Joseph Anton: A Memoir by Salman Rushdie Read Free Book Online Page A

the hymns; he didn’t, for example, need to
survey the wondrous cross / on which the prince of glory died;
but a lonely boy could not help but be touched when he was asked to sing
The night is dark and I am far from home / Lead Thou me on
. He liked singing “O Come, All Ye Faithful” in Latin, which somehow took the religious sting out of it:
venite, venite in Bethlehem
. He liked “Abide with Me” because it was sung by the whole 100,000-strong crowd at Wembley Stadium before the FA Cup Final, and what he thought of as the “geography hymn,” “The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Ended,” made him sweetly homesick:
The sun that bids us rest is waking / our brethren ’neath the western
[here he would substitute
“eastern”
]
sky
. The language of unbelief was distinctly poorer than that of belief. But at least the music of unbelief was becoming fully the equal of the songs of the faithful, and as he moved through his teenage years and the golden age of rock music filled his ears with its pet sounds, its I-can’t-get-no and hard rain and try-to-see-it-my-way and da doo ronron, even the hymns lost some of their power to move him. But there were still things in Rugby Chapel to touch a bookish unbeliever’s heart: the memorials to Matthew Arnold and his ignorant armies clashing by night, and Rupert Brooke, killed by a mosquito bite while fighting just such an army, lying in some corner of a foreign field that was forever England; and, above all, the stone in memory of Lewis Carroll, with its Tenniel silhouettes dancing around the edges in black-and-white marble in a—why, a kind of—yes!—quadrille. “Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance,” he sang softly to himself. “Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.” It was his private hymn to himself.
    Before he left Rugby he did a terrible thing. All school leavers were allowed to hold a “study sale,” which allowed them to pass on their old desks, lamps and other bric-a-brac to younger boys in return for small amounts of cash. He posted an auction sheet on the inside of his study door, stipulated modest starting prices for his redundant possessions, and waited. Most study sale items were heavily worn; he, however, had his red armchair, which had been new when his father bought it for him. An armchair with only one user was a high-quality, sought-after rarity in the study sales and the red chair attracted some serious bidding. In the end there were two energetic bidders: one of his fags, a certain P.A.F. Reed-Herbert, known as “Weed Herbert,” a small, bespectacled little worm of a fellow who hero-worshipped him a little, and an older boy named John Tallon, whose home was on Bishop’s Avenue, the millionaires’ row of north London, and who could presumably afford to bid high.
    When the bidding slowed down—the top bid was Reed-Herbert’s offer of around five pounds—he had his terrible idea. He secretly asked John Tallon to post a seriously high bid, something like
eight pounds
, and promised him that he would not hold him to it if that ended up as the highest offer. Then, at
dics
, he told Weed Herbert solemnly that he knew for a fact that his wealthy rival, Tallon, was prepared to go even higher, perhaps even as high as twelve whole pounds. He saw Weed Herbert’s face fall, noted his crushed expression, and went in for the kill. “Now, if you were to offer me, say, ten quid right away, I couldclose the auction and declare the chair sold.” Weed Herbert looked nervous. “That’s a lot of money, Rushdie,” he said. “Think about it,” said Rushdie magnanimously, “while you say your prayers.”
    When
dics
were over, Weed Herbert took the bait. The Machiavellian Rushdie smiled reassuringly. “Excellent decision, Reed-Herbert.” He had cold-bloodedly persuaded the boy to bid against himself, doubling his own top bid. The red armchair had a new owner. Such was the power of prayer.
    This