He keeps busy, though. A strict routine. He wakes early to read, writes in the afternoons. Slowly, and by longhand. His next book is on the Methodist John Wesley’s journals. It is an endeavor that manages to consume most of his days. At six in the evening he sets his pen aside, winds down with a glass of Johnnie Walker Black, one ice cube. It is all a departure for him. The quiet days. The weekends. And then the lesson is learned quickly—one can retire and suddenly be wiped off the face of the earth. Phone calls recede. Letters and even emails come to a trickle. It is like the drying up of the Nile. On his worst days, a loneliness will set in like a night with no end. Then there are more inspired days. He’ll even embrace such solitude.
He has marked several upcoming dates in his calendar. Former students make up a noticeable proportion of his social life. Tea with a student at his penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side. Dinner with friends, also former students, passing through on their way to their next set of escapades. Entire weeks at a cottage in Providence, hikes in the woods, Thoreau-like. There are men who have reached a point of no return. Loveless, full of need. Perfectly capable of friendship, but cast aside like debris. There is the baseless stigma attached to being alone.
And then there are other men. He has sustained the performance with a marvelous grace. There is a trip to Westchester for a conference where a colleague is presenting a paper on Edmund Burke. He has his own work to finish. The drive to Providence is always something to look forward to. Other travels petering on the horizon. He would like to see Paris again before his days are numbered.
It’s taken him a lifetime to be a man of some means now, though he can’t bear to think of himself as rich, because he isn’t. Still, he will live out his years with a fair modicum of comfort. It is a stroke of luck. But also the result of his ambition. The “cultivation of the garden” of all his promise. It’s become ingrained in him.
So when he is invited to teach for one semester at the Lower Manhattan University, provincial habits refuse to die. He puts his plans on hold, convinces himself that the offer is too good, too generous to refuse.
* * *
The university rolls out the red carpet, so to speak. They buy him a computer of his choice, give him access to an office in the English department. A welcome reception. There is a view of the business school.
It is the second week of classes, the spring semester. It was no picnic during the Age of Reason. He clears up some of the class’s misconceptions. Sex in the park. A late-night romp with a prostitute in the dark, brothels. Animal intestines for makeshift condoms. Disease is rampant.
The lecture hall. A whiteboard, harsh lighting. There are twenty or so students scattered about the rows. He can think of no text more delicious than that of David Hume. An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals. More than any of the class, a young man named Christian Lang is enthralled by one of Hume’s characters—Alcheic, a man who marries his sister, murders his father, all of his children, solely for personal gain. Alcheic commits suicide, but still, he is lauded as a hero by his people.
There is more. Abel emphasizes section VII of the text. He asks the young man to read it aloud. Alcheic the adulterer. He has a young lover at the college, someone whom he has taken under his wing.
“Friends, I’m afraid that Alcheic is only a ruse,” he says. (Therefore it is all right that no one knows how to pronounce the name correctly.) “Indeed, it is as Hume himself writes: ‘Though the ancient Greeks have been admired for centuries, have they not practiced many of the things their admirers so disapproved of morally?’ ”
Several students scribble the remark into their notebooks, likely with expectations of seeing it on their midterm exam. There are no further questions. One can hear a pin drop.
“But don’t you see?” Abel continues. “It was not so long ago when it was common knowledge that only men were allowed to attend university.”
He raises his eyebrows, not unaware that he has cast a line. There is a bit of laughter. He scans the room, his gaze falls on this Christian. Is it a figment of his imagination? He can almost swear that he’s made the young man blush.
* * *
Later that week, office hours. Christian comes to ask him a question about an assignment. But then he tells him the news that isn’t news. It isn’t the first time that a student confides in him. They treat it like a sacred knowledge. The young man’s dark eyes seem to glisten. He sits up a little taller. His surname, Lang. “Is it Cantonese?” Abel asks.
“My family’s from Taipei.” He gives off the scent of fresh laundry.
But Abel recognizes the younger man’s demeanor, the density that seems to hold him back from so much of the world. The same futile tactic, the messiness of avoiding so much of life—content just to get by. He tells Abel that he’s chosen to write his paper on the fifteenth and sixteenth chapters of Edward Gibbon’s History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
“Ambitious choice.” Abel slides back in his swivel chair. “You remind me of myself around your age.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Oh, yes.” He means lost. He means confused.
“I’ll take it as a compliment.” Then, “Tell me about Harvard.”
“What’s there to tell? I hated the experience. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. From what I hear, not much has changed.” And then, “What? Does that surprise you?”
“That’s not what I expected you to say.” The young man’s disappointment is disarming. But Abel goes on. His tone, almost apologetic. He tells him that he was at Harvard during a time when one had to leave calling cards at the home of the president. Memories of segregation in a train car. Other kinds of inequalities. “Gosh, back then, I didn’t have anyone. I was alone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Dr. Jones.” Then, “I’m alone too.”
“Please, call me Abel. What I mean is, if you ever need someone to talk to, you can always come to me.”
“All right.”
“We don’t have to talk about the class. In fact, I’d prefer not to.”
* * *
They meet at Le Pain Quotidien. Washington Square Park. It is much later in the semester. There is a premature mugginess in the air, warmth of the city. The possibility of rain. They are seated by the wide window overlooking the sidewalk. Brick buildings, bustling streets.
“The Daily Bread,” Abel remarks. He refers to the menu.
“What’s that?”
“The name of the place.”
“Oh, I don’t speak French.”
“It’s not too late to learn, am I right?”
It is a mark of the young man’s lack of transcendence, his willingness to give in to inevitabilities. He can already foresee that Christian will likely never be a man of the greater world. Unless someone intervenes, that is. I can see that you need guidance, he wants to say. You need someone who will show you the way. The opposite is actually oblivion. Instead he says, “I’m not very hungry. I’ve recently been inspired to start back on my diet, actually.”
He orders a drink. The peach iced tea. Christian asks for the café au lait.
“A little late in the day for coffee, don’t you think?”
“You’re right,” Christian says. He tells the waiter, “I’ll have the decaf, please.”
There are things in common. Abel learns that they both come from humble beginnings. And just as he’s suspected, Christian is also a scholarship student. From years of experience teaching, he’s observed that the courage to speak one’s mind is often proportional to class, to upbringing. Sex, race. Otherness. Christian doesn’t dorm. He lives in Queens with his mother, who works at a nail salon in Manhattan. Neither of them has siblings. They both prefer some of the English thinkers to the French philosophes. The music of Handel over Bach. “Or I should say, Couperin.”
Abel then says that he is a member of the Samuel Johnson Society, even though he hasn’t attended any of the functions at the Harvard Club in years.
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br /> “It’s very exclusive,” he remarks. He does a little pose. It’s his way of engaging further. “One has to be invited, recognized in the field. It’s a decadent affair, almost unnecessarily decadent if you ask me. Everyone wears a tuxedo and speaks with an accent.”
“You must be an important man.” Then, “I wish that I could be a part of something like that.”
“In due time. You’re still young and full of potential. But I already have a good feeling about you.” He raises his glass. “To new friends.”
“New friends.”
Abel goes on to say that there are books that continue to pique his interest. He prefers nonfiction, but at times he’ll return to Candide. Jane Austen. Emma and Persuasion are among his favorite novels, which, for him, are fine studies of rank. He says he doesn’t believe in marriage, that he can’t imagine himself being involved with one person for too long. He’s had lovers. He’s kept in touch with many of them.
“So how do you meet people?” Abel then asks. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t feel like it.”
“I meet them in passing.”
“Only in passing?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Well, I met you, didn’t I?”
“Nonsense.”
He calls a waiter over, orders several jars of preserves and spreads. Pastries to go. Strawberry, almond. The blueberry is his favorite. A gift set with an elegant gold bow tied around the plastic wrapping.
“Thank you,” Christian says. “But you really shouldn’t have.”
“I insist. Think of it as a token of my appreciation for your friendship.”
There are people who you’ll meet, to whom you’ll want to offer the world, show your hand. Someone who might feel indebted to that, someone full of gratitude. It is a kind of endearment, but also worthy of one’s generosity.
“Do let me know when you run out,” Abel then says.
“You’ve kind of given me a lifetime’s supply.”
“That was the plan.”
Then Abel asks him about the ballet. Does he have an interest in going sometime?
“I haven’t seen one since The Nutcracker, and that was in elementary school. But I remember liking it.”
“City Ballet’s fantastic. The company has some of the finest dancers in the world. Not to mention most attractive.”
“When is it? This weekend?”
“No, unfortunately, the season’s already coming to its close.”
“I see. Well, keep me in mind for the next.”
“Oh, I will.” He leans in. “But can I see you this weekend anyway? I’d like to take you somewhere special, somewhere meaningful.”
“Is it the Samuel Johnson Society? I’m only kidding.”
“How about we keep it a surprise?”
“I like surprises.”
“Do you? Well then, I’ll have to keep that in mind too.”
* * *
Dinner beforehand. A diner by the Queensboro Bridge. They’re seated at a booth. Matzah ball soup, grilled cheese sandwiches. Abel sits back. He takes in the young man’s expressions, his unbridled enthusiasm for it all, as if he doesn’t know what it means to be worn out, grown weary by the undertakings of the everyday. He can be handsome, especially under certain lights. His face is unmarked. There is a slight purse in his lips. His ideals are unfixed, but his open attitude is almost uncorrupted. His slate blank.
“I feel as if I’ve made a magnificent discovery meeting you,” Abel admits. “I’m glad that I’ve decided to come out of hibernation.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
At the end of the meal, Abel pushes a box across the table.
“What’s this?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Go on, open it.”
Christian unwraps the paper, pulls the cover off the box. The silver watch glitters under the light. “This is too much,” he says. “I can’t possibly accept it.”
“But you must. It’s discourteous to refuse a gift. Here, give me your hand.”
The energy’s changed in the young man’s eyes. Has he overstepped? But it’s as if Abel is realizing it for the first time: there comes a point in one’s life where there is nothing more remarkable than being present at the forefront of this kind of refinement.
“I’ve never had anything this nice before,” Christian says.
He somehow already knows this though. “It looks good on you. In fact, it makes me happy to see you wearing it.”
It is a short walk to the Townhouse. The red brick building. Christian is carded at the door. Inside, there is a sense of being thrown back to another time, another place. The hanging chandeliers. Red velvet sofas, curtains. The long oak bar is pristine. Music can be heard. There is a white grand piano by the window. They take a table near the front in order to watch the impromptu performance. Already there is a crowd of men singing at the piano, at the top of their voices, uninhibited. They are drunk. Show tunes, patriotic songs. “America the Beautiful.” It is Memorial Day weekend. The cluster of deep voices culminate in a kind of harmony. More than friendship, more than camaraderie. A brotherhood.
Abel waves to several people he notices at a distance but has never formally met. “I like this song,” Abel says. “I like the singing. What do you think? Pretty swanky, right?”
“It’s nice.” He watches Christian observe the room for a moment. Then he looks down at his folded menu, the new watch.
A waiter comes up to take their drink orders. Someone with personality. Someone whom Abel imagines goes on auditions during the day, hungover.
“Johnnie Walker Black with one ice cube, and for my friend . . .”
“I’ll just have a Coke.”
“No, wait,” Abel tells the waiter. “With rum.” He turns to Christian. “Don’t worry, they skimp on the liquor here.”
More familiar music. Abel sings along. Cole Porter, Gershwin. He leans over. “Recognize any of it?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re practically a baby. Why, at your age, people will think that you’re either a waiter or a hustler. And let’s just say, no one’s asked you to take their order yet.” He gives him a wink. He is only teasing. He can feel, though, that they are being watched, gossiped about. He has made a kind of spectacle of himself. He doesn’t mind the attention.
“Cheers,” Abel says. They toast their glasses.
After another drink, he finds himself revealing more than he should. The grades he’s doled out to each student. Which students he had had to fail for not handing in papers. The student who had bragged about missing class in order to attend Coachella. They reminisce about a discussion with another student who had been misinformed about the ideology of Adam Smith, only Abel had had to let him down gently, despite the student’s contentious attitude.
Then Christian says, “What did I get?”
“Do you really want to know?” Then, “You got the grade you deserved.”
At the bar Abel orders another round.
“Shall we go up and sing a song?” he says.
“I should go home, it’s getting kind of late. My mother will worry.”
“Does she not know you’re out?”
“No.”
“Tsk-tsk.” Then, “One song, and then we’ll go.”
“All right.”
Afterward, they walk to the train station. The night is still warm. Abel can’t help but think how wonderful it is, the way the department store windows seem to glow, the way the streets are practically deserted, as if they’ve been cleared for them at this dark hour.
“Which way are you going?” Abel asks. They are at the steps of the station.
“Oh, uptown.”
“Then sadly, we part here.”
They make plans to meet again, perhaps the following week. Abel extends an invitation for a drink at his apartment. From there they’ll play it by ear. But there are plenty of restaurants in the area that he’s been meaning to try. A meatball shop. A pizzeria. A humm
us place. “The neighborhood comes to life in the evenings, you’ll see.”
He’d like to show him the view from the roof of his building. The skyline is spectacular. He suggests bringing a camera.
“Sounds like a plan,” Christian says.
“Then I look forward to it.”
He’s drunk a little more than he usually can take. Distorted feelings consume him like irrefutable truths that materialize and reverberate throughout the decades. It is a kind of rising energy. Tender feelings reemerge, beautifully irrational, incoherent. Before he realizes it, he’s leaned in. A kiss. Soft, smooth.
“Why did you do that?” Christian says.
“You said you liked surprises,” he jokes. Then, “Did you absolutely hate it?”
“No.”
“Will you be all right then? Getting home, I mean. I should call you a taxi, actually.”
“I’ll manage. I insist.”
“Very well. Then goodnight.”
At the bottom of the steps, Abel turns around and waves a final goodbye.
* * *
Over the week he barely works. He is restless. He will walk outside of his building and say hello to people he’d usually pass with vague acknowledgment. He revels in the newfound spirit, feels it course through his veins like a life force, undeterred. He can already see himself showing Christian the skyline. The view of Manhattan, pointing out the Chrysler Building. The Empire State Building. The East River. Then he will lead him downstairs. They’ll be back in the apartment. He’ll fix him a gin and tonic. They will peruse his library together. He will show off his collection of first-edition books. Thomas Paine, Goethe. He will put on some Handel. Water Music. Music for the Royal Fireworks. His favorite countertenor’s rendition of “Vedrò con mio diletto.” They might lose track of time. He might have to go to the grocery store in case he has to prepare some sort of dinner. He isn’t a very good cook, though. So they might just order in.
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