The Third Translation by Matt Bondurant

Author:Matt Bondurant
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781401382865
Publisher: Hachette Books

We took the King’s Parade across to the college backs, the backsides of the old colleges where they butted against the Cam River. It was the best way to navigate the colleges, Penelope said. I hadn’t been out of London since I arrived in England for this job, and I had almost forgotten that it was fall, the season of the brilliant lament of dying foliage. The college backs were exquisitely manicured, with freshly clipped grass and bordering box hedges. Even the buildings, the austere, monstrous hulks of stone and brick—Saint John’s, Trinity, Clare, King’s, and Queen’s Colleges—even the ivy on the buildings was trimmed into clean lines and squared corners. The fine, pale gravel of the paths that snaked across the back lawns down to the narrow green ribbon of the Cam were smoothly raked and lined with freshly weeded flower beds that bore the stumps of autumn. As school was still in session, the backs were lightly populated with small groups of people walking about the lawns, standing in clusters, or couples leaning into one another, gazing into the waters of the river. It was a deeply reminiscent experience, reminding me of my days at Princeton when all the present world was the ordered spaces of a college campus, the weedless, sorrowless days of intellectual youth and vitality.

We crossed the backs until we came to Union Street, where an arched stone bridge carried foot traffic into the heart of Cambridge. The streets were half filled with an evening crowd of meandering tourists and students earnestly toting backpacks along the cobblestones, hurrying along home in the remaining hours of daylight. The wind swept awkwardly along the narrow streets, and a light rain began to fall into our faces as we turned up Downing Street, off Saint Andrew’s, on our way to Queen’s Lane, the gate to Queen’s College.

A bored guard stood in a small phone-booth-size box by the gate, but Penelope grabbed my hand and whisked us through without a glance. The inner yard of Queen’s College was nearly empty, clean-swept paths of pale gravel circling the squared yard of brick and ivy. We circumvented the central lobby and headed directly for a wing of the building, then tramped up a dim, dusty, and narrow stairway. What would I say to her? Would she even remember me? Penelope was reading out the door numbers as we climbed the stairs and came to an abrupt halt before a door on the third landing.

Here we go.

She stood aside with a flourish and a slight bow, gesturing to the door. Music was throbbing faintly from behind the door, something bouncy and jangly.

I cleared my throat and shuffled a bit.

Know what you’re doing?

I think so, I said.

I’ll just stand here then.

Penelope stepped dramatically to the side and clasped her hands behind her back. She was enjoying this. I had a flicker of suspicion: Where exactly were we? Who was behind that door? I had let this woman lead me here without really ever questioning why she was helping me or anything.

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