The Fate of Pryde, the second in TheTrilogy of Remembrance.

The Fate of Pryde Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

At dusk, several days later, Alexander and Peter walked toward Piccadilly Arcade.

            “Who’s this Professor Callan we’re going to see?” Alex asked.

            Peter made a wry face. “He was my philosophy professor at Oxford.”

            “You’ve kept in touch over the years?”

            Peter nodded. “He was a real mentor to me when I needed one.”

            Alex chuckled. “Got you out of a few scrapes, did he?”

            Peter grinned. “Only the academic kind. Nothing else.” 

Both of them slowed their pace as they approached the arcade with its grand entrance composed of three Corinthian columns and topped with rounded arches. The broad, open steps invited one and all inward.

As they crossed the threshold, faux-gas lamps flickered on. Chandeliers, hanging in the passageway, suddenly lit up and glowed intensely in cheery greeting. Before them lay a dazzling black and white tiled corridor spread out like an endless checkerboard. Bow-shaped store fronts, framed in marble and brass, disappeared upward into dark, vaulted ceilings, but the chatter of crowds drew attention back down to the life streaming below.

A dream-like state crept over Alex. He removed his hat, which resembled a peaked hunter’s cap. He gaped upward and whispered in tones of reverence, “It’s almost like entering another world. Soft sounds…muted colors.”

Peter hunched into his heavy sweater as if seeking protection. “Feels like I’ve returned to the womb. Pretty soon, I’ll be claustrophobic.”

Alex continued to gawk. For him, the arcade was much more than a collection of shops connecting Piccadilly and Jermyn Street. It was a marvelous temple of art and commerce, steeped in history. London’s famed West End had started there almost four centuries ago.

His eyes glided lovingly over the colonnades, arches, filigreed latticework and ornate ceilings. With his dream-like state deepening, he could vividly imagine ladies in bustle dresses and men in elegant, bespoke-tailored suits and top hats, swirling out of the past and into the present. Right here in this arcade, politicians, poets and painters of centuries past mingled with their patrons—the wealthy aristocrats. All time had stopped and now stood as one.

Alex walked on and paused at the first shop—a tailor’s— where he surveyed bolts of the finest wools and silks spread upon the tables. Next door, displays of antique gold and silver trays and serving spoons were laid out among the china and crystal glassware.

Alex waved his arm to encompass the entire length and breadth of the arcade. “What would you call all this?”

Peter shrugged.

“It’s a glimpse inside the creative mind of thousands of human beings. It makes me wonder what’s more important—the artist or the art they produce?

Peter frowned.

“Surely it’s the creative artist. The producer not the product. This is an interior landscape of the human mind straight from our imaginations. Shows what we really care about. ” Alex grinned and grasped his friend’s arm. “Someday I’ll paint it all.”

            Peter said, “I thought you were going to do stained glass.” He glanced at his watch. “Say, we’re going to be late for the professor’s book launch.”

Alex, breaking from his reveries, quickened his stride. “Tell me more about Callan.”

            “He’s a weird sort of chap—all sorts of contradictions.”