• • •
ARE WE ALL BACK? Does anyone have any questions or comments to make?
Actually, the curfew was more of an annoyance factor. If you could demonstrate persuasively to the police that your reasons for being out were nonpolitical, you were likely to get off with a warning and the instructions to go right home. Unless you were a male with long hair. Later the National Guard brought tanks into Berkeley and stationed them at critical intersections, but even this was primarily for show. Though you must remember that there was real fighting and some serious injury.
Well, cats are one of those topics on which you find only partisans. You love cats or you hate cats; no one is indifferent. I can’t explain this. Perhaps these questions are taking us a little far afield. The course is Romance. The point of view is female. Does anyone have a question that is a little more penetrating?
No, no, we will be looking at the romances of older (and younger) women later. Mrs. Kirk will not be a focus, although we will be meeting her. Her partiality for alcohol would make her a difficult subject. Absorption is tricky enough without the added complication of chemical abuse. Let me tell you, though, that on the two occasions when Mrs. Kirk’s husband has remarried, his wives have both been thirty-three years of age. He himself was fifty-two and then fifty-eight. Mrs. Kirk herself is now fifty-eight, and in 1969 if she had become enamored of a man of thirty-three, even in Berkeley, this would have been considered humorous or pathetic. Yet Mrs. Kirk at fifty-eight, judging by appearance alone, has aged less than Mr. Kirk at fifty-eight. There may be variables in this situation, the significance of which we have not yet grasped. Keep the issue in mind, though for the purpose of our current case study all the participants are contemporaries. In the back there?
He was not really a Count. Yes?
Those changes are sexual. The course is Romance. We will not be discussing them this term, although you will find them even more pronounced when the subjects are younger and male.
I must mention to you the possibility of sensory overload in this next Encounter. We are going with Linda to the party. The room is smoky and hot; the music is loud and primitive. This will be an exercise in academic detachment. Ready?
• • •
GRETCHEN HAD OFFERED Linda grass before she left, but Linda had refused. She wanted to keep her wits about her, but now, standing in the open doorway to 201, she realizes suddenly that in a couple of hours she will be surrounded by drunken strangers. And she will still be sober. There is nothing to drink but beer, and she finds the taste of beer extremely vile.
The Doors are on the stereo: “Twentieth Century Fox.” Linda is glad Gretchen is not there. Just yesterday Gretchen had called Leopold’s to ask them to remove records with sexist lyrics from the bins. She had a list of the most outrageous offenders.
“Sure,” the salesman on the phone had said. “Anything for you chicks. Why don’t you come down and we’ll talk about it. Are you a fox?”
“No, I’m a dog,” said Gretchen, slamming down the phone and repeating the conversation to Linda. “Male chauvinist pig!”
Linda passes Dave on her way in. He is in the kitchen washing some glasses. Suzette is with him, perched on the countertop. She has dressed for the evening as Nancy Sinatra, short skirt, white boots, mane of sensuous hair. She is leaning into Dave’s face, saying something in a low, intimate whisper. Linda cannot hear what she says, doesn’t even want to know. Anything Suzette says is rendered interesting and charming by that damned accent she has. Linda doesn’t say hello to either of them.
She finds Kenneth and he hands her a beer, which she accepts tactfully. “I was just thinking of you,” Kenneth says. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got someone I think you’ll like.” He uses his elbows to force a path through the ROTC. Linda has to follow very closely; it closes up behind them like water. At the end of the path is the living room couch. On the couch is a thin, pale woman with eyeliner all around her eyes. She’s done her lashes like Twiggy, tops and bottoms. No lipstick, but she’s wearing a skirt and nylons. This surprises Linda, who glances around quickly and sees that a lot of people in the room have legs. She is wearing jeans herself, not Levi’s, since Levi’s doesn’t make a jean small enough to fit her, not even boys’ jeans, which are too large at the waist and too small through the hips, but as close to Levi’s as she is capable of coming. They should have been appropriate to the occasion, but Gretchen was right. Linda finds herself in the fifties, where it is still possible to underdress. Where did Kenneth find these people?
Next to the woman on the couch is a man, and this is who Kenneth introduces her to. “Ben Bryant,” he says. “A writer. Ben, this is Linda Connors.” He looks pleased. “A reader,” he adds. “She reads everything. She even reads nonfiction.” He starts to introduce the woman, his hand is opened in her direction, but he never finishes. “And this is—” he says. “Margaret! You made it! Far out!” and he is gone, a little heat remaining where he had been standing. Linda moves into it.
A man behind her is talking above the music in a loud voice. “But Sergeant Pepper is the best album ever made. The Beatles have ennobled rock and roll.”
Another man, higher voice, responds. “Ennobled! They’ve sanitized it. It used to be black! It used to be dangerous!”
Linda smiles at Ben even though she is nervous and he is wearing a thin sweater vest with leather buttons, which she doesn’t think looks promising. “I don’t really read that much,” she says. “Kenneth is easily impressed.”
“Melanie and I,” says Ben, “were just discussing the difference between male and female writers. I was comparing Jane Austen to Joseph Conrad.”
“I like Austen,” says Linda warningly.
“So do I. What she does, she does well. But you must admit the scope of her work is rather limited.”
“Must I?” Linda’s uncomfortableness is disappearing.
“The difference between the two, as I was just telling Melanie, is the difference between insight and gossip.”
Linda looks at Melanie. Her face is impassive. “I’m not so sure a clear distinction can be made between the two. Who knows more about people than the gossip?”
“You’re playing devil’s advocate,” says Ben comfortably.
“I’m expressing my true opinion.”
Ben settles back in the couch, crossing his arms. “I don’t want you to think that I think the differences are biologically determined. No. This is a sociological limitation. Women’s writing is restricted because women’s lives have been restricted. They’re still capable of writing well-crafted little books.”
Linda opens her mouth and Gretchen’s voice comes out. “You’ve lived a pretty full life?” she asks.
“I’ve traveled. Extensively.”
“So have I. I was in Indonesia when Sukarno fell. Grown men circumcised themselves in the hope of passing as Muslims.” Linda sees Ben shift slightly in his seat. “Circumcised themselves. Someday I may want to write about the things I’ve seen.” She has won the argument, but she has cheated to do it. Linda has never even been to Santa Barbara. Dr. MacPherson was in Indonesia when Sukarno fell and has described it so vividly Linda knows she can carry it off if she is challenged. She isn’t. Ben is looking at his lap. Linda’s mood is black. She has been at the party maybe fifteen minutes and already she has betrayed her sex. Worse, she has betrayed Jane Austen. She isn’t fit to live. Linda punishes herself by taking a large sip of beer. And another. She holds her breath and swallows and decides she has paid enough. She abandons her glass by the couch and pointedly directs her words to Melanie. “Excuse me,” she says. “There’s someone I have to talk to.”