Javier Cercas: The Speed of Light

Nothing suggested my case would be any different. In fact, it's almost certain the relationship between Rodney and me would never have overcome the phase of autism we'd mutually confined ourselves to had it not been for the involuntary collaboration of John Borgheson. The first Friday after the beginning of classes Borgheson invited me to lunch along with a young Italian with the languid air of a dandy, called Giuseppe Rota, who was a visiting professor at the university that semester. The lunch was in two parts. During the first, Rota spoke non-stop, while Borgheson remained immersed in a meditative or embarrassed silence; during the second they swapped roles — Borgheson spoke and Rota remained silent, as if what was being aired there had nothing whatsoever to do with him — and only then did I understand the reason for the invitation. Borgheson explained that Rota had been contracted by the university to give an introductory course in Catalan literature; up to that moment, however, only three people had enrolled, which was a serious problem since university regulations obliged the department to cancel any course with less than a minimum of four students registered to take it. When he got to this point, the tone of Borgheson's speech went from explanatory to vehement, as if he was trying to mask with emphasis the embarrassment he felt at having to discuss the matter. Because what Borgheson was begging of me, with the silent consent of Rota — and, to be on the safe side, flattering my vanity with the argument that, given my knowledge of the material and the requisite elementary level of the course, it wouldn't be very useful for me — was that I enroll in it, with the implication that he'd consider this small sacrifice a personal favour and also that the course wouldn't require of me any more effort than attending the lectures. Of course, I immediately agreed to Borgheson's request, thrilled to be able to return a small portion of the kindness he'd shown me, but what I could never have foreseen — nor could Borgheson have warned me — was quite what that trivial decision would entail.

I began to suspect the following Tuesday, late in the afternoon, when I walked into the room where the first Catalan literature class was to take place and saw the three who were soon to be my classmates sitting around a table. One was a sinister-looking guy, dressed entirely in black, with his red dyed hair in a mohican; the second was a small, gaunt, fidgety Chinese guy; the third was Rodney. The three of them smiled at me in silence and, after making sure I hadn't mistaken the room, I said hello and sat down; a moment later Rota showed up and the class began. Well, began in a manner of speaking. Actually, that class never finished beginning, simply because it was an unfeasible class. The reason is that, as we immediately realized to our astonishment, there was no common language among the five of us in the class: Rota, who spoke both Spanish and Catalan well, didn't speak a word of English, and the sinister-looking American, who soon told us that he wanted to learn Catalan because he was studying Romance languages, only spoke broken French, like Rodney, who also spoke Spanish; as for the Chinese guy, whose name was Wong and who was studying directing in the Department of Theatre, aside from Chinese he only knew English (much later I found out that his desire to learn Catalan stemmed from the fact that he had a Catalan boyfriend). It didn't take us long to realize that, given the circumstances, I was the only possible instrument of communication among the members of that improvised ecumenical assembly, so after Rota, sweating and upset, had tried in vain to make himself understood by all the means within his grasp, including hand signals, I offered to translate his words from Catalan into English, which was the only language all the interested parties understood, except for Rota himself. As well as being ridiculous, the procedure was exasperatingly slow, though somehow or other, it allowed us to ride out not just that introductory class, but, as incredible as it might seem, the whole semester, though not without large doses of generous hypocrisy and smiles on everyone's part. But naturally, that first day we all came out depressed and dumbfounded, so at first I could only interpret Rodney's comment as sarcasm when, after leaving the classroom together and walking in silence through the corridors of the Foreign Languages Building, we were on the point of separating at the door.

'I've never learned so many things in a single class,' was Rodney's comment. As I said: at first I thought he was joking; then I thought he wasn't referring to what I thought he was referring to and I looked him in the eye and thought he wasn't joking; then I thought he was joking again and then I didn't know what to think. Rodney added, 'I didn't know you spoke Catalan.

''I live in Catalonia.

''Does everyone who lives in Catalonia speak Catalan?'

'Not everyone, no.'

Rodney stopped, looked at me with a mixture of interest and wariness, asked, 'Have you read Merce Rodoreda?'

I said yes.

'Do you like her?'

As I'd learned my lesson by now and wanted to get along with the person I had to share an office with, I said yes. Rodney gestured in a strange way that I didn't know how to interpret, and for a moment I thought of Almodovar and Hemingway and I thought I'd made another mistake, that maybe admirers of Hemingway could only detest Rodoreda just as admirers of Rodoreda could do nothing but detest Hemingway. Before I could qualify or retract the lie I'd just inflicted on him, Rodney reassured me.

'I love her stuff,' he said. 'I've read her in Spanish translation, of course, but I want to learn Catalan so I can read her in the original.'

'Well, you've come to the right place,' I couldn't help but say.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

I was about to say goodbye when Rodney unexpectedly said, 'Do you want to go get a Coke?'

We went to Treno's, a bar on the corner of Goodwin and West Oregon, halfway between my house and the faculty. It was a place staffed by students, with wooden tables and walls panelled with wood too, with a big unlit fireplace and a big picture window looking out onto Goodwin. We sat beside the fireplace and ordered a Coke for Rodney, a beer for me and a bowl of popcorn to share. We talked. Rodney told me he lived in Rantoul, a small city near Urbana, and that this was the third year he'd taught Spanish at the university.

'I like it,' he added.

'Really?' I asked.

'Yeah,' he answered. 'I like teaching, I like my colleagues in the department, I like the university.' He must have seen something strange in my expression, because he asked, 'Does that surprise you?'

'No,' I lied.

Rodney offered me a light and as I lit my cigarette I looked at his Zippo: it was old and must once have been silver-plated, but now it was a rusty yellow; on the upper part, in capital letters, was the word Vietnam, and underneath some numbers (68–69) and two words: Chu Lai; on the lower part there was a dog sitting and smiling and under him a phrase: 'Fuck it. I got my orders.' Rodney noticed me looking at the lighter, because as he put it away he said, 'It's the only good thing I brought back from that fucking war.'

I was going to ask him to tell me about Vietnam when he abruptly asked me to tell him about myself. I did. I talked, I think, about Gerona, Barcelona, my first impressions of Urbana, and he interrupted me to ask me how I'd ended up there. This time I didn't lie, but I didn't tell him the truth either, at least, not the whole truth.

'Urbana is a good place to live,' Rodney declared sententiously when I'd finished speaking; then, mysteriously, he added: 'It's like nothing.'

I asked him what that meant.

'It means it's a good place to work,' is all he answered.