“Indeed it is,” Gavin says in my ear. I’d forgotten he was still on the line.
That’s what they call Oxford. A title well deserved. Because that means, before it was my dream or Seventeen magazine girl’s dream, it was someone else’s dream as well.
Chapter 2
Light, that never makes you wink;
Memory, that gives no pain;
Love, when, so, you’re loved again.
What’s the best thing in the world?
—Something out of it, I think.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “The Best Thing in the World,” 1862
I wish I could say that Oxford smells like parchment and cinnamon or something poetic, but right now it just smells like city: bus diesel, damp pavement, and the aroma of French roast wafting from the coffee shop across the street.
The sidewalks are narrow on High Street, edged by tall stone walls on one side and low, worn curbs on the other. The narrowness heightens their crowdedness. Students rushing, tourists lingering, the former annoyed by the latter. Those who speak English are almost as incomprehensible to me as those who don’t. My ear hasn’t yet adjusted to the accent and passing dialogue is entirely lost on me.
It’s just another day in Oxford, but to me it’s magical.
As the bus pulls away I gather my luggage and try to sidestep a large family bowed over a map, their voices agitated and overlapping. After a moment, the father’s head pops up and he lifts the map into the air, out of reach, his patience snapping. “Awright, awright, step off it now, wouldya? We’re goin’ this way!”
Before I can steer clear of the family, a flock of bicycles, a veritable swarm, goes flying past, grazing my luggage and whipping my hair in its wake. Their riders wear some kind of sporting attire (rugby, maybe?), smelling of boy-sweat and new-mown grass as they go by, hooting and hollering. Boys are boys in any country, apparently. The last rider snatches the map right out of the father’s hand, lifting it victoriously, crying out, “Et in Arcadia ego!”
Oxford: where even the jocks speak Latin.
THERE’S NOTHING I have to do for the Rhodes, per se. It’s not a degree or title in its own right. What I do—or don’t do—at Oxford is between my academic department and me. Also, between my college and me.
The college I’ll be affiliated with is Magdalen, which, for reasons unknown to me, is pronounced “maudlin.” Founded in 1458, it boasts a great hall, a deer park, an iconic bell tower, medieval cloisters, and approximately six hundred students. I did not request Magdalen because of some heavily considered academic reason; I requested Magdalen because it was Oscar Wilde’s college.
I approach the gate, carefully navigating the people streaming in and out, and lug my baggage into a portico. In front of me, straight out an open Gothic-style door, I glimpse a cobblestone courtyard with a charming three-story sand-colored dormered building in the distance. On the portico’s flagstones, sandwich boards announce the times of day the college is open to visitors and advertise a tour of the fifteenth-century kitchens. To my left are glass-enclosed bulletin boards with notices and reminders posted haphazardly: “Have you paid your battels?” “Get all your uni gear! New Student Discount at Summer Eights on Broad, show your Bod card.” “Fancy a nip before Hilary’s first OKB bop? 8, Friday noughth week, JCR.” Seeing the words in writing, I realize the accent isn’t the only obstacle. To my right, wood paneling and two arched glass windows cordon off a sort of office, like an Old West bank just asking to be held up.
I round the corner and spy, behind the glass, an older man in a red, pilled sweater, white collared shirt, and tie. He stands over an archaic copier the size of an SUV, his shoulders hunched in consternation, long neck and mostly bald head giving him the appearance of a Galápagos tortoise. He mutters something and kicks the bottom of the machine. It whirs like a propjet engine and slowly spits out sheets of green paper.
“Hi!” I chirp.
“Help you?” he asks, not looking up, paging methodically through another stack of papers, occasionally licking his finger.
“I’m . . .” I hesitate. “Checking in? I guess?”
“Student?” he asks.
“Yeah. Yes.”
“Fresher?”
I have no idea what he just said. “What?”
“Fresher?”
I don’t answer. I’m afraid to answer.
Finally he looks up, exasperated, and I realize he’s been counting the papers and, more, that I’ve interrupted him. “First year. Are you a first year?”
“I’m a graduate student. But I’m flattered, sir.”
He sighs. “American. Name?” He goes back to counting.
“Eleanor Durran. But, please, call me Ella.”
He does no such thing. He moves to a long wooden desk and hands me a piece of paper and a pen. I glance at it. It’s a contract that says I can’t burn down my room. I sign. He slides an envelope the size of a playing card across the counter to me, my initials written on the front. He walks around the long desk and comes out a side door, moving to a wall of small cubbyholes, similar to the kind in a kindergarten classroom. As he speaks, he bends one green paper into each hole.
“This is your pidge. Check it daily for post. You’re room thirteen, staircase four. That’s Swithuns staircase four, mind you. We don’t make a habit of housing graduate students inside walls, but there’s a shortage in graduate housing this year. Besides, I’ve found Americans rather enjoy being ‘behind the gates.’ Something to do with that boy wizard?”
“Harry Pott—”
“Meals are at your discretion. We have Formal Hall on Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday. Gowns must be worn. Nip into a shop on Turl for one. Boiler won’t come on till October fifteenth, no heat till then, so don’t ask for it. You’ll find two keys in the envelope; the electronic card will get you in the gates and any of the public rooms after hours, the other is a proper key for your room. It is irreplaceable. Don’t lose it.”
I understand maybe half of what he’s said. “Thanks. What’s your name?” I ask.
His turtle neck recedes. “Hugh,” he grunts, turning back to the pidges.
“I’m Ella.”
“We’ve established that, Miss Durran.”
“Well,” I say, grabbing the handle of my suitcase, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Hugh.”
“Of all the gin joints, Miss Durran,” he mutters. But I can see the hint of a smile. I mean, it’s reluctant and has a rusty, unused quality about it, like an old bicycle pump, but it’s there. “You’ll be finding staircase four just outside the lodge—” I open my mouth to speak, but he forges on, “This is the lodge, and you will exit through that door there, cross St. John’s quad, turn left at Swithuns, and then you will pass, on your left, staircase one, and then you will pass, also on your left, staircase two, and if you persevere you shall invariably come to staircase four.” I try again, opening my mouth to speak, but he deftly continues: “At which point, your room will be on the left of the uppermost landing, at the very top.”
The words “the very top” give me pause. I’m once again reminded that I haven’t eaten since I left the States.
“Hugh, would you mind if I left my bags here and got some food first?”