§ 5
Then as the twilight deepened Sargon discovered just the peaceful room he desired. It announced itself hopefully not by the usual printed card but by a hand-written tablet saying “A Room to Let,” in a window that had no lace curtains but little purple ones enhancing rather than concealing a bare-looking white room lit pleasantly by the flickering of a fire. There were one or two pictures—real coloured pictures—hanging on the white wall. Rather wearily Sargon lifted the knocker and supplemented its appeal by pressing the electric bell.
There was no immediate answer, and he knocked a second time before the door opened. A slender young man appeared holding a small girl perched on his shoulder. She regarded Sargon gravely with very dark grey-blue eyes.
“Everybody seems to have gone out,” said the slender young man in a very pleasant voice. “What can I do for you?”
“You have a room to let,” said Sargon.
“There is a room to let here, yes,” said the slender young man and his appreciative dark eyes took in the details of the figure in front of him.
“Could I see it?”
“I suppose he might see it, Susan,” the young man hesitated.
“Of course the gem’s got to see it,” said the small girl. “If Mrs. Richman was here she’d show it him fast enough, old stoopid.” And she pulled the slender young man’s hair—affectionately but very, very hard.
“You see,” the young man explained. “The landlady is out. Don’t, Susan. And the landlady’s lady assistant is out, too. Every one is out—and we’re sort of unofficially left in charge somehow. Properly, I ought not to have answered the door.”
“But I told you to—silly!” said the little girl.
The young man made no definite move. Instead, he asked a question. “Is that a map, sir, you are carrying?” he asked.
“It is a map of the world,” said Sargon.
“Very helpful I should think, sir. And so you found your way here. Well—The room’s upstairs if you’d come up. Hold tight, Susan, and try not to strangle me.” And he led the way up the staircase.
It was just the usual staircase and hall with oilcloth and wall-paper to imitate some exceptionally bilious coarse-grained wood. As they ascended the young lady ran great risks in her resolution never to take her eyes off Sargon and his map. She twisted round a complete circle and forced her bearer to stop on the first landing and readjust her. “If you pull my hair once more,” said the slender young man, “I shall put you down and never, never, never give you a ride again. It’s on the next floor, sir, if you’d go first.”
The room appeared delightfully free from unnecessary furnishings. There was a little plain bed, a table under the window, and a gas-stove, and the walls were papered in brown paper, adorned with commonplace but refreshing Japanese colour prints. There was a recess one side of the fire-place with three empty shelves painted like the mantelpiece, a deep blue. The young man had clicked on an electric light, which was pleasantly shaded.
“It’s rather plain,” said the young man.
“I like it,” said Sargon. “I have no use for superfluities.”
“It used to be my room,” said the young man, “but now I share the dining-room floor with the people downstairs and I’ve given this up. It’s rather on my conscience——”
“People downstairs—what people downstairs? There aren’t no People downstairs. It’s Daddy and Mummy he means,” said the young lady.
“It’s rather on my conscience,” said the young man, “that I persuaded Mrs. Richman to alter the furniture. It isn’t to everybody’s taste.”
“May I ask,” said Sargon, “how much the room might be?”
“Thirty shillings, I believe,” said the young man, “with breakfasts.”
Sargon put down his map and the planisphere upon the table. He felt that he must secure this room or be for ever defeated.
“I am willing,” he said, “to take the room. I would pay for it in advance. And take up my quarters at once. But, I must warn you, my position in the world is peculiar. I give no reference, I bring no luggage.”
“Except of course these charts,” said the young man. “Haven’t you—for instance—a toothbrush?”
Sargon thought. “No. I must get myself a toothbrush.”
“I think it would look better,” said the young man.
“If necessary,” said Sargon, “I will pay for two weeks in advance. And I will get myself all necessary things.”
The young man regarded him with an affectionate expression. “If it was my room I should let you have it like a shot,” he said. “But Mrs. Richman is the landlady and in many respects she’s different from me. Have you—travelled far, sir?”
“In space,” said Sargon, “No.”
“But in time, perhaps?”
“In time, yes. But I would rather not enter into explanations at present.”
The young man’s interest and amusement deepened. He put Susan down on her feet. “Might I look at your map?” he asked.
“Willingly,” said Sargon. He unrolled the map on the table and put his finger on London. “We are here,” he said.
“Exactly,” said the young man, helping to hold the map on the table from which it seemed likely to slip.
“It is still the most convenient centre in the world,” said Sargon.
“For almost any purpose,” said the young man.
“For mine, yes,” said Sargon.
“And that star thing—that must be a great help?”
“It is,” said Sargon.
“I suppose you would—work in the room? It would be just yourself? There would be no coming and going of people?”
“None. While I was here, no one would know me. Afterwards perhaps. But that does not concern us. Here I should remain incognito.”
“Incognito,” the young man repeated, as though he considered the word. “Of course. Naturally. By the by, sir, might I ask your name? (If you hit me again, Susan, I shall do something cruel and dreadful to you.) We’d have to know your name.”
“For the time I think Mr.—Mr. Sargon.”
“Of course,” said the young man, “for the time. Sargon—wasn’t that an Assyrian king, or does my memory betray me?”
“It is not the Assyrian Sargon in this case, it is the Sumerian Sargon, his predecessor.”
“Not a word more, sir—I understand. You must be fatigued after your long journey and I should love—I should dearly love to let you the room. Wow! Susan, you go downstairs. Pinching I can’t stand. Come along. You go down to your own proper room and let’s have no nonsense about it. Come!”
Susan backed to the wall and prepared to resist tooth and nail. “I didn’t mean to pinch, Bobby,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pinch. Troof and really! I was just feelin’ your trousis. Oh, don’t take me down, Bobby! Don’t take me down. I will be good! I’ll be awful good. I’ll just stay here and look at the funny geman. If you take me down, Bobby——”
“Now, is this a real reformation, Susan—a conversion, a change of heart? Will you be a jeune femme rangée and all that, if I forgive you?”
“I’ll be anyfing, Bobby dear, flet me stay.”
“Well! cease to exist then—for all practical purposes and I’ll forgive you. What can the nice gentleman think of you, Susan? And you more than five! Bah! We were saying, Mr. Sargon—? Yes, of course, I was saying that you ought to take the room. Payment in advance will be accepted. But—there is that toothbrush. And other small—what shall I say?—realistic touches. I shouldn’t mind personally, but I’m only an agent, so to speak. Properly I am a sort of writer. Properly I ought to be writing a novel now, but, as you see, Mrs. Richman has left the house on my hands and my friends downstairs have left this charming young lady on my hands—Put that tongue back at once, Susan. Unladylike child!—and here we are! But as I’m saying, Mrs. Richman is the principal. She has her fancies about lodgers. It is useless to dispute about them. She will want a show of luggage. She will insist. But that is really not an insurmountable difficulty. This—you will remember the name?—is Nine Midgard Street. If you go out from here and turn to the left, take the third to the right and go straight on, you will come to a main thoroughfare full of ’buses and trams and traffic and light and noise, and at the corner you will find a shop where they sell second-hand trunks and bags. Now if you bought an old, battered, largish bag—and then went across the road to a chemist’s shop and got those washing things you need—Oh! and a reserve collar or so at the outfitter’s next door—You must get such things.... You see the idea?”
Sargon stood in front of the unlit gas-stove. “This seems to be acting a falsehood.”
“But you must have clean collars sometimes,” protested the young man.
“I admit that,” said Sargon.
“And then you can settle down here and tell me about that business of yours. Otherwise, you know, you’ll just wander about.”
“Your suggestion is really quite a helpful one,” said Sargon, getting the thing into focus. “I shall adopt it.”
“You won’t lose the way back?”
“Why should I?”
“Nine Midgard Street.”
“I shall remember.”
“Queer world it is,” said the young man; “isn’t it? How did you leave the old folks in—Sumeria?”
“My people were happy,” said Sargon.
“Exactly. I’ve been there since. Quite recently. But the weather wasn’t good and I got knocked about by a shell and had a nasty time as a wounded prisoner. Hot. Crowded. No shelter. Nothing cool to drink. But in your time it was different.”
“Very,” said Sargon.
“And now—by Jove! that kettle is boiling over all by this time, Susan. Come down to my room, such as it is, and have a cup of tea, sir. And then you can go out and make those little arrangements of yours and dig yourself in so to speak before Mrs. Richman comes back. This, by the by, is your gas meter. You get gas by the shilling in the slot arrangement.”
“You are being very, very helpful to me,” said Sargon. “It shall not be forgotten when my time comes.”
“Nothing. It just happened you came into my hands so to speak. No, Susan, we don’t. You walk downstairs. Pinching is forgiven but not forgotten. You can leave your map, sir—and that star thing—as visible signs of your occupation. No, Susan—on foot.”