Vadrais stands, now also swinging at hinges, stiffly made. “Mr. Dorris has developed certain ideas and, in particular, an algorithm that does promise to be lucrative. However, the terms of the offer you have made him are not sufficient to persuade him to authorize the school to. .”
And then things start getting ugly. The Demon-king bristles. Pulling back, he increases in size till he towers over the entire room, a grim Gargantua. I think then that he might windmill his arms or soar through the air or double over into an elephant and invite the trustees to mount him and ride on his back into battle. His accusations fly like a downward volley of arrows at Vadrais and Lew, some sticking in the wall, some in the table, some hanging, tips embedded in Vadrais’s clipboard. I hear the words “Homeland” and “Security” and murmurs sweep like electric current through the room. Vadrais comes to his feet, wielding his hand like a scimitar and throwing out countercharges—“coercion” and “neglect” and “red tape” off his lips like throwing stars. Again and again they come at each other, sometimes landing a clear hit, at others leaving us to guess from thrust velocity and the ensuing shudder. My hand is no longer on my eyelid; things just look this way.
A trustee jumps into the fray. “Let me be clear about this.” He reads off a sheaf of papers. “There were research grants filed through the school? There was a sabbatical, no? In two thousand and. .”
At some point I realize that it’s me he’s addressing, and I nod, since what he says is beyond dispute.
Now the Demon-king whirls to address me. I almost want him to appear paper-thin, as shadow puppets do in the instant they are reversing direction, the instant when the illusion fails. “My understanding is that the department is coming up for review, along with every other expense on campus. Times are tough. We think Umbrology would be much more likely to get funding if, as is the case here, tangible benefits could be pointed to.”
Vadrais jumps in. “For the record, we don’t think that the university necessarily has Lew’s best interest at heart.”
The Demon-king nods. “Maybe Glenn can speak to the integrity of the school. He’s been here longer than. .” He looks around. “Well, let’s just say he’s an institution at this institution.” He chuckles.
The whole room is watching me and waiting. I see Kuperman, Dahlia, jobs hanging in the balance. Dahlia’s, at least. But before I can answer, Vadrais jumps in again. “Lew’s researched this, thanks in part to a very talented student of his who has developed a plan for a start-up.” He doesn’t gesture to Edmund, but we all know whom he’s referring to. “Dr. Dorris believes the private sector is where he can make what he is rightfully entitled to. He has interested investors.”
For some reason my gaze is drawn to Kuperman, and I catch the slight smile percolating over his face, the knowing glance he shoots Dahlia, and know exactly whose connections were used to get these investors. The expression is so subtle it would be hard to convey in shadow theater, exactly the sort of thing that makes it an art.
The look changes nothing. What I say is exactly what I would’ve said anyway. “Dr. Rasmussen, I’m afraid I agree with Mr. Vadrais. I don’t think it is very likely that the school has Lew’s best interests in mind.”
Afterward, there is the brief chaos that ensues when a jury pronounces guilt or innocence, the tumble on one side or the other of the high wire of fate. Formalities are discussed, the school not abnegating its pro forma right to sue, to which Mr. Vadrais only says, “Of course.” And then order returns and we are academics who will sit together at graduation in a matter of weeks. In the hallway, Lew comes up to me, shakes my hand, and thanks me. “Glad you understand, Glenn,” he says, adding, “You always supported me.” Edmund is nowhere to be found.
Later that week, I stand in my driveway watching a total lunar eclipse, one of the most dramatic instances of shadow imaginable. Most shadows happen in black and white. We live in a chromatic world; umbrologists can’t compete. If shadows came in a lavish array, if they suddenly took on their casters’ hues, I might be a rock star (think Strato-). As it is, I’m more like an erhu plucker from northern China, consoling myself with chilly, two-stringed beauty. Not that I would choose to go electric — I’m merely stating a fact about the world.
And another: Not infrequently, shadows do flirt with color, this being one. Because of how the moon moves through Earth’s shadow, coupled with the light-filtering effects of Earth’s atmosphere, the moon appears as bloodred as Mars. The cold metal of my car’s hood yields a bit as I lie back. I want to shout through the neighborhood, pound on doors — rouse the mesmerized viewers of Lost (are they any less lost than the characters on the show?) and the compulsive checkers of email.
I want to share it with someone, but the street is silent. Others, out there beyond my block, must be watching this, too, but I can’t think of anyone. For a moment I consider calling one of my former students — there are over a thousand, with one or two who stand apart, who might pick up warmly, wish to talk about things other than the eclipse, inquire how I am and ask after Saskia. I might take poetic license, borrowing the stories of some of my more illustrious colleagues about consulting with the designers of the game Goad, (“gonna make Halo look like Ms. Pac-Man”), about extra-tight security clearance while decoding maps, sifting for the anomalies whose discovery could forestall disaster. Something about this incarnation of the moon makes the truth feel malleable, as if it can be suspended without altering its fundamental features.
But then, I think, why not just be blunt — the department’s on the brink of oblivion, and a tinge of black mold sits on my shoes from earlier in the week. I glance at it; in this earth-fed moonlight, it is nearly impossible to resist finding a pattern there, something that belongs and will persist long after I slip them off and head upstairs.
Urban Planning: Case Study Number Four
It is hard to convey to you, who have never been to Ganzoneer, the comic futility that attends any attempt to walk there, due to the elasticity of her streets, walls, and sidewalks, which send the newcomer flailing and sprawling. If you are seeking to anchor yourself after a stretch of limbo, of water treading, of one of those aimless periods that life occasionally thrusts upon us all, go onward. You’ll find nothing solid here, with the exception of the Old Quarter, where scattered vestiges of the former Ganzoneer remain, like the stalwart North Church, jutting upward as if slicing at the sky. Once, she was like any other city, hard concrete, all corners and edges, and residents will still go to that part of town every so often to rub their hands almost religiously against the gritty surfaces.
The rest of the city undulates underfoot in a sort of gelatinous mass — it jiggles. Most cities are ectomorphic; Ganzoneer is the consummate endomorph. Residents of nearby Vitmora go so far as to call her “the Splayed Fleshpot,” maligning her central thoroughfare, Innapovna Street, as “Thong Blvd.,” and adding further insult by pronouncing this “bllllllllvvvddd.” This can be chalked up mainly to pettiness, since Vitmorans would rather slam their neighbors than face up to their own problems, which have driven the city’s last three mayors to drug addiction, shameless promiscuity, and a gunshot wound to the medial-temporal lobe, respectively. Sure, Ganzoneer isn’t what most would consider graceful. Once one acclimates to her peculiar genus of motion, though, she harbors no shortage of loveliness; it wouldn’t occur to her long-term residents to demean her with “jiggles,” nor compare her to a beached cetacean. No, you are far more likely to hear them remarking on her sublime way of yielding to the slightest air current, the sensuousness of her rippling, the jaunt and jounce she lends to the most ordinary stroll.