Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. I needed to find a topic of conversation quickly. I immediately dismissed anything to do with music, because the truth is, I wasn’t up to it. And that made me think I should tell the Metro to keep shtum about our own lousy musical performances. Of course, the more I tried to think of something to say, the harder it was to come up with anything. In the end I felt it would be best to leave, because it was going to get awkward. She put away her cello, sat down on her bed and stared hard at me.
“I’ve got something I want to put to you…”
I felt my head shrink down into my shoulders. I smelt a rat.
“Yes, what?”
“Well, look. I’ve got you into a mess by trying to help you…”
“Yes, but it’s my fault as well. I’m too complicated to take this sort of thing lightly.”
“You know I’m a good student.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“My parents had me tested. I remember the result. The psychologist’s words are engraved on my brain: ‘Very high IQ.’”
“IQ? What does that stand for? Incredible quality?”
“Intelligence quotient, you dummy. You know, what you have in your brain… And mine is well above average, with an astonishing memory and an exceptional aptitude for conceptualization.”
I tried to look as though I understood, but I didn’t know what the word “conceptualization” meant. I wasn’t too sure about “aptitude” either.
“So what?” I said. “I couldn’t care less. Do you want to give me your CV as well?”
“I couldn’t care less either, that’s not the point. The point is that if you want, I can help you study.”
“Study?”
“Yes. Revise with you. Explain things you haven’t understood. Help you catch up.”
My mouth dropped open and all the colours of the rainbow must have passed across my face. My brain was completely scrambled and everything was getting jumbled up: Reshevsky, Alexandre Dumas, Mozart, Marin what’s-his-name, the lady with the Camellias and d’Artagnan, even Lucky Luke and the Tour de France. I barely had the strength to reply.
“I’ll have to think about it. I need to get used to the idea.”
To be honest, it didn’t really tie in with how I thought of myself: as a kind of subversive guitar hero.
I picked up my coat, but just before leaving I asked her, as a sort of challenge, “What if I asked you to name the technical innovation that was introduced in Panhard cars in the 1901 Paris–Berlin motor race? Hmm? Would you be able to find that out?”
“I’ll find it out.”
That’s it, you have a good look, brainbox, I said to myself on the way home, savouring my victory in advance. Look as hard as you like…