Page 50 of The Black Table
It’s fiendishly hard to tell. There’s no spaces between words, nothing at all but guesswork, so I draw slashes for various places they could fall in my transliteration, like solving a jigsaw puzzle in reverse. My handwriting has always been terrible, and all I have is a crappy ballpoint on a drugstore notebook while Kingston, of course, has creamy perfect bound pages and what looks like an actual Montblanc fountain pen. Well, fine. I don’t need expensive stationery to do this well. I’ve translated Latin in classrooms with black mold and water-wrinkled textbooks. Hell, I took the AP exam at the local public school that was later found out to have a radon leak. This, by comparison, is luxury.
No, not even by comparison, I think. I indulge myself in a pause and look around.This isit, I think. Bookcases crammed with the full Loeb Classical Library of Cicero and Vergil and Ovid, fading posters of the Colosseum, of Mont-Saint-Michel, of the Bayeux Tapestry, the clanking radiator that’s not doing much to keep the room warm, the quiet murmuring, the eccentric professor, the smell of paper and distant woodsmoke.
It’s my dream. It’s what I wanted. And I’m here.
I will not let anyone take this from me, I vow. Not Elena, not Kingston, not even myself.
A rumble yanks me out of my daydream, a rumble I realize with horror is coming from my own stomach. I press my forearm against the front of my sweater, trying to muffle it, but that does nothing, of course. Kingston moves, but barely, like I startled him, but he’s instinctively too polite to acknowledge the audible bodily functions of anyone next to him, especially, I suppose, a girl.
I bite my lip and swallow my spit, as if that maybe is enough for my stomach to digest and stay quiet. I scratch more along the words, darting back.If the sentence ends here, which it would because that’s the verb, then that would mean…no, that doesn’t make any sense.
I scribble out an entire column of words and start again. Meanwhile, Kingston is writing elegantly, no scratch-outs, only lines neatly arranged like soldiers on the battlefield. I keep going, and again, a stomach rumble. Fainter this time, but still noticeable.
Behind me, someone snickers. I’m sure it’s hilarious, I think. If everyone on campus weren’t determined to make my mealtimes so difficult, maybe I wouldn’t be starving by the time my afternoon class rolled around.
This time, Kingston does move, and I flinch, ready for him to say something cutting, or to scooch further away from me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he dips down to his own leather bag and slips a hand inside retrieving something crinkly that he sets on the table between us.
It’s a plastic sleeve of almonds. Roasted. Unsalted. Unopened.
“Ah, the humble almond.” Dr. Emrys appears in front of our table. “Feeling a bit peckish, Mr. Pendragon?” He smiles. “Did it occur to you to ask for permission to eat in this class? I don’t like making a habit of it, even around facsimiles.”
“They’re not mine,” Kingston says. “They’re hers.”
Hers, I think. Like he can’t even say my name. And what is he trying to do? Pin this whole thing on me so that I get in trouble again for something completely trivial?
“In many medieval depictions of Jesus Christ,” Dr. Emrys says, hefting the package aloft, “the almond plays a critical role. Do you know what that is?”
Kingston shakes his head, even looks at me as if I’m supposed to know. I shake my head too.
“The risen savior is depicted within an oblong shaped aura of light,” Dr. Emrys goes on, “not a halo per se, but a whole body encasement with two pointed ends—like a narrow football, I suppose, although American football wouldn’t be invented for centuries.” He opens the package, tips a nut into his hand, and holds it between his thumb and forefinger, pointysides, up and down. “You see? A mandorla, they call it. Italian for…”
“Almond,” I finish.
Dr. Emrys smiles broader. “Precisely.” He hands me the package. “No crumbs, Ms. Vale. And you’re not to make a habit of this.”
Stunned, not sure what to do, I just nod and accept the package from him like it had been mine all along. I look at Kingston, wondering if I should thank him, but he has gone back to his work, eyes focused once more. I sit there dumbly, not knowing what to do. I don’t have any reason to think he’s being nice, but I don’t feel like I should trust him either. Then again, the package was sealed. They’re Blue Diamond brand, nothing weird that I haven’t heard of. And if he’s trying to pull some shit…
My stomach growls again.Stupid human body, I think. I pour a small handful into my palm and crunch them away.
It’s not much, but it’s enough. And maybe it’s the infinitesimal rise in my blood sugar, or maybe it’s just the fact that Kingston did something wordless and arguably kind for me, despite giving me a literal cold shoulder sitting next to him. But when I look back at our manuscript facsimile, I see it.
“It’s…” I whisper. I glance at Kingston, still trained on his notebook. “Kingston,” I say, realizing too late how strange it sounds to say his name aloud.
He snaps to look at me, almost eerily quickly, and…those eyes. There’s something about them. Not the color so much as the focus, the intensity. It’s not cruel or judgmental, just…singular.
Like once I’ve commanded his attention, he’ll take in nothing else until he’s satisfied I’ve said my piece.
I don’t like people seeing me like that.
Generally.
But I don’t mind this.
I swallow, the almond dust clinging to my throat. “It’s macaronic,” I whisper. “Look.” I trace my pen over the letters without writing on the facsimile: a cluster of letters, and then a little bit of ways, another. “It’s LatinandGreek. The whole thing’s a trick question.”
Kingston looks away from me, stares at the paper. Stares so hard I think he might be avoiding engaging with me until I realize he’s reading, without even having to transcribe it.
And then, at the corner of his mouth, the barest twitch of muscle. Satisfaction. Agreement.
