brother Ismail, his sister-in-law Ceylan, and their three young sons. “I hear them on the street when they think I do not understand—I know very well what they say, how bitter and spiteful they still are about the war, how many of them would wish us all drowned in the Strait of Marmora, if they did not more and more need our money. But there are some, like Mr. Angelos . . .” He sighed, his smile more than half mocking his own words. “I don’t know—what should I say? Old man . . . I am sure that is more significant than being invited to tea.”
“I am ready to believe anything of the English,” Ismail said flatly. “They are a mad people, and completely untrustworthy. If they were otherwise, there would not have been a war. It may be old man to your face, but it will be nigger behind your back. I would put no stock in their words, not ever.”
“Perhaps not.” Mr. Emanetoglu sighed again. “Perhaps.”
But he said nothing of what he had almost felt, almost sensed, in Angelos’s rooms, partly because he could find no words in Turkish or English to describe his impression; partly because he knew that his brother regarded him—quite kindly—as a well-intentioned blunderer at the best of times. All the same, hurrying to one or another of Ismail’s properties, he often found himself going out of his way to pass the tall old house in Russell Square, often lingering in the street for no purpose that he could have explained either to Ismail or to Angelos—or, for that matter, to the helmeted policemen who came along more than once to stare and sniff and harry him elsewhere.
He did talk about it, a little, to his youngest nephew, Ekrem, who was five years old, because he talked to Ekrem a good deal, as he had done almost since the boy’s birth. Being a practical child for his age, Ekrem asked him, “Why don’t you ask the hodja ?,” meaning the venerable healer who lived two streets over from the Emanetoglus’ home. The hodja always kept sweets for children in the pouches at his waist, and Ekrem had great faith in him.
“What could I ask him?” Mr. Emanetoglu demanded. “What could I tell him? That I think something is wrong in that house, when I don’t even know whether that really is what I think? The hodja would laugh at me, as he should.”
“Well, he would give you candy, anyway,” Ekrem insisted stubbornly. “The hodja is nice.”
Angelos was becoming increasingly withdrawn, seeing less and less of his housemates, who, by and large, appeared plainly relieved to have a polite excuse to avoid him. Griffith, of all people, occasionally came seeking him at Christ’s, stepping as haughtily as a cat between hurrying lecturers, prankish students, and charity patients moaning in their own filth, waiting to be seen. Inconvenienced and irritated, Angelos would nevertheless give him a brief account of his latest experiments, and Griffith would stalk away again, apparently unwilling to be seen by social equals asking for information. Griffith was a notably catlike person in a number of ways.
Dispensing early with the stethoscope, Angelos had managed to set granules of common charcoal between two metal plates to create what he called “a carbon button,” serving as an improvised amplifier when connected to his hand-cranked generator. The fragmented whispers, mumbles and cries came crowding in, the vast majority of them in languages that Angelos could barely distinguish from each other, let alone translate or even guess at. The rare English voices were hardly any easier to understand: very few came in university accents, but rather from all points and ancestors of the empire. On the occasions when he actually sought Angelos out in his rooms, Griffith himself sometimes became as intrigued by a recognizable Lancashire or Cornish inflection as though he were coming home at last to Balliol. To Angelos he commented, “D’you know, even the wog—old Glue Pot—even he’s starting to sound human
“I am ready to believe anything of the English,” Ismail said flatly. “They are a mad people, and completely untrustworthy. If they were otherwise, there would not have been a war. It may be old man to your face, but it will be nigger behind your back. I would put no stock in their words, not ever.”
“Perhaps not.” Mr. Emanetoglu sighed again. “Perhaps.”
But he said nothing of what he had almost felt, almost sensed, in Angelos’s rooms, partly because he could find no words in Turkish or English to describe his impression; partly because he knew that his brother regarded him—quite kindly—as a well-intentioned blunderer at the best of times. All the same, hurrying to one or another of Ismail’s properties, he often found himself going out of his way to pass the tall old house in Russell Square, often lingering in the street for no purpose that he could have explained either to Ismail or to Angelos—or, for that matter, to the helmeted policemen who came along more than once to stare and sniff and harry him elsewhere.
He did talk about it, a little, to his youngest nephew, Ekrem, who was five years old, because he talked to Ekrem a good deal, as he had done almost since the boy’s birth. Being a practical child for his age, Ekrem asked him, “Why don’t you ask the hodja ?,” meaning the venerable healer who lived two streets over from the Emanetoglus’ home. The hodja always kept sweets for children in the pouches at his waist, and Ekrem had great faith in him.
“What could I ask him?” Mr. Emanetoglu demanded. “What could I tell him? That I think something is wrong in that house, when I don’t even know whether that really is what I think? The hodja would laugh at me, as he should.”
“Well, he would give you candy, anyway,” Ekrem insisted stubbornly. “The hodja is nice.”
Angelos was becoming increasingly withdrawn, seeing less and less of his housemates, who, by and large, appeared plainly relieved to have a polite excuse to avoid him. Griffith, of all people, occasionally came seeking him at Christ’s, stepping as haughtily as a cat between hurrying lecturers, prankish students, and charity patients moaning in their own filth, waiting to be seen. Inconvenienced and irritated, Angelos would nevertheless give him a brief account of his latest experiments, and Griffith would stalk away again, apparently unwilling to be seen by social equals asking for information. Griffith was a notably catlike person in a number of ways.
Dispensing early with the stethoscope, Angelos had managed to set granules of common charcoal between two metal plates to create what he called “a carbon button,” serving as an improvised amplifier when connected to his hand-cranked generator. The fragmented whispers, mumbles and cries came crowding in, the vast majority of them in languages that Angelos could barely distinguish from each other, let alone translate or even guess at. The rare English voices were hardly any easier to understand: very few came in university accents, but rather from all points and ancestors of the empire. On the occasions when he actually sought Angelos out in his rooms, Griffith himself sometimes became as intrigued by a recognizable Lancashire or Cornish inflection as though he were coming home at last to Balliol. To Angelos he commented, “D’you know, even the wog—old Glue Pot—even he’s starting to sound human
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