Thanks for the Memories. Cecelia Ahern

call me Justin, Doctor.’

      ‘Please call me Sarah.’ She holds out her hand.

      Very ‘Nice to meet you, Sarah.’

      ‘I just want to make sure we’ll see each other later?’

      ‘Later?’

      ‘Yes, later. As in … after your lecture,’ she smiles.

      Is she flirting? It’s been so long, how am I supposed to tell? Speak, Justin, speak.

      ‘Great. A date would be great.’

      She purses her lips to hide a smile. ‘OK, I’ll meet you at the main entrance at six and I’ll bring you across myself.’

      ‘Bring me across where?’

      ‘To where we’ve got the blood drive set up. It’s beside the rugby pitch but I’d prefer to bring you over myself.’

      ‘The blood drive …’ He’s immediately flooded with dread. ‘Ah, I don’t think that—’

      ‘And then we’ll go for a drink after?’

      ‘You know what? I’m just getting over the flu so I don’t think I’m eligible for donating.’ He parts his hands and shrugs.

      ‘Are you on antibiotics?’

      ‘No, but that’s a good idea, Sarah. Maybe I should be …’ He rubs his throat.

      ‘Oh, I think you’ll be OK,’ she grins.

      ‘No, you see, I’ve been around some pretty infectious diseases lately. Malaria, smallpox, the whole lot. I was in a very tropical area.’ He remembers the list of contraindications. ‘And my brother, Al? Yeah, he’s a leper.’ Lame, lame, lame.

      ‘Really.’ She lifts an eyebrow and though he fights it with all his will, he cracks a smile. ‘How long ago did you leave the States?’

      Think hard, this could be a trick question. ‘I moved to London three months ago,’ he finally answers truthfully.

      ‘Oh, lucky for you. If it was two months you wouldn’t be eligible.’

      ‘Now hold on, let me think …’ He scratches his chin and thinks hard, randomly mumbling months of the year aloud. ‘Maybe it was two months ago. If I work backwards from when I arrived …’ He trails off, while counting his fingers and staring off into the distance with a concentrated frown.

      ‘Are you afraid, Professor Hitchcock?’ she smiles.

      ‘Afraid? No!’ He throws his head back and guffaws. ‘But did I mention I have malaria?’ He sighs at her failure to take him seriously. ‘Well, I’m all out of ideas.’

      ‘I’ll see you at the entrance at six. Oh, and don’t forget to eat beforehand.’

      ‘Of course, because I’ll be ravenous before my date with a giant homicidal needle,’ he mumbles as he watches her leave.

      The students begin filing back into the room and he tries to hide the smile of pleasure on his face, mixed as it is. Finally the class is his.

      OK, my little twittering friends. It’s pay-back time.

      They’re not yet all seated when he begins.

      ‘Art,’ he announces to the lecture hall, and he hears the sounds of pencils and notepads being extracted from bags, loud zips and buckles, tin pencil cases rattling; all new for the first day. Squeaky-clean and untarnished. Shame the same can not be said for the students. ‘The products of human creativity.’ He doesn’t stall to allow them time to catch up. In fact, it is time to have a little fun. His speech speeds up.

      ‘The creation of beautiful or significant things.’ He paces as he speaks, still hearing zipping sounds and rattling.

      ‘Sir, could you say that again ple—’

      ‘No,’ he interrupts. ‘Engineering,’ he moves on, ‘the practical application of science to commerce or industry.’ Total silence now.

      ‘Creativity and practicality. The fruit of their merger is architecture.’

       Faster, Justin, faster!

      ‘Architecture-is-the-transformation-of-ideas-into-a-physical-reality. The-complex-and-carefully-designed-structure-of-something-especially-with-regard-to-a-specific-period. To-understand-architecture-we-must-examine-the-relationship-between-technology-science-and-society.’

      ‘Sir, can you—’

      ‘No.’ But he slows slightly. ‘We examine how architecture through the centuries has been shaped by society, how it continues to be shaped, but also how it, in turn, shapes society.’

      He pauses, looking around at the youthful faces staring up at him, their minds empty vessels waiting to be filled. So much to learn, so little time to do it in, such little passion within them to understand it truly. It is his job to give them passion. To share with them his experiences of travel, his knowledge of all the great masterpieces of centuries ago. He will transport them from the stuffy lecture theatre of the prestigious Dublin college to the rooms of the Louvre Museum, hear the echoes of their footsteps as he walks them through the Cathedral of St-Denis, to St-Germain-des-Prés and St-Pierre de Montmartre. They’ll know not only dates and statistics but the smell of Picasso’s paints, the feel of baroque marble, the sound of the bells of Notre-Dame Cathedral. They’ll experience it all, right here in this classroom. He will bring it all to them.

      They’re staring at you, Justin. Say something.

      He clears his throat. ‘This course will teach you how to analyse works of art and how to understand their historical significance. It will enable you to develop an awareness of the environment while also providing you with a deeper sensitivity to the culture and ideals of other nations. You will cover a broad range: history of painting, sculpture and architecture from Ancient Greece to modern times; early Irish art; the painters of the Italian Renaissance; the great Gothic cathedrals of Europe; the architectural splendours of the Georgian era and the artistic achievements of the twentieth century.’

      He allows a silence to fall.

      Are they filled with regret on hearing what lay ahead of them for the next four years of their lives? Or do their hearts beat wildly with excitement as his does, just thinking about all that is to come? Even after all these years, he still feels the same enthusiasm for the buildings, paintings and sculptures of the world. His exhilaration often leaves him breathless during lectures; he has to remember to slow down, not to tell them everything at once. Though he wants them to know everything, right now!

      He looks again at their faces and has an epiphany.

      You have them! They’re hanging on your every word, just waiting to hear more. You’ve done it, they’re in your grasp!

      Someone farts and the room explodes with laughter.

      He sighs, his bubble burst, and continues his talk in a bored tone. ‘My name is Justin Hitchcock and in my special guest lectures scattered throughout the course, you will study the introduction to European painting such as the Italian Renaissance and French Impressionism. This includes the critical analysis of paintings, the importance of iconography and the various technical methods used by artists from the Book of Kells to modern day. There’ll also be an introduction to European architecture. Greek temples to the present day, blah blah blah. Two volunteers to help me hand these out, please.’

      And so it was another year. He wasn’t at home in Chicago now; he had chased his ex-wife and daughter to live in London and was flying back and forth between there and Dublin for his guest lectures. A different country perhaps but another class of the same. First week and giddy. Another group displaying an immature lack of understanding of his passions; a deliberate turning of their backs on the possibility – no, not the possibility, the surety – of learning something wonderful