Chapter 23 Chapter Twenty Two

My father didn't want to take me to Oxford.He said he was going to stay there for six days, afraid that I would delay my studies for too long. I took out my recent report card, all of which were excellent. Among them, my very proud history teacher commented on one of my papers: "You have unique insights into the nature of historical research. For people of your age It’s especially rare.” I've always kept this comment in my mind, and I usually fall asleep thinking about it. I saw Oxford's first colleges, rising in the morning sun in a walled courtyard, next to the immaculate form of Radcliffe House.

I can't imagine what people who lived here would have thought if they saw us dressed like this - me in a red skirt, white knit socks and school bag, my father in a navy blue top, gray slacks and a black crewneck fedora hats, and each dragged a small suitcase. "Here we are," said my father, and I'm glad we turned into a door in the mossy wall. The door was locked, and we waited for a while before a student came to open the iron door for us. Father was in Oxford to give a speech at a conference on relations between the United States and Eastern Europe, which were now at the height of a thaw.We bypassed the lawn and the pond to a set of houses next to our instructors.The house had low ceilings, and the windows were small, leaden, and dimly lit.Father's bedroom has blue curtains.To my great delight, my bedroom had a court bed, high, with a chintz canopy.

We settled in a bit, then went to see James, our instructor.He was waiting for us in his office on the other side of the building.This is a very kind old man, he didn’t seem surprised to see me coming to the meeting with my father, and he suggested that one of his student assistants could take me around the college in the afternoon. I came out of the room at three o'clock, my beret in one hand and my notebook in the other, because my father had suggested that I take some notes while I was there, because there was a paper due at school.My guide was a light-haired, slender college student whom Professor James introduced as Stephen Barry.Walking around this quad with Stephen, I had a momentary sense of acceptance into that elite collective.At the same time, the defiance I felt walking next to a handsome college student shook me like a tinge of music from a foreign culture.But I hold on to my notebook and my childhood even harder.

He led me to the refectory, a Tudor-style hall, and above a bench inscribed by the Earl of Rochester there was a painting I didn't understand: a man with a crucifix around his neck, holding a A stick bent over to see what looked like a pile of black clothes. "Oh, that's an interesting painting," Stephen told me, "and we're all proud of it. You see a guy who was a tutor in the early days of Oxford, and he's pounding a stick with a silver-painted stick. The heart of a vampire." I stared at him with wide eyes, suddenly speechless. "There were vampires in Oxford then?" I asked after recovering.

"I don't know," he said with a smile, "but there is a tradition that the mentors in the early years helped the nearby country people to avoid vampire attacks. According to legend, the mentors were not even willing to go to the college There were books about this mystery, so those books were kept in various places, where they were finally placed." I suddenly thought of Rosie, "Is there any way to find the names of former students—I mean—maybe—fifty years ago—graduate students at this faculty?" "Of course." My companion sat across the wooden bench and looked at me puzzled. "If you want, I can ask the professor for you."

"Oh, no." I blushed, too young, "That's nothing. But I thought—may I go and read some of the vampire lore stuff?" "You like scary stuff, don't you?" he said with a smile. "That's nothing to see. But, no problem, we'll go to the College library now - you must see the library - and I'll take you Go to Radcliffe Hall." Anyone who admires British culture knows that Radcliffe House is one of the masterpieces of British architecture.Stephen walked me through the different features of the building, and finally he led me to a landing and we walked up to a balcony.

"Right up here." He pointed to a door in the wall, hewn like a book. "There's a little reading room there. I went up there once, and the books on vampires are hidden there." The room was dimly lit and cramped, barely big enough for a reading table in the middle, which meant we were suddenly looking at an academic sitting there flipping through a folio and scribbling notes on paper.Pale and haggard, with sunken eyes, he looked up at us with an urgent but intense concentration. That's my father.