The Universe Versus Alex Woods (25 page)

The fact that he couldn’t spell notwithstanding, I liked William Blake’s poem very much. When Sophie Haynes showed it to me, I told her that although I didn’t get all of the imagery straight away, reading it still made my heart beat a little bit faster, and she said that this probably meant I’d understood it well enough. The tiger had claws and jaws that could rip through human flesh as easily as I might skin a banana, and, for William Blake, it was difficult to reconcile the existence of such a creation with a benevolent creator. Sophie Haynes directed my attention to the penultimate stanza:

This
I got. In return, I directed Sophie Haynes to page 159 of
Breakfast of Champions
, where Kurt Vonnegut had expressed similar concerns vis-à-vis the rattlesnake: ‘The Creator of the Universe had put a rattle on its tail. The Creator had also given it front teeth which were hypodermic syringes filled with deadly poison . . . Sometimes I wonder about the Creator of the Universe.’

Because of this earlier exchange, I knew it was the ‘secular’ part of my reading group that would appeal in particular to Sophie Haynes. Sophie Haynes, in fact, was a secular humanist, which meant that she thought God and the devil and heaven and hell were all figments, but this didn’t matter because it was possible (and preferable) to have a system of ethics based on shared human values and rational enquiry instead of supernatural scripture. Kurt Vonnegut was also a secular humanist, and so am I, although I didn’t fully realize this until I buried Mr Peterson’s dog. Before that, I didn’t know what I was. In contrast, Sophie Haynes was a convert. She’d been raised a Christian but lost her faith after her appendix burst on her twenty-first birthday. The human appendix was another thing that no sane, kind and competent designer would have designed.

With the ball now gaining momentum, it occurred to me that there were many finer details I was going to have to address. For example, I knew that we were going to read all the Kurt Vonnegut novels, fourteen books in fourteen months, but I didn’t know what order we were going to read them in. It was a simple problem that gave me some difficulty.

Originally, I’d assumed we’d just go through them in chronological order, starting with
Player Piano
and ending with
Timequake
. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this might not be the most interesting way to set about matters.
Timequake
was a good book to finish on, but
Player Piano
was not the best place to start. It was far too conventional, with too much plot and description and not enough humour and digression. As Kurt Vonnegut books go, it was very atypical.

In the end, I decided that the best thing would be to meander through our bibliography more or less at random, jumping back and forth in time as necessary. This seemed like the approach Kurt Vonnegut would most approve of. But then, having thought about it some more, I realized that there was no reason a non-chronological order had to be a
random
order. It should still have some kind of logical flow. So I sat down with fourteen small strips of card on which I wrote the names of the fourteen Kurt Vonnegut novels and then spent half an hour juggling them into the perfect non-chronological sequence, taking into account things such as theme, form and character.

Mr Peterson said that it seemed like I was planning a doctoral thesis, not a book club. But, beyond that, he refused to offer any constructive advice. He said that this was
my
project, and I’d have to figure out how best to make it fly.

This was a worrying thought.

It probably sounds stupid, but before then, even with all the planning and recruiting I’d already done, it hadn’t really occurred to me that this was
my
project, or that I had to ‘make it fly’. Before, I’d just kind of assumed that it could fly on its own – that once I’d set things in motion, they’d have their own life and trajectory. But now I could see that this might not be the case. It was possible that once I’d assembled my book club, it would still require planning and structure to keep it airborne. I’d need a strategy to make things work.

My breakthrough came one morning after I’d emptied my head with an especially long and peaceful meditation. It was a simple idea that popped into existence almost of its own accord and which I included as an instruction in my first group email: while reading that month’s book, everyone should make a note of any sentences or paragraphs that they found especially pleasing, pick a favourite and bring it along to our first meeting.

This, I thought, was an extremely practical plan, what with Kurt Vonnegut being so quotable. It was also extremely democratic, and would provide nine separate springboards with which to launch ideas.

Nine was the number of people my book club eventually ended up with.

My final recruit was Gregory Adelmann, who also saw my poster in the library. He’d been reading another notice at first – an advert for a pudding club, which is a club where a bunch of people get together periodically to try new puddings – but said that my poster had stolen his attention because of its large number of question marks and unconventional lengthening of etc.

Gregory Adelmann was thirty-two years old and a freelance food writer. This meant that most of his work involved eating in restaurants and then saying what he thought of his meal. He ate in restaurants all over the west of England – sometimes as far away as Exeter. Unfortunately, though, Greg Adelmann suffered from a major handicap for a food critic: he found it very difficult to write bad reviews. This was because his mother had always taught him that if you don’t have anything nice to say, it’s better to say nothing at all. She’d also taught him that it wasn’t good to be a fussy eater – not when so many people in the world were malnourished. So, in some respects, Gregory Adelmann had made an odd choice of career.

You could always tell when Gregory Adelmann had really disliked a meal because he’d spend most of his word count talking about the restaurant’s décor or its location or parking facilities. He’d also devised an alternative rating system to get around his dislike of saying unpleasant things. This used a ten-point scale where five out of ten was the lowest possible score. Five out of ten on the Greg Adelmann scale was equivalent to one out of ten on anyone else’s. Four out of ten was equivalent to food poisoning.

Gregory Adelmann was neat, well mannered, slightly round and, according to Mr Peterson, as gay as the Venusian night is long (one thousand four hundred and one hours). But I only had his word to go on. As you’ll probably understand, because of all the misinformation I’d been bombarded with at school, I didn’t have a very good gaydar.

Let me tell you: it’s a very strange experience watching something you’ve created – something you’ve conjured from air, born of your brain – take form as a living, breathing, interacting entity. And it was with what I imagined to be an inventor’s sense of achievement that I watched events unfolding on that first Sunday in October, in the low morning sun of Mr Peterson’s front room. Two sofas and four smaller chairs were set out in a pair of semicircles, one against the bay window, the other on the facing wall. There was coffee and tea and Diet Coke laid out on the unfolded dining table (which I’d had to dust – I don’t think it had been unfolded for some years). Everyone seemed to be getting on with everyone else. Dr Enderby was deep in conversation with Sophie Haynes. Fiona Fitton was laughing at something Barbara Blessed had said, her smile lines out in force. Mrs Griffith had made flapjacks and was dispensing them from a foil platter.

I was standing a couple of paces back, holding on to my iron–nickel meteorite. As always, holding on to that very cold, very dense, four-and-a-half-billion-year-old piece of asteroid made me feel secure, anchored to something considerably greater than myself. Mr Peterson was standing beside me. The look of vague bafflement that had adorned his face for much of the previous half-hour had, by then, faded back into his characteristic grimace. I don’t think he’d actually believed that anyone was going to turn up until we’d heard the first knock on the front door. Later, he’d tell me that he had almost no idea how I’d managed to persuade so many people to sign up for such an esoteric book club, but he thought it must have something to do with naïvety. It took a
lot
of naïvety to enthuse so many people. For a long time, I didn’t have a clue what he meant by that.

The Secular Church of Kurt Vonnegut ran successfully for the next thirteen months, but regarding that first meeting, and the twelve that followed, there’s little to tell. The only meeting I really need to tell you about is the last one, for reasons that will become extremely obvious. But I’ll get to that in due course. For now, all you need know is that things got off to an auspicious start. Within a few minutes of the last person arriving, Mr Peterson banged his crutch three times on the floor, all other noise dispersed like smoke in a fume cupboard, and I began by thanking everyone for coming. I’d never had to make a speech before, but I was surprised to find I didn’t feel nervous in the slightest. I felt at home.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Fri, 15 May 2009 5:07 PM

Subject: Meteorite

Dear Dr Weir,

I hope that this email finds you well and that your recent paper on the concentration of rare earth elements in the Omolon pallasite was well received. I myself am now in much better health. I have not had a major seizure for many months. Dr Enderby is very pleased with my progress and says that eventually it might even be possible for me to come off my carbamazepine – although this hypothetical time is still a way off yet. To tell you the truth, I’m not too worried either way. Taking my pill each morning has become such a routine that it’s like brushing my teeth. If I didn’t have to do it, it would be one less thing to bother with, but really it’s not too much of a chore. As for my daily meditation, I don’t plan to stop that whatever happens re my epilepsy. I’m much more serene these days.

The main reason I’m writing to you today is as follows. As I’m sure you’re aware, in just over one month’s time – on Saturday, 20 June – it will be five years to the day since the meteor hit. And on Sunday, 21 June, it will be five years to the day since you came to recover the fragment that broke through our bathroom roof and put me in a coma for two weeks.

For some time now I’ve been thinking that I’ve probably held on to that fragment for long enough. When you visited me in hospital, I remember you telling me that you thought there were lots of people who’d like to see my meteorite for themselves, and I’m sure you were right. It’s difficult to explain why precisely, but this feels like the right time for me to say goodbye. I guess I don’t feel like I really
need
to keep my meteorite for myself any more. Perhaps it’s because I’m feeling so much better.

Anyway, I thought you’d probably be the best person to ask how I should proceed with this matter. I’d be happy to hand my meteorite over to your custody at Imperial College if it would help your research or if there’s a suitable home for it there, but as I’ve said, really I’d like to donate it to some kind of museum or gallery where as many people as possible can see and enjoy it. If you could suggest somewhere, I’d be very grateful.

Yours sincerely,

Alex Woods

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Sat, 16 May 2009 10:32 AM

Subject: RE: Meteorite

Dear Alex,

I’m very well (thank you for asking), and I’m delighted to hear that you’re feeling so much better.

With regard to your meteorite, this is an extremely generous offer (and a very welcome one!) but I need to be sure that it’s definitely what you want. You shouldn’t feel compelled or obliged to do this. No one would dispute your right to hold on to your meteorite, and certainly no one would think less of you for doing so.

Having said this, it is a marvellous specimen, and given its unique historical significance, I know that there are many thousands of people who would love the opportunity to see it ‘in the flesh’ (as it were). Either way, this is your decision, and you should be one hundred per cent certain before you choose.

If you do wish to proceed, then I would suggest that there could be no better home for your meteorite than the Natural History Museum. They already have a wonderful assortment of meteorites from all around the world, and I know they would be absolutely thrilled to add yours to the collection. I should warn you, though, that the museum will
wish to publicize your donation, and it’s likely to attract some media attention too. At the very least, I’m sure that they’ll want you to deliver your meteorite to the museum in person, so that they can meet you and hear your story firsthand.

Although I shall be awaiting your reply very eagerly, I advise that you take a few more days to think about this before you make up your mind. This isn’t something you should rush into. Furthermore, I feel it would be remiss of me to allow you to proceed without first making sure you understand the monetary value of your meteorite, which is considerable. As you may be aware, metal meteorite usually sells for £1 per gram on the open market, but large specimens, and those prized for their historical or scientific significance, often go for much, much more. Given the significance of
your
meteorite, I would think you could easily add a zero to the end of its normal market value. So, please, take some more time to think about this! If you still wish to proceed later on, I’ll be happy to get in touch with the museum on your behalf and make all the necessary arrangements. And if you have any questions in the meantime, please email or phone me at work and I’ll get back to you asap.