The Paradise War Read Free Page B

father, Geoffrey Rawnson, of Blackledge, Rawnson, and Symes Ltd., no doubt had something to do with it. But who was I to complain? Top of the staircase and furnished with a goodly share of the college’s priceless antiques—no less than three Italian Renaissance masterpieces, carved oak paneling, Tiffany tables, a crystal chandelier, two Chippendale desks, and a red leather davenport. Nor did the regal appointments end there; we had a meticulous scout, good meals in the dining hall fortified with liberal doses of passable plonk from the college cellarer’s legendary cellars, modest use of student assistants, library privileges undergrads would kill for—all that and a splendid view across the quad to the cathedral spire. Where would I get a situation like that on my own?
    Simon wanted us to continue on together as before, so he arranged for me to share his rooms. I think he saw it as three or four more years of bachelor bliss. Easy for him. Money was no object. He could well afford to dither and dally till doomsday, but I had my hands full just keeping up with the fees. It was imperative that I finish, get my degree, and land a teaching position as quickly as possible. I dearly loved Oxford, but I had student loans to repay and a family back in the States who had begun wondering loudly and often if they were ever going to see me again.
    Also, I was rapidly reaching an age where marriage—or at least concubinage—appealed. I was tired of my prolonged celibacy, tired of wending my weary way along life’s cold corridors alone. I longed for the civilizing influence of a woman in my crude existence, as well as a graceful female form in my bed.
    This is why I resented taking this absurd trip with Simon. I was neck-deep in my thesis: The Influence of Goidelic Cosmography in Medieval Travel Literature . Lately, I had begun to sense fresh wind on my face and the faint glimmer of light ahead. Confidence was feebly sprouting. I was coming to the end at last. Maybe.
    It is likely Simon realized this and, perhaps unconsciously, set out to sabotage me. He simply didn’t want our good times to end. If I completed my degree ahead of him, he would have to face the cruel world alone—a prospect he sought to hold off as long as humanly possible. So he contrived all sorts of ingenious stratagems for sidetracking me.
    This asinine aurochs business was just another delaying tactic. Why did I go along with it? Why did I allow him to do this to me?
    The truth? Maybe I didn’t really want to finish, either. Deep down, I was afraid—of failure, of facing the great unknown beyond the ivory towers of academia. After all, if I didn’t finish, I wouldn’t fail; if I didn’t finish, I could just live in my snug little womb forever. It’s sick, I know. But it’s the truth, and a far more common malady among academics than most people realize. The university system is founded on it, after all.
    “Move yer bloomin’ arse!” muttered Simon at the driver of a dangerously overloaded mini. “Get over, you great pillock.” He had been muttering for the last fifty miles or so. A six-mile traffic jam around Manchester had put us well and truly behind schedule, and the motorway traffic was beginning to get to him. I glanced at the clock on the dash: three forty-seven. Digital clocks are symptomatic of our ambivalent age; they provide the precise time to the nanosecond, but no greater context: an infinite succession of “You Are Here” arrows, but nary a map.
    “It’s almost four o’clock,” I pointed out. “Why not take a break and get some tea? There’s a service area coming up.”
    He nodded. “Yeah, sure. I could do with a pee.”
    A few minutes later, Simon worked his way over to the exit lane and we were coasting into an M6 oasis. The parking lot was jammed; everyone had rolled up for tea. And many of them were having it inside their cars. I have always wondered about this peculiar habit. Why would these people spend hour upon hour