Page 41 of Babel

‘Well, we can’t expend energy researching any frivolous application,’ Professor Lovell scoffed.

Robin tried a different line of argument. ‘It’s just that – well, it only seems fair there ought to be some kind of exchange.’ He was regretting now that he’d drunk so much. He felt loose, vulnerable. Too passionate for what should have been an intellectual discussion. ‘We take their languages, their ways of seeing and describing the world. We ought to give them something in return.’

‘But language,’ said Professor Lovell, ‘is not like a commercial good, like tea or silks, to be bought and paid for. Language is an infinite resource. And if we learn it, if we use it – who are we stealing from?’

There was some logic in this, but the conclusion still made Robin uncomfortable. Surely things were not so simple; surely this still masked some unfair coercion or exploitation. But he could not formulate an objection, could not figure out where the fault in the argument lay.

‘The Qing Emperor has one of the largest silver reserves in the world,’ said Professor Lovell. ‘He has plenty of scholars. He even has linguists who understand English. So why doesn’t he fill his court with silver bars? Why is it that the Chinese, rich as their language is, have no grammars of their own?’

‘It could be they don’t have the resources to get started,’ said Robin.

‘Then why should we just hand them to them?’

‘But that’s not the point – the point is that they need it, so why doesn’t Babel send scholars abroad on exchange programmes? Why don’t we teach them how it’s done?’

‘Could be that all nations hoard their most precious resources.’

‘Or that you’re hoarding knowledge that should be freely shared,’ said Robin. ‘Because if language is free, if knowledge is free, then why are all the Grammaticas under lock and key in the tower? Why don’t we ever host foreign scholars, or send scholars to help open translation centres elsewhere in the world?’

‘Because as the Royal Institute of Translation, we serve the interests of the Crown.’

‘That seems fundamentally unjust.’

‘Is that what you believe?’ A cold edge crept into Professor Lovell’s voice. ‘Robin Swift, do you think what we do here is fundamentally unjust?’

‘I only want to know,’ said Robin, ‘why silver could not save my mother.’

There was a brief silence.

‘Well, I’m sorry about your mother.’ Professor Lovell picked up his knife and began cutting into his steak. He seemed flustered, discomfited. ‘But the Asiatic Cholera was a product of Canton’s poor public hygiene, not the unequal distribution of bars. And anyhow, there’s no silver match-pair that can bring back the dead—’

‘What excuse is that?’ Robin set down his glass. He was properly drunk now, and that made him combative. ‘You had the bars – they’re easy to make, you told me so yourself – so why—’

‘For God’s sake,’ snapped Professor Lovell. ‘She was only just a woman.’

The doorbell rang. Robin flinched; his fork clattered against his plate and fell to the floor. He scooped it up, deeply embarrassed. Mrs Piper’s voice carried down the hall. ‘Oh, what a surprise! They’re having dinner now, I’ll bring you in—’ and then a blond, handsome, and elegantly dressed gentleman strode into the dining room, bearing a stack of books in his hand.

‘Sterling!’ Professor Lovell set down his knife and stood to greet the stranger. ‘I thought you were coming in late.’

‘Finished up in London earlier than expected—’ Sterling’s eyes caught Robin’s, and the whole of him went rigid. ‘Oh, hello.’

‘Hello,’ Robin said, flustered and shy. This was the famous Sterling Jones, he realized. William Jones’s nephew, the star of the faculty. ‘It’s – nice to meet you.’

Sterling said nothing, only perused him for a long moment. His mouth twisted oddly, though Robin could not read the attendant expression. ‘My goodness.’

Professor Lovell cleared his throat. ‘Sterling.’

Sterling’s eyes lingered on Robin’s face for another moment, and then he looked away.

‘Welcome, anyhow.’ He said this like an afterthought; he had already turned his back on Robin, and the words sounded forced and awkward. He set the books on the table. ‘You were right, Dick, it’s precisely the Ricci dictionaries that are the key. We’ve been missing what happens when we go through Portuguese. That, I can help with. Now I think if we daisy-chain the characters I’ve marked here, and here—’

Professor Lovell was flipping through the pages. ‘This is waterlogged. I hope you didn’t pay him in full—’

‘I paid nothing, Dick, do you think me a fool?’

‘Well, after Macau—’

They fell into a heated discussion. Robin was entirely forgotten.