Chapter 20 twenty

The drive from East Sixty-third Street in Manhattan to Boston, Massachusetts is at least three hours and twenty minutes.Really, I have tried the top speed limit on this road, and I believe that no car, whether domestic or foreign, can go any faster, even if it is driven by someone like Graham Hill .I was doing 105 mph in my MG sports car on the Massachusetts highway. 1 Graham Hill (1929-), British motorsports athlete, world champion in 1962. I carry an electric razor, so you can rest assured I've meticulously shaved and changed my shirt in the car before stepping into that hallowed office building on State Street.It was only eight o'clock in the morning, and there were already several dignified Boston celebrities waiting to meet Oliver Barrett the Third.His secretary knew me, and she put my name into the intercom without batting an eye.

My father didn't say "bring him in". Instead, his office door opened, and he walked out himself, saying, "Oliver." I, who has become a habit of observing words and expressions, noticed that his face seemed a little pale, and his hair had become gray (maybe thinner) in the past three years. "Come in, boy," he said.I couldn't figure out his tone for a while, so I just walked towards his office. I sat down on the "guest chair". We looked at each other, and then we all looked away, anywhere.My eyes fell on the pile of decorations on his desk: scissors in leather cases, a letter opener with a leather handle, a photograph of my mother taken several years ago.And one of mine (taken at my graduation from Exeter).

"How's your time going, boy?" he asked. "Very well, Dad," I replied. "How's Jennifer?" he asked. In order not to lie to him, I avoided the question (although that was the very heart of it) and cut straight to the point why I had suddenly come to him again. "Father, I want to borrow five thousand dollars. There are good reasons." He looks at me.He seemed to be nodding his head. "Oh?" he said. "Can you?" I asked. "Can you let me know why?" he asked. "I can't tell you, Dad. Just lend me the money, please."

I had the feeling—if one could get anything out of Oliver Barrett the Third—that he was going to give me the money.I also realized that he didn't want to beat me up either.But he'd love to... talk. "Aren't you paid at Jonas & Marsh?" he asked. "Yes, Dad." I really wanted to tell him the number, just to let him know that it was the highest in the class, but then again: since he knows where I work, he probably knows how much I get paid. "Isn't she teaching too?" he asked. Oh, it can be seen that he doesn't know everything. "Don't 'she' yeah 'she', she has a name," I said.

"Isn't Jennifer teaching?" he asked politely. "Please don't get her involved with this, Dad. It's a private matter. A very important personal matter." "Did you sow romantic seeds outside?" He asked, but there was no censure in his tone. "Well," I said, "yes, papa. That's right. You must give me the money, please." I don't think he has any reason to believe what I say, and I don't think he really wants to know.He asked me questions, like I said, just so we could... talk. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a checkbook bound in leather, the same Cordoba leather that held his letter opener handle and scissors.Slowly he opened the checkbook.I believe it was not intended to torture me, but to buy time.It's good to find something to say.Find something to say that doesn't cause friction.

1 High-grade cowhide produced in the province of Córdoba, Spain. He filled out the check, tore it out of the book, and handed it to me.I probably hesitated for a moment before I realized I should reach out to take it, so he was a little embarrassed (that's how I felt), so he retracted his hand, put the check on the edge of his desk, looked at me, clicked nodded.His expression seemed to say, "Take it, boy." But in fact he just nodded, that's all. I didn't want to leave either, but I couldn't find anything to say that wouldn't hurt my stomach.We can't just sit like this, we both want to talk in our hearts, but we can't even look at each other.

I leaned over and took the check.Yes, it's five thousand dollars, and here's Oliver Barre's signature for second.Ink is dry.As I carefully folded the check and put it in my shirt pocket, I stood up and walked slowly towards the door.In fact, I should have said at least a few words at that time.To show that I know, for my sake, keeping several dignitaries from Boston (and perhaps from Washington) waiting outside his office; I can still spend a lot of time in your office, and I'm afraid I'll have to cancel your original lunch date"...wait, wait. I opened the door halfway, stood for a moment, looked at him with courage, and said only one sentence;

"Thank you, Dad."