The Kingdoms

inside little cages. The air smelled of animals and damp, and hessian sacking. Discarded vegetables floated in the puddles.
Joe had memorised the route so that he wouldn’t have to keep stopping and looking at his map; that, said M. Saint-Marie, was asking to be mugged or worse. Town was to the right. It was about a mile, but M. Saint-Marie had forbidden him to take a Pont du Cam cab. There were all kinds of stories and they all ended up face down in the river.
Parts of the way were flooded. People had made ramshackle bridges with old crates. There were no street lights. Children with lamps skittered to and fro instead. A whole firefly swarm of them shone from the shell of what had once been a post office, where they must have had their headquarters. In ghost letters still visible on the brickwork, probably upwards of a hundred years old now, the facade said in English, Cambridge Sorting Office. Joe smiled at that. Pont du Cam; obviously it meant Cambridge, but he’d never translated it in his head.
The streets between the colleges were tiny. All the signposts were still in English, even though on the map the names of the colleges were the modern ones. The Sidgwicks – there were two – were professors at Napoleon College, and he’d assumed it wouldn’t be hard to find an entire college, but he got lost twice. It took him a while to work out that Napoleon College used to be Queen’s.
The address Mme Sidgwick had given him wasn’t only hard to find, but hard to get to. Their part of the college looked straight onto the river, the front door only a foot above the water. The invitation said to show it to the man who rented out punts on the millpond. When he did, the man saw him on to the far end of a river tour with five students polite enough to offer him some of their beer, and who laughed when the riverman stopped to let Joe climb out on to the broad step that served as a landing bay. He knocked, then waited with his back to the door.
On the opposite bank, the willow trees stirred and a pair of swans settled down near the roots. There must have been a lot of birds, because the grass was thin and full of down. Along from him, bay windows that came to Turkish points painted their own shapes in light on the water.
The door opened inward and a woman in a rich blue dress smiled.
‘You must be Monsieur Tournier,’ she said. ‘You’ve come at exactly the right time, the place is populated but not crowded. I’m Eleanor Sidgwick.’ She put her hand out and he didn’t understand why for a second, then did and shook it. ‘May I ask if you speak English?’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘Because we’re having something of a revivalist fad. Some of the linguistics men are getting quite tendentious about it.’
Joe frowned. ‘Are they sure the gendarmes won’t think you’re recruiting for the Saints?’
‘Yes, now you see, you and I are in exact agreement, but I can’t say that because then I’d seem ignorant and not in support of the Cause.’ She must have seen him tip back, because she touched his arm. ‘Not that kind of cause, I’m being facetious. Good heavens, is that bag all you’ve brought? I thought you said in your telegram you were going to Scotland after this?’
‘I am, but I didn’t want to carry too much on the train. Um – Mrs Sidgwick,’ he said, and it felt rude to say Mrs and not Madame. ‘Why am I here?’
‘Mainly for dinner. Come in, let’s find my husband. He wanted to meet you.’
‘I see,’ said Joe, wondering if he ever would, but then decided that if he didn’t find out it would be funnier when he told Alice.
The house was as interesting inside as it was out. A stone staircase coiled up into the dark, the banisters carved into little columns like a diagonal cloister. One was an oak tree, with brown glass beads for acorns. The contrast between that, which must have been an echo of how the whole university had once been, and the abject poverty outside was bizarre. Joe hadn’t known that places like this still existed.
‘You teach here?’ he asked, amazed.
She laughed. ‘Oh, God, no. All the old college buildings are hotels now, this one included. The teaching is done at the faculties – all very ordinary, I’m afraid. We’ve rented this place for the night.’ She led him through to the next room, a wide space where clusters of people in gowns and evening jackets were talking in the animated way of friends who didn’t often get the chance to see each other. In passing, he heard someone say, ‘And my ninth point …’
‘Oh, there’s Henry,’ she added, and rose on to her toes to wave.
The other Professor Sidgwick was a handsome man whose hand enveloped Joe’s when he shook it.
‘Mr Tournier, what a pleasure. Yours is a fascinating case, it really is.’
‘Is it,’ said Joe, feeling strange to be ‘mister’, and to hear so many well-dressed people speaking English. He had an urge to tell them to stop being so silly. You couldn’t do nice conversation in English. English was for yelling at omnibus drivers and getting drunk behind dodgy clubs.
The dinner bell rang.
‘I thought we said eight?’ Mrs Sidgwick said.
The butler ghosted up. ‘If Madame wishes to use College slaves for the occasion, Madame will have to put up with College time,’ he said, in what sounded to Joe like rather deliberate French, with the hint of an eyebrow at just what he thought about all the English. It was a relief to find a normal person in among everything else. Joe wanted to hurry away with him. ‘Suspect they’ve only the one setting on the old clockwork. But I shall usher guests through as they arrive.’
‘Usher,’ said Sidgwick.
‘Usher, my dear,’ the butler