared for, shedding the anemic sparseness of the exurbs.
“Why would I ever be invited?” Paul says. “I’m not a bachelorette.”
“Of course you aren’t.” Mark laughs. “I just figured that, perhaps, she’d want to—”