‘What does that mean to you, to feel American?’
‘Released,’ I said. As I explained my view of America, that everything in it, from its architecture to its patterns of speech, was the expression of the single, simple sensation of release, the buzzer sounded, bringing the session to an end.
I stood up from the couch and went out through the small room where the next patient was waiting. I was just leaving the building when I heard Dr Schrever’s voice behind me.
‘Lawrence, would you mind just stepping back in here for a moment?’
I went back into her room. She closed the door.
‘You seem to have left something for me,’ she said, pointing at the couch.
There on the crimson corduroy lay Mr Kurwen’s glass eye. I had forgotten this misdemeanor. The eye must have been in my pocket ever since I had picked it up from Mr Kurwen’s kitchen floor the night before.
Before I knew it – without even the usual warning – I began to turn the same color as Dr Schrever’s couch. She looked at me quizzically.
‘I can explain -’ I blustered, seeing her little notebook on the shelf by her chair.
‘Perhaps next time?’
She picked the glass ball from the couch with the tips of her fingers and handed it back to me.
Outside it was clear and chilly. Sunlight glinted on the new snow bordering the paths into the park. It must have been warm enough to melt the top layer of flakes, as there was a smooth metallic crust over the surface. I found myself wandering in through one of the small entrances. Up through the trees the sky was a fabulous dark fluorescent blue. I stared at it for several blissful seconds. Looking back down, I saw the woman I had mistaken for Dr Schrever. She was heading out of the park on a path that intersected with mine.
I looked hard, to make doubly sure it was her. Shortish dark hair, olive skin; that particular look of casual elegance… It was unmistakably her. She was wearing a long green coat with astrakhan collar and cuffs, and ankle boots trimmed with black fur or wool.
As she reached our intersection, crossing it ahead of me, I had a sudden urge to catch up with her and accost her. I quickened my pace. She must have been aware of me out of the corner of her eye. She turned and paused, looking directly at me. There under the eaves of her dark hair were two golden earrings. Aretes! I almost said the word aloud as I remembered the woman Trumilcik had met in the photograph line at the INS building. For she had lived, had she not, up here? A block north of the Dakota Building… Smiling broadly, I walked on towards her. At that, with an abrupt tightening of her lips, she moved off; not running, but unmistakably hurrying away from me.
I stopped at once, realising what she had taken me for. I had only wanted to ask her if by any chance she happened to be a friend of Bogomil Trumilcik, and if so, to talk to her about him, but obviously she couldn’t have known that.
Even so, I was dismayed to think that my appearance – smiling, in broad daylight, with other people about – could cause such an emphatic recoil.
I went on down to the lake, feeling extremely angry with myself. Leaving Mr Kurwen’s eye like that on Dr Schrever’s couch had made me look like a liar and a fool. So much for my ‘Americanness’! And now this little incident had made me look like a dirty old man in a park.
In a rather childish fit of pique, I took Mr Kurwen’s eye from my pocket and hurled it into the half-frozen lake. Instead of landing in the water, it embedded itself in a floating island of ice, staring skyward.
Unknown to me at the time, this action was observed from the path above me, by the woman with the golden earrings.
CHAPTER 5
By the time our committee met on Monday, I had made up my mind what to do about Elaine.
I went up to the meeting room, Room 243, a few minutes early, in the hope of finding a moment with her alone.
She was there, but not alone. Zena Sayeed, a Palestinian mathematician, was with her. Elaine looked at me and turned away without a word. I was prepared for something like this, and had in fact made a point of wearing the same shirt – the blue one with black buttons – as a signal, should we not have an opportunity to talk until later. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for the past few nights. Her eyes were red-rimmed; her face looked bloated and shapeless. Steeling myself, I went and sat next to her. She continued to ignore me. A moment later Roger arrived in the room with the fifth member of the committee.
Room 243 was a plain, drab seminar room with a chalkboard, globe lamps full of scorched moths, and a long, oak-veneer table, one side of which the five of us now occupied in a row.
As usual I took the minutes, while Roger, seated in the center, explained to us the nature of the complaint that had been brought against Bruno Jackson.
A Junior, Kenji Makota, had been grumbling about a low grade that Bruno had given him on a paper. He had told his adviser that it might have been higher if he had been ‘cute, with breasts’. The adviser had pressed the student to explain exactly what he meant. He had then persuaded him to put his perception of Bruno’s grading practices into writing.
‘The point is,’ Roger continued, ‘is that if a student thinks she or he is being unfairly treated because of an instructor’s involvement with another student, then we’re obligated to start harassment proceedings, even if that other student hasn’t complained. Now, under the circumstances, and Elaine will correct me if I’m wrong, I don’t think we’re looking at a mandatory termination of contract here, which we would be if the other student had complained. But we ought to at least give the guy something to think about by bringing him here in front of us. My guess is the threat of a permanent stain on his academic record ought to be enough to stop him from continuing in this pattern of behavior. That way even if he denies any involvement with his students, which he probably will given our presumption-of-guilt policy, we’ll have done our job of protecting the kids, without subjecting everyone to the upheaval of a full-blown investigation. Agreed?’
We all nodded, though as I did so I cleared my throat, realising that I had come to a decision about something that had been on my mind for several days.
‘Roger,’ I said, ‘would you mind explaining the presumption-of-guilt policy?’
‘It’s very simple. If an instructor is discovered to be having a relationship with a student, and there’s a complaint, then the presumption is he’s – or she is – guilty of sexual harassment. The onus is entirely on the instructor to prove there’s no harassment involved.’
‘By “discovered” you mean…’
His blue eyes danced over my face for a moment. I felt the attention of my colleagues turn toward me, alert and curious.
‘Either there’s an accusation from the victim along with testimony from one or more witness, and the committee deems it sound, or else -’
‘- What about if the harassment is observed by a credible witness?’
‘You mean if the harasser’s caught in flagrante? Absolutely!’
‘This is a little difficult for me,’ I said.
Even Elaine turned to me at this point, her reddened eyes (tear-scoured, I thought, as well as sleep-deprived) wide open. I made a point of addressing my remarks as much to her as to Roger.
‘I happened to see Bruno with one of his students late the other night, down at the train station.’
‘A female student?’ Roger asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Was he harassing her?’
‘I would have to say that he was, yes.’
Zena Sayeed turned toward me.
‘What was he doing?’ She was a heavy-eyed, world-weary woman.
‘He was trying to persuade her to go back to New York with him. He was kissing her.’
‘And she did not want to go with him?’ Zena asked, with what I felt was an edge of private, ironic amusement.