فصل 2

2 Blood and stone

AFEW weeks later I was hurt in the hockey match at Cornell university. My face was badly cut and the officials gave me the penalty for starting the fight. Five minutes!

I sat quietly in the penalty box while the team manager cleaned the blood off my face.

I was ashamed to look out onto the ice. But the shouts of the crowd told me everything. Cornell scored a goal. The score was 3—3 now. Damn, I thought. We’re going to lose this match, because of me.

Across the ice, among the crowd, I saw him. My father.

Old Stonyface. He was looking straight at me.

‘If the meeting finishes in time, I’ll come to Cornell and watch you play,’ he had told me on the phone.

And there he was, Oliver Barrett the Third. What was he thinking about? Who could say? Why was he here? Family pride, perhaps. ‘Look at me. I am a very busy, important man, but I have come all the way to Cornell, just to watch my son play in a hockey match.’

We lost, six goals to three. After the match the doctor put twelve stitches in my face.

When I got to the changing-room, it was empty. They don’t want to talk to me, I thought. I lost that match. I felt very ashamed as I walked out into the winter night.

‘Come and have dinner, son,’ said a voice. It was Old Stonyface.

At dinner we had one of our non-conversations. We spoke to each other, but didn’t actually say anything. These nonconversations always started with ‘How have you been,

son?’ and ended with ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘How have you been, son?’ my father began.

‘Fine, sir.’

‘Does your face hurt?’

‘No, sir.’ (It hurt terribly.)

Next, Old Stonyface talked about Playing the Game. ‘All right, son, you lost the match.’ (How clever of you to notice, Father.) ‘But after all, in sport, the important thing is the playing, not the winning.’

Wonderful, I thought. Father was chosen for the Olympic Games. And now he says winning is not important!

I just looked down at my plate and said ‘Yes, sir’ at the right times.

Our non-conversation continued. After Playing the Game, he discussed My Plans.

‘Tell me, Oliver, has the Law School accepted you yet?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Would you like me to telephone them?’

‘No!’ I said at once. ‘I want to get a letter like other people, sir. Please.’

‘Yes, of course. Fine . . . After all, they’re sure to accept you.’’

Why? I thought. Because I’m clever and successful? Or because I’m the son of Oliver Barrett the Third?

The meal was as uninteresting as the conversation. At last my father spoke again.

‘There’s always the Peace Corps,’ he said suddenly. ‘I think the Peace Corps is a fine thing, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes, sir,’ I said politely. I knew nothing about the Peace Corps.

‘What do your friends at Harvard think about the Peace Corps?’ he asked. ‘Do they feel that the Peace Corps is important in our world today?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said politely, just to please him.

After dinner I walked with him to his car.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, son?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you, sir. Good night, sir.’

Our non-conversation was finished: he drove away. Yes, of course there are planes, but Oliver Barrett the Third chose to drive. My father likes to drive - fast. And at that time of night, in an Aston Martin DBS, you can go very fast indeed.

I went to telephone Jenny. That was the only good part of the evening. I told her about the fight. She enjoyed that.

Her musical friends never got into fights.

‘I hope you hit the man who hit you,’ she said.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Good! I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to watch you. Perhaps you’ll hit somebody in the Yale match?’

I smiled. Jenny really made me feel better.

Back at Harvard the next day I called at her dorm. Jenny was talking to someone on the telephone in the hall.

‘Yes. Of course! Oh yes, Phil. I love you too. Love and kisses. Goodbye.’

Who was she talking to? I had only been away forty-eight hours, and she had found a new boyfriend!

Jenny did not seem ashamed. She kissed me lightly on the unhurt side of my face.

‘Hey — you look terrible!’

‘Twelve stitches, Jen.’

‘Does the other man look worse than you?’

‘Much worse. I always make the other man look worse.’

We walked to my MG sports car. ‘Who’s Phil?’ I asked as carelessly as I could.

‘My father.’

I could not believe that! ‘You call your father Phil?’

‘That’s his name. What do you call your father?’

‘Sir.’

‘He must be really proud of you. You’re a big hockey star - and you’re always successful in your exams.’

‘You don’t know anything, Jenny. He was good at exams and sport, too. He was in the Olympic Games.’

‘My God! Did he win?’

‘No.’ (Actually, Old Stonyface was sixth, which makes me feel a little better.)

Jenny was silent for a moment.

‘Why do you hate him so much?’ she asked at last.

‘I’m Oliver Barrett the Fourth,’ I answered. ‘All Barretts have to be successful. And that means I have to be good at everything, all the time. I hate it.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you do,’ laughed Jenny. ‘You hate doing well in your exams. You hate being a hockey star . . .’

‘But he expects it!’ I said. ‘If I’m successful, he isn’t excited, or surprised. He was a big success, and he expects me to be the same.’

I told her about our meal and our non-conversation after the Cornell match, but she didn’t understand at all.

‘You say your father is a busy man,’ she said. ‘But he found time to go all the way to Cornell to watch you play.

How can you say these terrible things about him, when he drove all that way, just to watch your hockey match? He loves you, Oliver - can’t you understand?’

‘Forget it, Jenny,’ I said. She was silent for a moment.

‘I’m pleased you have problems with your father,’ she said at last. ‘That means you aren’t perfect.’

‘Oh - you mean you are perfect?’

‘Of course not, Preppie. That’s why I go out with you!’

Jenny loved to have the last word.