Free Odysseus Abroad by Amit Chaudhuri Page B

Davidson’s response to Ananda’s tranquil, sweetly tragic mood was a blunt instrument in that stillness.
    “It’s a difficult art,” said Mr. Davidson—now he was softly addressing himself rather than admonishing Ananda, the prose writer recalling (perhaps from experience) the mysterious pitfalls of poetry-writing. “But what you do have is a grasp of rhythm,” he said—not grudging, but fair. “It was
never
something I could master!” So he
had
had the experience then!—he’d given verse a go. How little Ananda knew of him—yet had reached out to him as at a straw. In a jacket photo from one of the early books, he’d been surprised to find Mr. Davidson—younger, with an unbelievable moustache—smoking, the careless spume drifting away from the face. Ananda wished he hadn’t seen the picture, for its strangeness but also for its supercilious but fragile optimism. He’d nevercaught Mr. Davidson smoking. He must have given it up, as he had the “difficult art”—or had he? Ananda decided to slip in a compliment—to prove he was superior to the little well-meaning jibes that Mr. Davidson had aimed at his poems, but also to get out of his system something he’d wanted to say.
    “Thank you. By the way, I liked the stories in
No Place in the Sun
very much—they’re very elegantly written.” There. It was done. Something was proved.
    Mr. Davidson’s expression changed in the summer-shadow that had alighted on the face: for less than a second, he looked haunted.
    “That’s
very
kind of you.” What did
this
smile, this expression mean? It was genuine happiness—held in check. “Your opinion means a lot to me.” Ananda had had no idea. “I’m glad.”
    Ananda was glad too—a glow of satisfaction: to be regarded as an equal.
Means a lot to me
. He’d had no idea.
    —
    He hadn’t been wholly truthful. Something was missing in the stories. What, it wasn’t easy to put your finger on. Maybe it was their very craftedness that went against them, giving them the slightest hint of artificiality. But if that were really the case, the hint of the artificial was counter to the free-flowing, light style. Before he’d read the stories, it hadn’t occurred to Ananda that South Africa could be written of like this—without overt politics and hand-wringing, as a landscape of sunlight, comedy, provincial drabness, and small existential dramas. Was this lack of politics a limitation: was it what made Mr. Davidson a relatively minor player? Ananda could not decide. Or was it what gave to the writing its freshness and agility? Clearly, Nestor Davidson was talented. Why wasn’t he better known? Ananda seemed to have a knack for becoming friendly and populating his life with people who were gifted but hadn’t hadproper recognition. Take his music teacher in Bombay, a remarkable singer ignored by the cognoscenti. Or his own mother, with her unique singing voice and style, of whom hardly anyone was aware. Or his mad uncle in Belsize Park, whom he called Rangamama—“colourful maternal uncle”—who shone so brightly in his youth and who Ananda’s father said—quizzically, as if describing a condition—was a “genius,” but who’d imploded, arresting his own advancement. Was it something about the world, that promoted the second-rate and left the genuinely talented unrewarded; or was it something about Ananda, that he found success second-rate and spotted a gift in failures? Or—more disturbingly—was it that Ananda was gravitating towards these people; in doing so maybe even attempting to create a mirror-image; to, in some way, find himself? As for success…he must probe Mr. Davidson about his chances for the finals. For there was no guarantee he’d get a First.
    “Getting a First’s quite tough, isn’t it?”
    He had no academic ambitions. He wanted to do well—his marks at school had, when they’d peaked, been mediocre—mainly in order to continue in England and devote himself to his quest,