Looking for the King. David C. Downing

above. He could have stopped to ask one of the clerks in Blackwells, Oxford’s most well-stocked bookstore, where to find studies of medieval literature. But he preferred to wander the maze on his own, making a passing acquaintance with Greek philosophers, Persian poets, and British military historians until he sensed he was somewhere in the right neighborhood. He spotted Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress on a high shelf, so he figured his own pilgrimage must be progressing satisfactorily. Knowing he had to travel back another four centuries or so, and then find the commentators, he eventually located the book he had been searching for, The Allegory of Love by C. S. Lewis. Though the book had only been published a few years earlier, it had already become required reading for graduate students in America.

      Tom reached out for the book, and almost bumped elbows with someone else trying to take a book off the same shelf. “Pardon me,” he said reflexively, turning to see a young woman with searching eyes and dark curly hair. “I didn’t see you there.” She offered a polite smile, revealing dimples that offset those serious eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t see you either,” she said, her accent revealing that she was another American. They both extended their arms again, but this time their hands touched. They were reaching for the same book. The young woman laughed a bit nervously. “I guess we’re after the same item,” she said.

      “I saw it first!” Tom said, only half-jokingly. He really wanted to have a look at this book.

      “I can tell already you’re an American,” the young woman said. “No manners. Haven’t you ever heard the principle, ‘Ladies first’?” Her tone was also light, but Tom was no great reader of women, and he wasn’t sure how serious she was being. He made a mock chivalric bow, and replied, “Ordinarily, that is my life’s creed. But I do have a special reason for wanting to look at this book right now. I’m meeting its author for lunch in half an hour.” Tom was afraid this sounded too much like boasting, but he wasn’t it making up. He really was going to meet the Magdalen don for lunch at the Turf Tavern at one o’clock. That’s why he wanted to peruse the book. For one thing, he was hoping to find out what “C. S.” stood for prior to meeting the man behind the initials.

      “Well, aren’t I impressed!” the young woman answered.

      “Any other books here by friends of yours?”

      “No, really!” Tom insisted. “When I was working on my master’s thesis, I wrote Professor Lewis about some of his references to Camelot. He wrote me back and invited me to meet him for lunch if I were ever in Oxford. So I called him up as soon as I arrived here last week, and arranged to meet him for lunch today at the Turf.” Tom realized he was explaining more than he needed to, recalling as well his tendency to babble when flustered.

      The young woman took the book off the shelf and handed it to Tom. Then she made a sweeping curtsey, every bit as courtly as Tom’s sweeping bow a moment before. “I yield to the greater claim,” she said. “I was merely seeking knowledge.”

      Tom really did want to review the book before heading over to the Turf, but he wasn’t exactly in a hurry to end this conversation. “I don’t claim to be an expert,” he said. “But if you have a particular question, maybe there is something I could help you with.”

      At this, the young lady turned slightly pink and she interlaced her fingers. “It’s actually something personal. Just something I’m trying to figure out.”

      “That’s all right, I understand,” answered Tom, even though he didn’t. She was looking for personal answers in a book on medieval allegory? The silence hung heavy in the air between them, so Tom continued. “Thanks for allowing me to peruse the book. I’m not going to carry it off. You can have it back in a few minutes.” She looked up and nodded, and he decided to forge ahead. “By the way, my name’s Tom. Tom McCord. From California.” He reached out his hand, and she shook it, exactly one shake. She had soft fingers.

      “Laura,” she said. “Laura Hartman. From Pennsylvania.” They both smiled, and Tom added limply, “Pleased to meet you.”

      “Listen,” said Laura, “if you are going to do some lastminute cramming before meeting the author, you’d better get to it.” She tapped on the book for emphasis and turned to go. As she stepped away, she called over her shoulder, with a hint of mischief in her voice, “You should probably know: your pen pal has written an allegory of his own, not to mention a science fiction novel.” Tom raised his hand, as if wanting to ask a question in class, but she kept on walking till she turned a corner and went out of sight.

      Tom looked down at the book in his hands. He still wanted to give it a quick review, but what he looked at just now was the exact spot where she had tapped its cover. He glanced back at the vacant aisle, then turned to the book and began reviewing its pages. After a few minutes, he checked his watch, put the book back in its place, and headed toward the entrance of the bookstore. Near the front, he stopped at the clerk’s desk, but the bespectacled young man sitting on a stool there seemed entirely absorbed in his copy of The Future of an Illusion.

      Tom stood at the counter for as long as his patience would allow and then said, “Excuse me.”

      “Just one moment,” answered the clerk without glancing up from the page. Finally, he turned a page, dog-eared its corner, and looked up. “Yes, what is it?” he asked brusquely, as if he’d just been interrupted in the middle of a meal.

      “I’m wondering what books by C. S. Lewis you have in stock,” said Tom.

      “I’d have to go check,” answered the young man.

      “Could you please?”

      “The young man sighed, put down his book, and turned to look at a small card catalog.

      “From Feathers to Iron,” he intoned. “A Time to Dance and other Poems.”

      “What about The Allegory of Love?” asked Tom.

      “Allegory of Love?” said the young man quizzically. That’s by that other Lewis, the Christian, not the Communist.”

      “Yes, C. S. Lewis,” explained Tom, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

      “I thought you said, ‘C. Day Lewis,’” explained the young man curtly. “I haven’t quite developed an ear for the American drawl.” He flipped back a few cards and then found what he was looking for. “Yes, here it is. C. S. Lewis. Allegory of Love. Literary criticism. That’s near the back on the left, aisle seven, I believe.”

      “Yes, it is,” said Tom. “I was just back there looking at it. I wanted to know about other titles by C. S. Lewis.”

      The young man gave a little shrug, as if to say there was no pleasing certain customers. Then he read off several more titles. “Dymer. A narrative poem. Out of the Silent Planet. Fantasy. The Personal Heresy. Literary criticism. The Pilgrim’s Regress. Christian allegory. Rehabilitations …”

      “That’s fine,” said Tom. “I get the idea. The man sounds positively prolific. I wonder if he has any time left over for teaching.”

      “You’re not a student here, I assume?” asked the young clerk.

      “No, just visiting from America. Why do you ask?”

      “Actually, C. S. Lewis is more well-known around here as a lecturer than as an author. Quite possibly the most popular speaker in Oxford. Even when he lectures on a Saturday morning, about some seventeenth-century poet no one has ever heard of, the hall will be packed, with people perched on windowsills.”

      “Maybe they come to hear the man who’s written all those books?” Tom wondered aloud.

      “Not likely,” sniffed the young clerk. “He’s earned his place among the literary critics. But science fiction novels? Christian allegory? A popularizer and a proselytizer. It’s such wretched bad taste. How could one of the most promising scholars of his generation turn out to be a bullyragging Bible-thumper?”

      “Good