I
An oil lamp intercepted the infiltration of night into a study of bookshelves as high and wide as those of a Trinity College. A hunched figure, with a sleepy posture, sat in a sober leather armchair in front of a small desk against the wall. Behind him was the door, ajar and immobile due to the lack of power. To his left, a large window pierced between two bookshelves had been covered with a thick curtain of orange tones, matching the chromatic scale of the room.
The dweller, abstracted, fixed his grayish-iris gaze on the mess of papers, ink stains, and a jammed typewriter parading on the desk. He tried to fix the typewriter but was tired. After his failure, he just sat still, lost in the idyll. He remembered his late father, Arthur. But not the father with whom he had shared so many discussions, so many trips, so many experiences; but the one who had agonized to exhaustion from liver cancer. His father was never a drinker, only in appearance and to please his peers; but he could not avoid dying from the same cause as his twin brother, Thomas, well known for his fondness for distilled spirits.
He moved on to happier memories; like the time, when he was eight years old, Arthur tried to teach him to drive. They crashed into the wagon of some farmers coming from tilling a field they owned. Arthur gave them five pounds, a fortune to those people, in exchange for their silence. His father was not angry, nor did he shout at him; they joked and swore to secrecy. Edward, the eldest son, boasted of having inherited such a good character; and his curiosity.
Following in his footsteps, he devoted himself to science. Arthur, an anthropologist, and sociologist held a number of positions related to propaganda and law and order. From these positions, usually as section chief or chief scientist, the fourth Earl Ashford fraternized with a variety of government and military officials. It was these friendships that removed the Ashford-Campbell-Douglas-Stuart surname from all levy lists during World War I and World War II. Edward took the opportunity to pursue a Ph.D. in microbiology with a specialty in virology. From school, he was always attracted to biology because of its potential for understanding nature and living things. He believed that society and nature, in the end, constituted a whole. He chose virology because it was still an unexplored field. The same year that he wore scarlet for his last graduation ceremony, he started his first job as a senior lecturer in Microbiology at Oxford University. He turned down the salary he was offered and immediately led his first biotechnology research team. His career took off from day one, thanks both to the support of his family and his circle of university colleagues. His was a patent for the mass production of a diphtheria vaccine that he sold to a French pharmaceutical company in exchange for prestige.
At 31 he has ordained a member of the Order of the British Empire. At 32 he married the great love of his youth, Elizabeth Nassau, whom he met during a research stay in Canada. Elizabeth was an expert in cell biology who shared her studies with Edward from their first unofficial meeting in a Montreal library. The following year their only son, Alexander, was born after an initial attempt that ended in miscarriage. He reminisced about walking with Elizabeth and Alexander in downtown Edinburgh, visits to his cousins, or when the whole family gathered to celebrate Christmas. It was George, Arthur's youngest son, who gave Alexander his first kilt.
There were three knocks on the door.
"Lord Ashford?" asked a slow baritone voice. Edward turned with a start. Smith, the butler, a stocky old man with a few wrinkles and a slightly baggy frock coat for his preeminent thinness, was peering out from the half-open doorframe.
"Yes?" he rasped. He struggled to articulate the syllable.
"Lord Spencer is on the phone. Oswell Spencer, from Essex. He asks if he could have a word with you."
Abraham's son, a friend of his father. He met Oswell in person when he was a boy at the Spencer manor house. The last time he heard from him was in '59, at Arthur's funeral. On that occasion, Oswell told him that, after Abraham's death, he had founded a new company, a pharmaceutical company, to tap new markets. Edward paid him superficial and cordial attention, bordering on disinterest. A year later, he seemed to hear from him again.
He checked the time on his wristwatch. It was not very late.
"Yes, I could, on which phone?"
"In the adjoining room."
"Thank you, Smith." He stood up. He dismissed the butler with a nod. He let the wick of the oil lamp burn out alone.
He walked to the exit and from there to a shadowy, halogen-lit corridor. A few steps away, to the right, was the lounge attached to his study, where he used to receive his colleagues from the university. The lounge was a small cabinet highlighted by nineteenth-century beige sofas manufactured in India. Once inside, he flicked the switch to turn on the lazy, nearly burned-out bulbs of a chandelier attached to the wooden ceiling. Ashford Hall demanded a complete overhaul, but he had not yet come across an architect to his liking.
He located the telephone on a small table. The handset was off the hook, with the speaker turned toward the mat to minimize outside noise. He cleared his throat and picked up the device:
"Spencer?"
"Edward? I heard you come in," he joked.
"Good evening, Oswell. What do you want?" He sat down on the nearest sofa.
"I hope I haven't disturbed your work."
"No, it's no bother."
"I've been involved in a new business venture lately and wondered if you'd be interested in hearing a proposal."
"Is it about Anzec, your pharmaceutical company?" The first thing that popped into his head.
"Yes, that's right. I'll be brief and to the point to save you time: Anzec is a resounding success and I want to set up a new biotech company. I've contacted a colleague of mine at the university, James Marcus, who is also a biotech specialist. He has given me some advice, but my friend is not as experienced as you are, so I would like to know if I can count on your expertise and experience to help me finalize the new project."
"I am flattered by your deference." Actually, he didn't care.
Spencer continued:
"My proposal is this: could I count on your participation? The participation would be financial, a small, low-risk initial investment. Enough to set up the first laboratory in the Federal Republic of Germany. My contacts assure me that they are granting juicy tax privileges and other exemptions to entrepreneurs who open factories there."
"You're not asking me to work there too? That would be incompatible with my work at the university." He tried to sound as unpleasant as possible. He was irritated at the prospect of the man asking for money. He knew the Spencers had considerable wealth, but he didn't want to become the buffoon who lent his money to a failed enterprise.
"No, no, of course not. It would only be financial participation. The lab work would be done by my friend Marcus. What do you think?"
Edward exhaled a mock sigh. What could he do? Because of the friendship their parents had for each other, he couldn't just turn Spencer down. He would give in now to settle the matter as soon as possible and not worry about what Oswell did or didn't do with his fortune.
"Well, I could contemplate my participation. But you'll have to explain to me better what the plan is."
"Could we get together?" Spencer said.
"When would that be?" He agreed out of cordiality.
"Later this week. Friday? I'd be going to Ashford Hall."
"My son is coming from the States this weekend, could it be Friday next week?"
"Okay. No problem." Pause. "That's all. I wish you a good night, Edward. Thanks for taking care of me."
"Same to you, Oswell, I bid you a good night."
He hung up. His second sigh was not feigned.
II
Alexander unpacked his third suitcase in a row, which enlarged the size of the mountain of clothes on his bed mattress. Besides the clothes, there were boxing gloves tucked in a clearing in the tangled forest of pants, underpants, shirts, jackets, and ties. On the pillow he had deposited a monochrome wooden box closed with a small padlock. He kept the key in his trouser pocket. On the floor was scattered a sea of notebooks, specialized books, and romance novels.
He had returned from the United States that morning, just after dawn. The car ride from the airport to his mansion was hellish because of a latent headache aggravated by jet lag and an irascible emotional state. He had left the United States in anger because his thesis director had rejected his project the day before his departure. It had taken him a year to define a study on the genomic sequencing of a chromosomal disorder only to be denied by his alleged director, with crystalline smugness, on religious grounds. Surprised and offended by the irrationality of the excuse, Alexander asked for explanations until the professor hung up on him without saying goodbye. On the plane he regretted the tactlessness of his reaction: he had made his first declared enemy. During the flight, he was reading the bibliography of some specialized books to look for a substitute. He jotted down the name of a Cambridge professor who had published on viral agents and transgenic organisms, a subject related to his father's field of study. He hoped he would have better luck this time.
But before he could grab the pen to write to that professor, he had to fix the lion's den that was his bedroom. There were two knocks on the door: mother or father?
"Yes?" he masked his displeasure at the size of the mess.
The door opened. Father: Edward emerged from the hallway. Before they said a word, they gave each other a quick hug, without hitting each other's backs. Edward's gesticulation was animated, as usual. He sported his neatly trimmed, perennial gray mustache, which he hadn't shed since Alexander could remember. He himself had grown a beard to make himself look more attractive. Aside from the facial hair, Edward was dressed in the cream-colored sweater and brown pants he wore when there were no visitors at Ashford Hall.
"How was the trip?" Edward sat on the corner of the bed, next to the clothes.
"Fine." Alexander remained standing. He tried hard to hide his obfuscation. He refrained from telling him of his latest setback so as not to sour the encounter.
"Did you bring me a souvenir?"
Alexander advanced to the head of the bed, where he took from the pillow the wooden box closed with a small padlock. He handed it to his father, along with the key that was taken from his pocket.
"What is it?" Edward inspected the box with obvious curiosity.
"I hope you like it." He sat down next to Edward.
Edward unlocked the lock and opened the lid, revealing an American-made radio. The silver-colored radio was a piece of craftsmanship of which there were only a few in the world. An artifact designed by and for compulsive collectors like his father.
"Wow" he exclaimed with satisfaction. He fiddled with the dials and checked for any manufacturing defects. "29?"
"25, manufactured in Pennsylvania."
Satisfied, Edward patted his son's shoulder.
"Thank you, Sasha. Then I'd like to see what you got for your mother."
"Sure."
Edward stood up, ready to leave. But before he walked through the door, he turned around:
"Ah. Do you remember Oswell Spencer, Abraham's son?"
"Sort of." Alexander didn't know Spencer's face, but he knew he was at his grandfather Arthur's funeral.
"He called me the day before yesterday. To invest in a pharmaceutical company of his. I'm meeting him next Friday. Do you know if it's a good investment? How's it going in the U.S.?"
Alexander shrugged his shoulders.
"There's a lot of investment. There are a few powerful companies in the United States."
"I'll keep you posted. Thanks for the gift." He left the bedroom without closing the door.
Alexander grabbed one of the boxing gloves, the right one, with which he had won a tournament when he was an undergraduate. Inside it, he had hidden a special gift for his mother.
III
Oswell E. Spencer sat across from Edward Ashford around a solid wood circular table. He had been ushered into a room in the library that the fifth Earl Ashford used to prepare for his college classes. The place was well-lit by a pair of tall, narrow windows, and sparsely decorated with a neat chalkboard and a stack of shelves with files and other documents. At the far end, on the wall opposite the entrance, was a desk with what appeared to be photographic frames. Next to the desk, the metal suitcase he had brought with him loomed.
Edward was dressed in a black suit topped by a red tie and a lapel pin with the coat of arms of his lineage. The fine workmanship of the suit made him radiate a pseudo-regal halo that enhanced the competent formality of his figure. Were it not for that obvious sense of competence, Oswell would not have bothered to show his host the series of confidential memos that broke down Anzec Pharma's industrial activity and finances. Edward was reading the memo pertaining to the construction of a laboratory in the Federal Republic of Germany. Meanwhile, Oswell fiddled with the zippo lighter with which he had lit the cigar that the butler, Smith, had offered him. His cup of tea was half-full.
Edward closed the memo and returned it to its place on top of the others. He then took a sip from his teacup, making no effort to speak. Oswell stepped forward:
"What do you think?" He finished his cigar with a final exhalation.
"It looks promising" Edward said hesitantly.
"I'll be sure to make the lab profitable."
Edward combed his fingers through his mustache.
"The problem is not so much making the lab profitable as ensuring the company's commercial success. Drugs and vaccines make them all. Either you get a worthwhile patent, or you'd have to settle for a more modest market share."
Oswell willingly took Edward's incisive comment. He was right.
"What can you offer the world that no other company has offered?" Oswell added to himself.
"That's right" Edward continued.
Oswell took a sip from his cold cup, reflective. He thought of a good number of things to bet on until he came up with something decent, but he doubted Edward would be willing to squander his money that way.
"Any preferences? Anything worthwhile?"
"Virology is a mother lode" Edward pointed out.
"Viruses, eh? One could talk; but about what?"
"The discovery of new pathogens." Edward finished drinking his tea.
"A company engaged in viral research?"
"Not necessarily, but it could be one of their main activities. Pharmaceuticals take little risk in this field because it is secondary and dependent on grants. Since you already have a base with Anzec, you could put more resources into research and development."
If that was Earl Ashford's requirement, he would give in to achieve his goal.
"I don't think that's bad. I like the idea. And where should I start?"
"I'd start by looking for something that caught my attention. A plant, an animal, anything."
Before it was too late, Oswell countered:
"If I get something interesting, would you agree to participate in the enterprise?"
Edward looked away from his empty teacup.
"How much are you offering?" he whispered.
"Five percent shares." He puffed out his offer to wring a yes from him.
Edward raised his eyebrow.
"Five percent is too much. Are you sure?"
"Five percent and a commitment that I'll find something to your liking myself."
Silence. Edward stroked his mustache. Oswell watched expectantly.
"I'll talk to my administrator" he replied. "I'll call you to arrange the operation."
"Good. You got it." Oswell held out his hand to the Earl.
They shook hands. He thanked his father, Abraham, God rest his soul, for insisting on his friendship with Arthur Ashford.