Ein Buch für Philip Durrant 4

His favorite poem was one by Shakespeare. In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes for they in thee a thousand errors not. But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, who in despite of view is pleased to dote…

Reading the poem for the first time had been like being hit by lightning. Later he had asked himself whether he had unknowingly admitted to himself for whom he harbored those forbidden feelings.

No, the name of Morgenstern didn't mean anything to him. Philip thumbed backwards and forwards, but of course found nothing by this poet. He really would have to speak with Dr. Myers. In any rate he would refrain from touching the book or the whiskey.

The clouds had cleared off and the air was fresh. Philip had made up his mind; he called the game warden, who was glad to be able to earn a few shillings extra by accompanying Philip outdoors. Philip, in turn, was grateful the man didn't seem to feel the urge to strike up a conversation. He enjoyed the air, the color of the clouds and the scent of the plants. How desires changed! He used to never waste a thought on all that; nature had existed, nothing more. Polio had not only changed his life but himself as a person, too.

Two days later, Dr. Myers came over for a routine check-up. Although Philip's dreams had ceased, he asked the physician about possible side effects of his medication. Myers frowned. No, as far as he knew there were no such side effects. He checked Philip's eyes and asked further questions, which Philip waved off with a smile. He had not desire to be considered a madman. "It's probably normal to have a few funny dreams after all these events." he concluded, and the physician nodded.

Philip was drinking his tea and reading the Times with interest for the first time in a long time. The dreams did have a positive effect after all for they had given him back his zest for life. Later in the morning the mailman delivered the books Philip had ordered, as well as a letter Philip chose to put aside for now. Some of these books Philip had procured from antiquity collections or auctions; some Gaelic documents were among them and several classics in special editions. At some point he reached, still deep in thought, for the letter.

Jeremy Brickdon, University of Oxford, the sender was unknown to him. Unsure what to do, Philip held the envelope in his hand for few moments, then reached for the letter opener.

Dear Philip,

You will probably have been wondering why I did not write to you sooner. To be honest, I was not sure what to do when you resigned after your illness for, as you wrote, you did not feel like wheeling into a lecture hall and be stared at. But now I could not but write to you. We were never friends, but you were a good colleague. Your successor is not fit to hold a candle to you and will leave us at the end of this semester. This makes this letter a half-official one. The dean would be more than glad if you came back. I would be happy to hear from you; please call me.

Jeremy Brickdon

Philip stared numbly at the letter.

He had told Leo Argyle he intended to the University of Oxford after the war, but that had been a dream. There was no way anyone could know about this dream and was playing a prank on him. Philip examined the paper; it looked genuine and bore the letterhead of the University, which also included a phone number. He dialed.

"University of Oxford, how may I help you?"

"Good morning, I would like to speak to Professor Brickdon…"

"One moment, please…"

Philip hung up. His fingers were trembling. The other possibility was even less likely. Not only unlikely, it was impossible. He was a grown man and didn't believe in such things. Had the dreams changed something? They had always occurred upon his readings of the poems book, which had remained untouched on the small table in the library for the past few days. Philip wheeled himself over and reached for it. He opened it up, only to lay eyes on Morgenstern's poem. This time he managed to memorize the first line… Palmstroem's clock - a different kind –

The folio he was holding in his hands had to weigh at least 13 pounds and had almost slipped from his fingers. Philip found himself standing in front of a shelf holding a book by Aristotle. "Don't you want to take a break, Philip?" Mary was holding a tray with tea and cookies in her hands and was smiling at him.

"I'm not done with my preparations yet, in half an hour maybe." he replied automatically while asking himself immediately how he knew that.

Mary frowned. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. I know you take your work seriously but you're overdoing it. ",Besides, we wanted to go over to my parents' house. You do remember they are expecting us for dinner, don't you?" The reproach in her tone was unmistakable.

As he was about to put the book aside, he realized how he was letting himself be manipulated again. Mary, so gentle on the outside, possessed an iron will, and Philip knew he had put up with a lot in the past – what was the past now actually? – for he had lost a substantial amount of her money in risky business ventures. Had be turned into a wimp who drowned his frustration in whiskey and could not bring himself to do anything else?

He was sick of it, heartily sick, and it was time he changed something. He should never have married Mary; this marriage was slowly but surely destroying him, and he knew now that he had never truly loved her. What had changed? He had chosen a different career path, he had not suffered any major pecuniary losses, but other than that everything had remained the same. His marriage had turned out exactly the way he had feared several days ago – had it been several days ago? What was wrong with time anyway?

The worst thing was, he didn't even know who he was himself. He had been a pilot in the war, and from what Matt had told him once, the worst daredevil he had ever met. This must have been what had attracted Mary, who herself was always calm, in need of security and – as Philip knew – considering herself a boring person. Marrying him had perhaps been a sort of compensation for something she didn't possess herself. Strangely enough he was a calm person in all other areas of life; had that been a compensation for him as well?

And now as a professor? Had he simply turned into a bore? And was he now handed the opportunity to change something?

"Sit down, Mary." he said. She opened her mouth to answer. "Sit. Down!" he repeated, and Mary thought better than to defy him.

"I suppose we had both different expectations of this marriage. You married a pilot, who has turned into a professor, and therefore into a disappointment to you. But I, too, had different hopes and one of them is to retain my independence and my power to make my own decisions. It will depend on whether you respect that or no how things will develop between us."

Mary stared at him. Obviously, he had never talked to her in that manner. Even though she did not reply, her pressed-together lips bespoke her anger.