All of this I remembered as I strode toward that door, as I pushed it open and emerged into the cold wet April air. I crossed the parking lot in the rain, much as I had in memory, got into my car and started the engine and sat there, waiting for the heat to come on, to take the fog off the windows. It took a long time, and when I finally pulled out of the library parking lot, my face was still wet.
It was difficult to find anywhere to park at SUNY Milan. The buildings were low, and cracked cement was everywhere, and I struggled to find the visitor lot on the water-damaged campus map. Eventually I flagged down a passing university policeman and he told me where to go.
The department of sociology was housed in a long brick structure that resembled a passenger train, its wide windows tinted against the sun and sealed shut. The building directory hung just inside the double doors, and it led me to the far end, where the office I sought was located. PROFESSOR LYDIA BULGAKOV, a sign read, followed by a schedule. I read the schedule, glanced at my watch, and sat down in a nearby chair to wait.
An hour later, a figure appeared far down at the end of the hall and strode toward me on strong, compact legs. She was rather short, in her late forties, with broad hips, narrow shoulders, and a wide, round face surrounded by wild gray-black curls. A pile of books and papers was balanced in her arms. She appeared puzzled by my presence, and offered me an appraising glance as she drew a set of keys from a skirt pocket and unlocked the office door. I heard the thump of her schoolwork hitting a desk, and then her head appeared around the jamb. “You’re here to see me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then come in.”
The office was small but comfortable, with bookshelves concealing the cinderblock walls, and several table lamps filling the room with warm yellow light. Lydia Bulgakov sat down behind a large metal desk and gestured to a chair beside it.
“I thought you would be Russian,” I said, taking a seat.
“I am Russian.”
“Your English is unaccented.”
She nodded. “My family immigrated here when I was ten. I have been told that my accent returns when I have had a glass or two of wine, but I suspect this is wishful thinking on the part of my acquaintances. And you are?”
I told her my name. “I have come to ask you about a former colleague of yours, a man named Avery Stiles.”
She shook her head. “Not a former colleague. He was gone years before I came here. I was still a child, in fact.”
I told her about the article I had found, and the allusion to his “sad story.” I said that I had found his wife’s obituary and wanted to know what other information she had about him. I asked her these questions respectfully, deferentially, as I sensed a certain self-confidence in Professor Bulgakov, a haughtiness even, which my usual methods of questioning, it was clear, would do little to penetrate.
Professor Bulgakov nodded, leaning forward. She was very serious, though I gathered that this was her general manner, and not a reaction to the subject at hand. She said, “My understanding is that, in the wake of his family’s deaths, Doctor Stiles gradually withdrew from the university community, stopped publishing his research, and became difficult to understand. He had been working on operant conditioning, following some of the work of B. F. Skinner, but his research became strange and his funding evaporated. He was retired early after an incident with a student, and he left academia and apparently moved away.”
She was an excellent speaker, curling her lips around each word as if she were tasting it. Her enunciation was precise. Clearly her late adoption of English had prevented her from taking it for granted; her speaking skills were a source of considerable pride.
“What kind of incident with a student?” I asked, trying not to appear too eager.
“A young man. He was a volunteer for one of Doctor Stiles’s studies, and not long after his visits to Doctor Stiles’s lab, he entered into a paranoid, delusional state and tried to kill another student. The young man later admitted that he had been taking LSD. But reporters also learned that he had been one of Doctor Stiles’s test subjects, and they seized upon this detail, which subsequently captured the public’s imagination. Once reporters realized what an eccentric Doctor Stiles was, they played up this angle, and he became known as a violent madman.”
I asked if his studies were, in fact, violent or cruel. The question seemed to make Professor Bulgakov uncomfortable. She let out a small grunt and adjusted her position in her seat. “Perhaps,” she said at last. “You have to remember what life was like during that era. The Holocaust was still recent history. The Vietnam War was under way. Experimentation with mind-altering drugs was a strong cultural theme. As far as I can tell, Doctor Stiles was working on depriving and confusing his subjects, removing them from their social context. He wanted to see how quickly a person could be broken down — how strong his personality actually was. I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that many people can be broken down very quickly.”
There was a silence as I digested what she had said. She settled back into her chair. Finally I leaned forward, placing my fingers on the edge of her desk. “What do you mean by that, exactly?” I asked.
She arched an eyebrow. “Well, the human mind, in spite—”
“No — you said, ‘It will come as no surprise to you.’”
She stared at me.
“Why should that come as no surprise to me, Professor Bulgakov?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“I am wondering what you think you know about me that would make you believe that.”
She appeared puzzled for a moment, perhaps in earnest, perhaps not. I realized that I was testing her, to find out if she were testing me. Perhaps, on some level, every human interaction was a psychological experiment.
“All I meant,” she said slowly, “was that, in the wake of the sixties, and of our military adventures abroad, most intelligent people have absorbed the idea that none of us is ever very far from emotional collapse.” When I offered no reply, she went on. “Our personalities are complex, but the animal instincts they conceal are stronger, and not very far below the surface.” She met my stare and said, “Don’t you agree, Mr. Loesch?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered.
“You are dissatisfied with my explanation.”
“No, no,” I said. I must have appeared lost in thought, because I had been trying to figure out how Professor Bulgakov had learned my name. Had I introduced myself? Surely I had. But I couldn’t remember.
Suddenly it was I who felt uncomfortable. I pulled back from the desk, rubbed my hands together, and stood up to leave. “Well,” I said. “Thank you, Professor. You’ve been very helpful.”
Lydia Bulgakov appeared surprised at my sudden change in demeanor. “By all means,” she said, frowning.
I nodded once, then turned toward the door. As I was about to pass through it, she called out, “Mr. Loesch?”