‘…that you would adapt your teaching methods to Australian conditions and consult us more than you seem willing to do. After all, why persist with an exchange program without any meaningful exchange? As it stands, your pass rate for your last test, if I’m not mistaken, is two out of twenty. Which brings me to a rather more delicate subject. There are rumours circulating about you and a female student.’
‘What rumours?’ I sit on my hands to stop them shaking.
‘You’ve been seen out together, that sort of thing. I’ve no facts, so pass no judgment. And it’s a safe bet that the rumour mongers have their own agendas. Monger I suspect in this case. Off the record, I’ll go further.’ Enright leans forward, sympathetic. ‘There’s a distinct whiff of dirty pool, doing down a rival, and I’ve been around enough of these situations to know. Nevertheless, there are strict rules for teacher-student relationships, and even a minor breach can be quite serious.’
Enright pauses, the unspoken words hanging in the air. Much stricter than in your father’s day. Because we know how he ended up. ‘Especially when it appears to influence academic assessment. Please bear that in mind. Ostorozhno. Be careful.’
I find Jonas sitting alone in the cafeteria. He nods, lips drawn in a grimace the polar opposite of a smile.
‘We need to talk,’ I say in Russian, to catch the saboteur off guard.
‘About Karen? What’s there to discuss?’ Jonas dabs his lips with a napkin. ‘If it’s any consolation, she hasn’t done my career any good either.’
‘Accuse me directly. Then I can defend myself.’
‘I can’t help you. You’re on your own now.’ Cold, clipped English. Jonas chucks his plate into the disposal bin and stands up. ‘A word of advice, Vassili. I spend Saturdays combing through job ads. The way you’re going, you’ll be doing the same.’
Judy phoned a week later to arrange – insist upon – today’s appointment with Enright. Rather than ask her the purpose of the meeting I thanked her for calling, cut her short, and sat down to draft the letter.
I chase down my Victoria Street tram. Before other passengers can alight I barge aboard, knocking an old lady backwards. Regaining her feet, she glares at me. The entire tram joins in the reproach.
‘You right?’
‘Fuckin’ eejit.’
‘It’s the tie. Stops the blood supply to the brain.’
I can’t help but agree with all of that, especially the last. I’ve always despised ties, only wore this, my one and only, a cross-cut of saffron teamed with an asbestos-grey suit, at our wedding. Anna had half-jokingly threatened to place me under house arrest if I turned up with a naked collar. Standing before the bathroom mirror, acquaintance renewed, I loop the fat end twice and tug to square the knot. Either the wide end dangles to my crotch or the skinny bit protrudes from underneath. The margin of error a couple of centimetres each way. Male conundrum.
As planned, I arrive twenty minutes early.
‘David’s still in with a group of students, Vassili. Make yourself a cuppa. He shouldn’t be much longer.’
‘I am afraid I have no more time,’ I say. ‘Please give the professor this.’ I hand her my letter. How I underestimate myself, carrying off the second or third most reckless act of my life with sociopathic aplomb.
‘Oh. Are you sure you can’t stay?’ Judy seems to guess the letter’s contents. ‘He is very anxious to see you. He wants to discuss your contract for next year.’
Couples lie together on the grass, heads nestled in each other’s laps. They sit up bemused as a baggy police uniform galumphs around, wagging an admonishing baton. Two other students dressed as police sit at a stall beneath a banner. SOCIETY AGAINST SEX ON THE SOUTH LAWNS. ‘Sir! A small donation to a worthy cause?’ I manage a smile, hand over a two-dollar coin and walk on. I am hoping today is the last time a Kurguzikov sets foot on campus.
★
WEST GATE BRIDGE
★
The Camry purrs into life. A fingertip on a button slides my window down into its pocket with a satisfied sigh. I straighten my taxi driver’s silver and black epaulettes, toss the Herald Sun onto the back seat. I thread the car park exit to the bluestone alleyway off Punt Road. Fans are converging on Australia versus England night cricket. Arthritic outshoots of a sickly yet fecund hydrangea poke through a gap in the fence. Ten centimetres either side risks scraping a door handle or dinging the rear-vision mirror. My forearms ache but my mind is quicksilver.
Carlos the Jackal a.k.a. Vassili Kurguzikov, DOB 18/08/1966, Licence Number 040168534, currently registered with the Victorian Taxi Directorate, glowers at my passengers. Why do I photograph so badly? At the opposite periphery of the windscreen is a twinkling icon I christened Sergey the Patron Saint of Mechanically Underwhelmed Cabbies. Few self-respecting Russian cabbies drive without an icon. Notwithstanding Sergey’s doubtful provenance or a dodgy knick-knacks shop off Collins Street, not one flat tyre or any other malfunction in six weeks and the gauge nudges empty more often than I care to admit. Belligerent passengers are thus far urban myth. Even on quiet nights I clear a hundred-plus. Like any reforming agnostic I hedge bets till the last cards fall. What would Saint Sergey’s recently departed, fiercely iconoclastic namesake say? A long lucky streak, is all.
Defeating my best efforts at self-sabotage, I scored the taxi job and hung on to the university contract. My resignation letter, at once abject and self-aggrandizing, began by explaining that, in time of bereavement, I hoped the professor did not mind that I wrote in Russian. For the professor well knew that raw emotion brought the most accomplished linguist undone. But I had come to the painful realisation teaching was not for me – a recessive gene perhaps? (lame joke). Inside and outside the classroom I had fallen short. In respect of the alleged misconduct with the student I could eat dinner off my conscience (discordant pompous note). Having her around to my flat and being seen with her on other occasions, however innocently, was too easily misconstrued and could bring disrepute upon the department at a parlous stage of its existence. I added a coy reference to family precedent, but crossed it out. For these reasons, to say nothing of my widowed mother, I should cut short my stay and return home at the earliest opportunity. I would of course repay the balance of the exchange endowment covering my remaining living and accommodation expenses, amounting to five thousand Australian dollars by my own calculations.
Enright’s posted reply in English, signed, on university letterhead, came within a week. In the professor’s opinion I greatly undervalued what I brought to the programme even if this was as yet not reflected in the academic results – but one measure. Simply by being present I breathed life into a dry syllabus. The motivated minority pushed themselves all the more, the rest dropped away as they must. I should not see myself as any kind of failure. As to my plans, the university would respect whatever decision I took. There were pencilled-in dates for summer school but enrolments had been in decline for a few years and in all likelihood would not be viable. Moreover the university planned to merge the Russian department into a larger, as yet unnamed entity, ensuring the exchange program would not continue beyond my term. In any event I had fulfilled all my obligations and the department would take a compassionate approach to my situation. My Australian visa should therefore remain valid until March 8, the expiry date stamped in my passport.
March 8 also marks the full term of Anna’s pregnancy. If Nikolai pops out on time, on Australian soil, we will take home an impeccable travel record, beachhead for his future migration should Russia implode.