The Call-Girls by Arthur Koestler

Author:Arthur Koestler
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2012-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

6

Random events weave their own patterns. Late in the evening, Professor Burch and Dr Horace Wyndham happened to be the only remaining guests in the cocktail room. Hansie and Mitzie had gone to bed, but there was a comforting array of bottles on the shelves, left at the free disposal of the call-girls. It was a tradition which enlivened some, though not all symposia, designed to facilitate interdisciplinary interrelationships.

Wyndham cautiously approached the bar – he seemed to walk on tiptoe – and helped himself to a sizeable Scotch with water. Burch, sitting at the bar, was apparently immersed in correcting his galley-proofs, with a half-finished high-ball at his elbow. Wyndham noticed that some of its contents had spilled onto the printed sheets, and that Burch’s eyes behind the rimless glasses stared even more fish-like than usual. ‘Best moment of the day,’ Wyndham said with a sociable giggle.

Burch seemed to become belatedly aware of the other man’s presence. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I mean,’ Wyndham beamed, taking a gulp of his Scotch, ‘what we euphemistically call a night-cap. I am afraid I am an incorrigible after-dinner drinker.’

Burch considered the matter. ‘I prefer for relaxation an occasional sip of Bourbon,’ he pronounced. ‘They don’t have it here.’ He picked up his glass and, after a moment’s reflection, emptied it as if it were water. A few more yellow drops appeared on the galleys.

Wyndham climbed onto the bar-stool and became appreciably taller; he had a well-built torso, only his legs were short. ‘I hope I am not interrupting your meditations,’ he said. Since he was nearer to the bottle, he filled up the glass which Burch absent-mindedly held out. Burch put some icecubes into it, but ignored the soda-bottle.

‘“Meditation” is not part of my vocabulary,’ he said.

‘Call it contemplation,’ proposed Wyndham.

Burch shook his head, using more than the necessary amount of energy. ‘Nix,’ he said. ‘Soft-nosed terminology. We call it internalized verbal behaviour, or subliminal vocalization, if you prefer it.’

‘I know,’ said Wyndham. ‘But we do not always think in articulate words.’

‘Nix,’ said Burch. ‘What you call thinking are inaudible vibrations of the vocal chords.’ He swirled the Scotch round the ice-cubes, and drank it apparently without parting his lips. The liquid vanished between them as if by osmosis. Wyndham tried to visualize Burch in the act of love, and quickly took a gulp.

‘Children,’ Burch unexpectedly blurted out. ‘Kids. You a pediatrician?’

‘Sort of. Infants are more in my line. Tots.’

‘Tots become kids. Kids grow up … It’s only natural,’ Burch added reflectively, as if to reassure himself.

‘Do you have children?’

Burch nodded, again too energetically, and stared into his glass. Wyndham guessed what was coming.

‘Two,’ said Burch.

‘Well, did you try your educational engineering on them?’ Wyndham tittered. ‘To “predict and control” their behaviour?’

‘Sure.’ Burch nodded again and finished his glass. Wyndham officiated with the bottle for both of them. ‘Sure,’ Burch repeated. ‘You a pediatrician. Maybe you have an explanation. Boy, Hector junior, twenty-one. Did brilliantly at Harvard Law School. Year ago started on hashish.

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