by Robert Roper
* * *
That night, at Deena and Harold’s house. Part-ay on. The occasion was Harold’s winning of a prize from the International Association of Constitutional Law Societies. Harold was entirely prizeworthy, why just look at him. Absolutely the crème de la crème of academic Berkeley there, non-hard-science Berkeley. Landau knew these people socially, but he was unable to talk to them. Couldn’t go up to one in front of the tabouli bowl and say, “I just saw the new Coen brothers movie, I liked it, what about you?” They’d sneer. In the first place, who the hell were you to speak to them? And in the second, their precious brain space was occupied with more recherché materials than O Brother, Where Art Thou? No, but they knew who he was, surely they knew. Knew he was some soft-money guy over there at UCSF, trailing a bit of a reputation but nothing world-shaking, and they’d met him a half a dozen times but couldn’t remember his name, no, not quite.
They talked about their travels, about their brilliant children. They’d had a sabbatical last spring in Barcelona in a house designed by Luis Barragán, had just flown in last night from Milan, after giving the Dessini Lectures in Bologna. Landau knew the brag-value of globetrotting, so he didn’t derogate them too harshly for that, but it became old, the internationalism. Enough about what a jet-setter you are. And here was one of his favorite examples, a professor of French history, nominally an Englishman, who had written a famous book about masturbation. A stocky, nervous fellow with a thick face and a chesty laugh, whose almost-English accent waxed or waned as he drank or didn’t, who had done grad work at Cambridge thirty years ago and still looked all tweedy. And here was another, a famous professor of Bible studies, probably the grandest panjandrum in the room, a short man with the face of a sleepy Bacchus, a winner of many prizes himself, recent retranslator of the five books of Moses. Landau had been seated beside him at a dinner a few years ago. It had been the impossibility of discussing anything not about the man or his work that had impressed Landau, who foolishly had broached an unrelated subject only to have the grandee fall into perfect silence, as one does when a child says something impossibly foolish.
“How’s it going there, Professor Lex?” Landau asked now, looming above the head of white curls. “You remember me, don’t you? Landau. Anthony Landau.”
“Oh—hello.”
“But enough about me. Let’s get to something important. What are you doing these days? How brilliant are you being?”
The man’s half-lidded gaze slid across Landau’s face, then away. No wonder these people don’t remember you year to year, Landau remonstrated with himself—you’re always spoiling for a fight, always getting up into their faces. The eminent figure walked away, unperturbed. Some friends were waving to him from across the room, and he went over there, to be treated with the fawning subservience he deserved.
All around the elegant ecru room, as important people continued to arrive, heartiness was breaking out, human sociability of one kind or another. So you couldn’t say these were academics in the dusty old style, half-dead, intimidated by rowdy life. No, they lived large in their own way. Owned expensive things and constantly traveled, and they had sex with each other in odd combinations sometimes, and they reproduced. What was the problem, then? What was hard for Landau to take was the unrelenting importanza, the conviction of immense self-worth, and he thought that American academics were just a little worse than any others, and California academics worse even than East Coasters. Was it his mildly radical heritage that turned him against such types? His notional inheritance from a left-wing father? Yes, possibly, but these people were all left-wing, too, savvy Euro-Marxists, as they described themselves. But yes, his dad would’ve found them amusing, Landau liked to think. Would’ve thumbed his nose.
All right, all right, calm down now. You’re at a party, make nice. Look for people to enjoy, not to condemn, you prig. What’s the matter with you, why so ornery, so unclubbable? No—just be a good fellow.
He went over to the drinks table. Started with a big glass of white. Harold was nearby, flanked by three men who must have been fellow law professors. “Anthony, thanks for coming,” Harold said. “It’s very good to see you.”
“My pleasure. And all honors to you, sir,” and Landau touched his forehead lightly with his wineglass.
“I’m thinking, the committee made a big mistake.”
“No, I don’t think so, Harold, not at all.”
Harold wanted to introduce Landau to the other men. They were all somewhere in their forties, all professors at Boalt Hall, Berkeley’s prestigious law school, as Harold was. A bulky Chinese man with a mild moon face spoke in a voice so gentle that Landau immediately felt protective of him, wondered how he survived the rhetorical slash and burn of law school discourse. His Mayan-like face and neatly combed hair made him appear to be a schoolboy grown up too fast. Another, a wiry white man with narrow spectacles, watched Harold no matter who else was speaking in their little group. His wondering expression bespoke earnest discipleship—can you believe it, it seemed to say, I’m here talking with Harold Blodgett. And he accepts me as an equal, almost an equal.
Half an hour later, headed for the bathroom, Landau saw Deena saying farewell to the Chinese professor at the door. The man was speaking classroom-learned Mandarin, while Deena replied in something infinitely more fluid, more full of flavor. Deena looked terribly sexy tonight, but what else was new? She was being herself, that was all, in a bottom-hugging skirt and sleeveless silvery top, from which a single bra strap showed. Her Chinese dialogue concluded, she turned to Landau and said tartly, “Come, follow me into my kitchen. I need you.”
“All right, but I have to take a leak first.”
“Be quick.”
Harold was in the kitchen when Landau returned. Deena was arranging dolmas and picholine olives on a big Fiestaware platter, while Harold stood next to her, laughing as he told her something that Landau couldn’t quite hear. They looked comfortable together—married. Landau had never seen Harold looking quite so ebullient, in fact. Big prizes did that for you.
“My young colleague, the torture-memo writer,” Harold said now. “That’s who that fellow was.”
“What, the one who just left?”
“Yes. My law school friend.”
“Oh. Oh.”
“Took guts for him to come tonight. Not exactly his crowd, politically. Personally, I despise every tendency of his corrupted mind, but I also like him, for some reason.”
“From Dick Cheney’s lair to a kitchen on Keith Street, eh, Harold?”
“Yeah, that’s about the way it goes.”
Deena looked over her shoulder. “Anthony, carry this out to the music room, please. And don’t spill it.”
“Okay.”
“How’s Raboy doing by you, Anthony?”
“Oh, okay, I guess.”
“Anything new?”
“You know, that’s the funny thing, Harold. No big alarms going off. No small ones, either. I guess the emergency is over.”
“Well, better that than the other.”
Landau nodded.
“Anthony, I never actually told you how sorry I was that you lost your friend. I know she was more than just a friend to you, that you went way back. I’m sorry, and I wish it hadn’t happened.”
“Thank you, Harold. That’s kind of you.”
It sounded like something he had practiced saying. Had rehearsed last night in front of a mirror. But that was okay. We aren’t all of us models of spontaneous graciousness.
“It was a terrible thing, and I hope they figure out what really happened.”
“Yes, me too,” Landau said.
As he carried the platter out, he found himself wondering why he hadn’t been invited to this party weeks ago. Harold had won his prize way back in September. Either it was because Deena took it for granted that he was part of her ménage, hardly needed to be p
ersonally invited, or perhaps Harold and she had debated the wisdom of including him among these A-listers, given his cranky performances in the past. Oh, who cares how or why I was invited—just put the platter down, there, that’s a good fellow. Have another drink.
“Anthony, old man. What up?”
It was Richard Flense, the faux Cambridge don, the eminent historian of sex.
“What up, yourself, Richard? I’m down with whatever up.”
Flense barked his resonant laugh. It made Landau feel warm toward him, slightly.
“Been going to Myanmar or wherever it is you go? Looking into more whorehouses?”
“Yes, I have been going occasionally, but not for about half a year now.”
“Wish I had work like that.”
“No, it grows tedious, Richard. They need scientific cover while they stir up trouble for the generals, the NGOs do. I provide them that cover. They rent me out.”
“Ah, very good.”
Flense often chewed his tongue. He had a thick neck and an impressive horsey head, as impossible to misconstrue as was his laugh.
“What’s with you, Richard, writing another dirty book?”
“Oh, I have been writing a book, but not about anything fun, like sex. No, writing my big dark book on death, the one I’ve been working on for almost thirty years now. It’ll kill me in the end.”
“Death, eh? There’s a subject. Why didn’t I think of that.”
“How the idea of it has changed over the eons. And goes on changing.”
“That must be tough, Richard. You’re sort of writing against a moving target, aren’t you? The culture shifts wildly in thirty years. Not to mention three hundred, or three thousand.”
“Tell me about it. It’s maddening.”
“When I was but a wee lad, Richard, history was something solid. The Napoleonic Wars. The Corn Laws. Now you history fellows write about anything at all, about the idea of ‘the gift,’ about ‘textuality,’ about masturbation, God help us. Which I enjoyed very much, by the way. I enjoyed your book.”
“Did you, really?”
“Yes, I thought it was quite bold. Think of the ridicule that would have befallen if you hadn’t brought it off. You’d have been known ever after as the silly professor of wanking, the nutty don who took jacking off seriously.”
“It was a book that I was able to write with one hand, so to speak.”
“Yes. Indeed.”
“They’re making a big deal of it in France. I’m an American pretending to be English, which amuses them. They appreciate imposture, the French do. It’s in their DNA.”
Landau took a third glass of wine. It puzzled him why Flense was being so friendly: they hadn’t spoken in years, beyond a casual hello-there. Landau by ungovernable impulse became ultra-English around Flense, affected a parody posh U-English, to tweak the silly fellow. But here was Flense saying right out that he was an impostor, a poseur. Extraordinary statement coming from him: exactly what was the case.
Landau ate eight dolmas without noticing. Flense had turned away for a moment, and now here was his big head again, invading Landau’s space.
“What really happened, though, Anthony? With Samantha Beevors, I mean?”
“What, you heard about that?”
“Heard about it? Why, people are talking about nothing else. Le tout Berkeley is obsessed with it. You are the exclusive hot topic, Anthony. People can’t get enough of it.”
“Funny, nobody talks to me about it. You’re one of the first to say a word.”
“Surely the New Yorker is some kind of indication of general public interest, no?”
“The New Yorker?”
“Yes, yes, the New Yorker, their big writer, what’s-his-name.”
Flense perceived that Landau had no idea what he was talking about.
“You don’t know? Really? He’s been asking around about you. He’s planning a big story, one gathers. Brenda Appel knows all about it. He wrote that series about satanic child abuse, the one that got turned into a book. He’s a bit of a star, Marcus Somebody-or-other.”
“I have no frigging idea what or whom you’re talking about, Richard. I’m afraid you’ve lost your mind.”
Where was Brenda Appel, Brenda Frigging Appel? Going to get to the bottom of this right now, Landau decided. An article in the New Yorker—why, how absurd.
“Where is Brenda, the estimable Brenda?”
“I don’t know, haven’t seen her tonight.”
Brenda Appel was a fixture at parties such as this. She was the wife of a distinguished Berkeley chair, a kind of West Coast book-world eternal aspirant, Brenda was, served on various PEN committees, showed up at lit conferences. Always asked you who your agent was. But Brenda Appel was not here tonight—Landau determined this by rushing about for two minutes, a dolma between thumb and forefinger, Richard Flense trailing behind.
“Damn her, anyway. Where is she when you need her?”
“I’ll speak to her tomorrow. She knows him from college, I think.”
“I can’t believe that the New Yorker, in its magnificence, would care a fig for me or Samantha. Who is Samantha Beevors to the New Yorker?”
“What, are you kidding? Samantha was big, she was Nobel Prize material. Would’ve won a MacArthur except she was a little old when she hit big. One of the ten most important women scientists of the twentieth century—I heard them say so on TV.”
“Oh, God, that ten-best list. Her mother made that up, I think.”
“Why was she staying at your house, Anthony? I thought you two were on the outs.”
“She wasn’t staying at my house, Richard. She was found at my house—there’s a difference.”
“My question stands.”
“Eh, I have no fucking idea. That’s where she put herself—or was put by someone else.”
Flense stuck his tongue out between his teeth, moving his eyebrows waggishly.
“Don’t give me that look, Richard. Cambridge men don’t leer, don’t insinuate—no, they only aver.”
“She was hung up on you, I always heard. Had never quite gotten over you.”
“Oh, what rot. She wasn’t hung up on me, she was hung up on her gargantuan career. Her glittering top-ten career.”
“Bill Beevors is desolated, they say. Has fallen into a black depression.”
“Oh, I don’t like to hear that. I’m sorry if that’s true.”
“Yes, I like Bill. He’s a good fellow.”
“Yes, he is.”
Good fellow, sort of, Landau said to himself. Schnook, victim—guy with a “kick me” target pinned to his rear. Bill Beevors had married Samantha at a time when she thought it useful to have an esteemed Stanford Medical School husband. When she ruined things for herself at clubby Stanford, as was inevitable, Bill Beevors also had had to fold tents, after a good thirty years in Palo Alto. Had to follow her to USC, on lesser terms.
“Listen to me, Richard,” Landau now declared. “You’re way too interested in this—it reminds me that you’re a notorious gossip. I’ll have no more to say on this subject, upon advice of counsel.”
“Have I offended, Anthony?”
“Yes, telling me about magazine stories, about New Yorker stories. Look at me, I’m all upset, I’m in a sweat.”
“I’m sure they’ll treat you very kindly. You’re a distinguished figure in your own right. Myself, I’d love to be the subject of one of their profiles. When will they get around to me, I ask? To wonderful me?”
“Something else Cambridge men don’t do, Richard—lust for press coverage. And you need to stutter.”
When he returned home that night, Landau already had the headache that normally would have afflicted him the next morning, a tension-and-dehydration type of needling prefrontal headache. He stood in front of his opened refrigerator not kno
wing what to think or do, then drank deeply of the cold Gerolsteiner Mineralwasser that he stocked by the case, almost a whole liter of it. Banged around in his kitchen without turning on any lights—where was Freddy, where was his damned cat? Open a food can and he’ll come. The familiar tin-pucker and moist suction sound occurred, but still the cat failed to materialize, and Landau thought it odd that he would be outdoors tonight, because it was getting late in the year already, it was November already, the cold damp coming on. The life of my cat in the hillside dark, in the spectral, living night—who could ever write that savage, bloody drama? The vet absolutely forbad Freddy’s roaming at will, said he needed to be an indoor cat at his age, and the vet also recommended declawing, to cut down on his ability to hunt. But Landau regretted that other little surgical adjustment he had made to his pet, the one that had made of him a pretend-tomcat, and he wasn’t inclined to rob him of his claws, too. And I like it that he captures the odd songbird or wood rat. The life of the land is consecrated in righteousness, they tell us, for cats as for us humans. Let nature be nature.
He sat in his darkened kitchen for a while. Noticed that his chest was rising and falling rapidly. I’m heaving, he thought, I’m all upset—I haven’t been running, haven’t been climbing steep stairs, yet I’m gasping like a landed fish. All right, get a hold of yourself, man. Is it New Yorker anxiety, fear that someone might actually write about all this? But what’s to fear from that? It’s the other thing that Flense said, “You are the exclusive hot topic, Anthony. Le tout Berkeley is talking about you.” Now, why do I cringe to imagine others talking about me, finding me of sudden interest? It’s in connection to something unfortunate, something sad, but even if it had been a different sort of occasion, I wouldn’t have liked it—even if I were the big prizewinner, like Harold, raking in the laurels, being reckoned one of the immortals. I long for prizes, too, as any man does, but I also squirm. People having their own ideas of you, detailed peculiar ideas: why, how dare they.