Page 89 of Babel

He knew these arguments well. He was parroting what Griffin had told him, truths he had come to internalize. Yet in the face of Professor Lovell’s stony silence, it all seemed so silly. His voice sounded frail and tinny, desperately unsure of itself.

‘And if you are indeed so disgusted by the ways Babel enriches itself,’ continued Professor Lovell, ‘how is it that you seemed delighted, always, to take its money?’

Robin flinched. ‘I didn’t – I didn’t ask—’ But this was incoherent upon utterance. He trailed off, cheeks burning.

‘You drink the champagne, Robin. You take your allowance. You live in your furnished room on Magpie Lane, you parade down the streets in your robes and tailored clothes, all paid for by the school, and yet you say all this money comes from blood. This does not bother you?’

And that was the heart of it all, wasn’t it? Robin had always been willing, in theory, to give up only some things for a revolution he halfway believed in. He was fine with resistance as long as it didn’t hurt him. And the contradiction was fine, as long as he didn’t think too hard about it, or look too closely. But spelled out like this, in such bleak terms, it seemed inarguable that far from being a revolutionary, Robin, in fact, had no convictions whatsoever.

Professor Lovell’s lip curled again. ‘Not so bothered by empire, now, are you?’

‘It’s not just,’ Robin repeated. ‘It’s not fair—’

‘Fair,’ mimicked Professor Lovell. ‘Suppose you invented the spinning wheel. Are you suddenly obligated to share your profits with everyone who still spins by hand?’

‘But that’s not the same—’

‘And are we obligated to distribute silver bars all around the world to backward countries who have had every opportunity to construct their own centres of translation? It takes no great investment to study foreign languages. Why must it be Britain’s problem if other nations fail to take advantage of what they have?’

Robin opened his mouth to reply, but could think of nothing to say. Why was it so difficult to find the words? There was something wrong with this argument, but once again, he could not figure out what. Free trade, open borders, equal access to the same knowledge – it all sounded so fine in theory. But if the playing field really was so even, why had all the profits accumulated in Britain? Were the British really so much more clever and industrious? Had they simply played the game, fair and square, and won?

‘Who recruited you?’ Professor Lovell inquired. ‘They must not have done a very good job.’

Robin did not respond.

‘Was it Griffin Harley?’

Robin flinched, and that was confession enough.

‘Of course. Griffin.’ Professor Lovell spat the name like a curse. He watched Robin for a long moment, scrutinizing his face as if he could find the ghost of his elder son in the younger. Then he asked, in a strangely soft tone, ‘Do you know what happened to Eveline Brooke?’

‘No,’ Robin said, even as he thought yes; he did know, not the particulars of the story but its general outline. He had nearly put it all together by now, though he’d held off sliding in the final piece, because he did not want to know, and did not want it to be true.

‘She was brilliant,’ said Professor Lovell. ‘The best student we’ve ever had. The pride and joy of the university. Did you know it was Griffin who murdered her?’

Robin recoiled. ‘No, that’s not—’

‘He never told you? I’m surprised, to be honest. I would have expected him to gloat.’ Professor Lovell’s eyes were very dark. ‘Then let me enlighten you. Five years ago, Evie – poor, innocent Evie – was working on the eighth floor after midnight. She’d kept her lamp on, but she hadn’t realized the rest of the lights were off. That’s how Evie was. When she was caught up in her work, she lost track of what was going on around her. Nothing existed for her but the research.

‘Griffin Harley entered the tower at about two in the morning. He didn’t see Evie – she was working in the back corner behind the workstations. He thought he was alone. And Griffin proceeded to do what Griffin does best – pilfer and steal, root through precious manuscripts to smuggle them to God knows where. He was nearly at the door when he realized Evie had seen him.’

Professor Lovell fell silent. Robin was confused by this pause, until he saw, to his astonishment, that his eyes were red and wet at the corners. Professor Lovell, who’d never shown the slightest ounce of feeling in all the years Robin had known him, was crying.

‘She never did anything.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘She didn’t raise the alarm. She didn’t scream. She never had the chance. Eveline Brooke was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Griffin was so afraid she might turn him in that he killed her anyway. I found her the next morning.’

He reached out and tapped the worn silver bar lying at the corner of his desk. Robin had seen it many times before, but Professor Lovell had always kept it turned away, half-hidden behind a picture frame, and he’d never been bold enough to ask. Professor Lovell flipped it over. ‘Do you know what this match-pair does?’

Robin glanced down. The front side read ?. His gut twisted. He was too afraid to look at the back.

‘Bào,’ said Professor Lovell. ‘The radical for fire. And beside it, the radical for violence, cruelty, and turbulence; the same radical which on its own can mean untamed, savage brutality; the same radical used in the words for thunder and cruelty.* And he translated it against burst, the tamest English translation possible, so tame that it hardly translates as such at all – so that all of that force, that destruction, was trapped in the silver. It exploded against her chest. Sprang her ribs apart like an open birdcage. And then he left her there, lying among the shelves, books still in hand. When I saw her, her blood had pooled across half the floor. Stained every page red.’ He slid the bar across the table. ‘Hold it.’

Robin flinched. ‘Sir?’

‘Pick it up,’ snapped Professor Lovell. ‘Feel the weight of it.’

Robin reached out and closed his fingers around the bar. It was terribly cold to the touch, colder than any other silver he’d encountered, and inordinately heavy. Yes, he could believe that this bar had murdered someone. It seemed to hum with trapped, furious potential, a lit grenade, waiting to go off.

He knew it was pointless to ask, but he had to regardless. ‘How do you know it was Griffin?’