The envelope he presses into my hand is thick and lumpy. I realize it must be my watch that he went to fetch for me. I start to thank him but then he leans his face against mine. For one terrible moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he only whispers, “I need to talk to you alone.”
“Well, tomorrow’s Saturday,” I say, slipping the envelope into my purse. I feel somehow ashamed of the transaction, as if Robin were passing drugs to me. “But if it’s really important I could meet you in my office.”
“‘Tomorrow,’” Robin says, rearing back on his heels, his eyes full of disappointment, “ ‘and tomorrow, and tomorrow / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.’ ” His speech is no longer stuttering, now that he’s reciting Shakespeare’s words. When he turns away from me, he sees Or-lando. He suddenly looks as if he’s going to be ill. Orlando tries to approach Robin, but Mark has a hold of his arm.
“Lascia me,” he says, wrenching his arm out of Mark’s grip. “I only came to get what belongs to me. The last poem in the film…he stole it—”
“I-I-I-,” Robin stutters.
“Any accusations of plagiarism will be taken into due consideration,” Mark tells Orlando in a loud, firm voice, “but this is not the time and place for it.”
The word “plagiarism” echoes around the room as it’s taken up by students and faculty. There’d been a messy plagiarism scandal last year that had resulted in a student’s expulsion. Robin looks at me and I imagine he’s afraid that I’ll bring up the incident of the Oscar Wilde paper. “Dr. Asher,” he says, “I swear—”
“President Abrams is right,” I say. “This isn’t the time or the place, Robin. Maybe you should get some air—”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Gene Silverman says, putting one arm around Robin’s shoulder and the other around Zoe’s and steering them both toward the balcony door. Leo Balthasar follows them, taking a cigar out of his pocket. As they pass me I hear the Hollywood producer ask Gene, “Are you sure there’s not a problem with the script?” I expect Mark to tell them that the balcony’s off-limits, but he’s got his hand clasped firmly onto Orlando’s arm and is trying to steer him toward the elevators. I notice that Orlando winces and I feel an unexpected pang of sympathy for him. I consider following them to make sure Mark isn’t being too rough on the boy, but then decide against it. All I need now is for Mark to think I’m trying to defend Bruno’s son. There have been enough jealous scenes for one night.
Turning back toward the balcony, I see I’m wrong. Mara has worked her way around to this side of the balcony and found her husband with his arm around the nubile young Zoe. Since the doors are closed I can’t hear what she’s saying, but from her expression I can guess. Even from here I can see that her lips are white with rage. She’s backed Zoe, and Robin with her, against the edge of the balcony, where they both cower under her assault. The scene has its comical elements—Leo Balthasar, puffing on his cigar in the corner of the balcony, seems to find it amusing—but I’m uncomfortable with the students’ proximity to the railing.
I look around to find Mark and see he’s waiting at the elevator with Orlando and the blond lawyer. As Mark leans closer to hear something she’s saying, Orlando suddenly bolts away from them. He crosses the room in surprisingly few long-legged strides, his black leather coat billowing out behind him and brushing against my leg as he passes me and opens the door to the balcony.
“Shit,” I hear Mark say, close on his heels. I follow them to the balcony door, but it swings shut behind Mark and before I can open it the guard suddenly appears and blocks my way. “Now you’re keeping people off the balcony?” I ask incredulously.
“President Abrams said—” he begins, but I push by him and struggle with the heavy door. When it swings open I feel a warm gust of air on my face and hear the sound of someone screaming. It’s Mara, I see, who’s turned away from the balcony, clutching Gene as if she’s afraid the wind will sweep her away. Leo Balthasar is pulling Zoe away from the railing where Mark and Orlando are standing, looking down at the street below. Only when Mark steps back, one arm still around Orlando’s chest, do I really take in the fact that Robin is gone.
CHAPTER
FOUR
THE SCREAMS, HIGH-PITCHED AND ODDLY REGULAR, ALMOST LIKE CHANTING, infect the room with hysteria. A dozen or so people rush by me onto the balcony. I stay where I am: frozen. It still feels like I’m separated from what’s happening by a wall of glass and that if I stay very still, there will be an opportunity to undo what’s happened, and the last five minutes can be rewound and erased.
It is not, I realize now, as if anything can be done for Robin. The crowd that rushes past me out onto the balcony might hope that there’s a ledge on the other side of the balcony railing or a protrusion in the building that could have caught him in his descent. That he’ll pop up from behind the railing smiling—the whole thing a joke, a staged finale to his film. But I am sure there’s nothing on the other side of the railing but a sheer drop to the pavement. I don’t have to see the expressions on the faces of the people who look over the edge, or hear the sirens al-ready moving toward us, to confirm what I know has happened to Robin.
I search the knot of people clustered around the balcony door for Mark, but it’s Orlando who breaks through the crowd. I reach out a hand to stop him, but when he turns to me and I see his eyes—distended and bloodshot like a panicked horse’s—I let go of him. He says something in Italian—I’m almost sure it’s “Mi dispiace”—I’m sorry—and then he runs for the stairs. I turn, looking for Mark again, and see Zoe struggling to make her way into the room with Leo Balthasar close behind her, whispering something in her ear. I don’t know how she can hear anything with those screams, which seem to be getting louder—but then I see that’s only because their source is approaching me. It’s Mara, crumpled up against her husband’s side, weeping mascara-stained tears into his sport jacket and emitting those awful shrieks, as desperate in their repetition as those of an animal being slaughtered. Gene sees me and heads in my direction. I look around for some escape, but Gene corners me.
“Can you take her to the ladies’ room and get her some water?” he asks, gingerly easing Mara off his arm. “President Abrams needs me to call the police.” And then, lowering his voice, “See if she’s got anything in her purse to calm her down.”
“Okay.” I put my arm over Mara’s bony shoulders, still wishing I could find Mark. I don’t know what I expect from him, but since he was closest to Robin when he fell I feel like I won’t be able to process what’s happened until I talk to him. Clearly, though, someone has to attend to Mara. She’s stopped screaming, but now she’s babbling something over and over again. When I lean closer I make out the words “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course not,” Gene says, “he was a very troubled boy. Now, go with Rose and clean up your face. I have to talk to the police.” He takes a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket—to wipe away tears, I think, but then he uses it to mop up the mascara stain on his jacket, making a face at the black mess that comes off. Over Mara’s shoulder he mouths, “She’s hysterical. I can’t have her talking to the police like this.” Then he pockets the black-stained handkerchief and puts as much distance as he can between himself and his wife.
Great, I think, leading Mara to the faculty women’s lounge, where I know there’s a couch, he fucks his students, but then he can’t be bothered to take care of his hysterical wife.
I get Mara into the women’s lounge and lock the door behind us. I sit her down on the couch, but when I stand up she starts to shriek again.
“Okay, okay, I’m just going to get you some water and paper towels. I’ll be right back.”
I go to the nearest sink and turn on the cold water. It’s then that I realize that I’m still clutching the half-full champagne flute. I spill the remains of the drink down the basin so I can use the glass for Mara, but the smell of the orange liqueur is too much for me. I feel my stomach heave and bare
ly have time to rush into a stall before throwing up. Fortunately, it doesn’t take long to empty the contents of my stomach—three Greek Goddesses, a mini quiche, and the cup of yogurt I ate for lunch today. When I’m done I rinse my mouth and the champagne glass at the sink and then fill the glass with water, which I bring, with some wet paper towels, back to the couch, where Mara has collapsed into a pale yellow puddle. She’s lying on her side, her stockinged legs pulled up to her chest in a fetal position. I sit down next to her on the couch and cover her forehead with the wet paper towels. Then I put the glass down on the floor so that I can look through her purse. The toes of Mara’s high-heeled pumps, I notice, are neatly aligned. Even hysterical, Mara is obsessively neat.
Her purse, though, is a mess: tissues and dollar bills and Post-it notes wadded together, an uncapped tube of clear lip gloss leaking onto the silk lining and coating a collection of loose pills. I sort out a little pile of white circles and white ovals in the palm of my hand. Mara reaches over and plucks a white circle out of my hand.
“Valium,” she says, dry swallowing the pill, and then, when I reach down to get the water for her, she takes one of the ovals and swallows that, too.
“Are you sure—?”
“It’s just my Xanax,” she says, sipping from the champagne glass. Then she lies back down and closes her eyes.
I wad up the rest of the pills in the old Kleenex and stash them in my purse so I don’t have to worry about Mara taking more. Then I pat Mara’s face with the wet paper towels, wiping clean the mascara. She makes a sort of cooing noise while I stroke her face and, to my surprise and embarrassment, she adjusts herself so that her cheek rests on my leg, her damp mascara seeping into my, thankfully, black dress.
“It must have been awful,” I say soothingly. “I couldn’t really see what happened—”
“It was awful,” Mara confides. “I thought Gene had finally given up his little flings. All he’s talked about this year is that boy. Robin this and Robin that. Robin was going to give him a producer credit on his movie and Robin was going to be his ticket back to Hollywood. I thought for once I didn’t have to worry.” Mara emits a laugh that turns into a mucusy cough and then a rattling sob.
“But, Mara,” I say, shaking pills out of the wadded tissues in my purse to hand her, “I really don’t think that Gene and Zoe—”
“And then that other boy—the dark-haired one—came outside and had the nerve to yell at me!”
“Orlando. I’m sure he wasn’t yelling at you. He was angry at Robin about stealing something in the film. What was he saying?”
“I have no idea. I don’t speak Italian. And then Gene pulled me away, and so I couldn’t see what was happening…. I heard Robin say something that sounded like what my Portuguese maid says when I ask where something is—not that I ever accuse her of stealing…” She makes another sound that I think is a sob, but then, bending closer, I realize she’s snoring. She’s fallen heavily asleep. I wait another few minutes until I’m sure that she’s really out, and then carefully ease her off my leg, sliding my folded shawl under her head.
When I open the door, I find Gene leaning against the wall opposite the ladies’ room, smoking a cigarette in flagrant violation of the no-smoking law. “How is she?” he asks, dropping the cigarette to the floor and grinding it out with the heel of his dark boot. Cowboy boots, I notice. Lord, how old does he think he is?
“She’s very upset, of course. She said she didn’t see anything, but—”
“No, thank God I pulled her away before Robin fell—”
“So he fell?”
Gene looks startled by the question. “I—I’m not really sure…I was busy with Mara. You saw how hysterical she was…How many pills did she take, by the way?”
“One Xanax and one Valium.”
“And the rest of the pills?”
“I put them in my purse,” I say, holding up my beaded evening purse for him to see.
“Good idea. She gets confused sometimes about how many she’s taken when she’s upset.”
“Yeah, well—” I try to walk past Gene, but he reaches out and grabs my arm.
“I want to thank you, Rose. You’ve always been a good friend to Mara. You’re the only faculty member that gives her the time of day. It means a lot to her.”
I instantly feel like scum for all the ungenerous thoughts I’ve had about Mara, and then I feel angry. Who is Gene Silverman to make me feel like scum? “The rest of the faculty are embarrassed around her,” I say, pulling my arm away from Gene, “because they know how you treat her.”
Gene bows his head, giving me a good view of his gray roots and his bald spot. A pathetic aging hipster, I think; you could almost feel sorry for him. “Yeah, I know,” he says, sadly scuffing his cowboy boots against one another, for all the world like a ten-year-old who’s been caught playing hooky. “I’ve been a real bastard, but you know, I’ve really been better this year.” He looks up and smiles sheepishly. “I’ve been so busy working with Robin on his project, I haven’t even looked at another woman. I mean, Robin had such amazing talent. You know how it is? When you encounter a student who makes you remember why you loved your subject in the first place, his promise…” Gene’s voice cracks and his eyes fill with tears. In spite of what I know, I can’t help feeling sorry for him, for what seems like his genuine grief over Robin’s lost promise. But then he takes a deep, ragged breath and finishes: “He promised I was going to get a producer credit on the film,” and I turn away to leave him to his drugged and sleeping wife.
The reception room has been transformed from a garden party to something that looks more like a disaster relief shelter. The silver trays of champagne flutes have been replaced by coffee urns and Styrofoam cups. The lights are on full blaze and the curtains to the balcony have been drawn, as if the view would be upsetting to the survivors huddled in small groups clutching their hot drinks.
There’s a terrible vacancy in this room because of the one person who’s gone. I remember something that a friend told me after she gave birth to her first child attended by a midwife in her own house. “Someone new was in the room who hadn’t come in through the door.” Scanning these faces now, I realize I’m still looking for the one who left without going through the door.
Then I notice Mark talking to a uniformed police officer and a sobbing girl. It takes me a moment to recognize Robin’s friend Zoe, so transformed is she since I first saw her this afternoon, laughing and flirting in Washington Square Park.
“No, I didn’t really see what happened,” she’s saying as I approach the group. “When Orlando came out onto the balcony, Mr. Balthasar pulled me away. I think he was afraid Orlando was going to hurt me, but really it was Robin who he was jealous of—”
“Orlando Brunelli,” Mark says, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. With his hair falling into his eyes and the tails of his shirt coming untucked, he looks twenty years younger than his forty-five years, but when he lifts his head I see that his eyes look old and haunted. Poor Mark. I know he blames himself for what happened. I come close enough to him so that I can surreptitiously slide my hand onto his arm without anyone seeing. I’m startled to feel that he’s trembling. “He was fighting with Robin earlier in the evening,” Mark continues telling the officer. “He accused Robin of stealing part of the script for his film, which won first prize tonight. I had assured him we would look into the matter tomorrow, but then he managed to get away from me and run onto the balcony. I only managed to catch up with him and hold him back on the balcony.”
“But that’s not right. Robin wouldn’t have stolen someone else’s work, would he, Dr. Asher?” Zoe asks, turning unexpectedly to me. I’m startled that she even knows my name. “He was in a lot of your classes, right? He was always saying that you were his favorite teacher. He worshipped writers. He’d never steal from someone else, right?”
“Is that right, Dr. Asher?” the police officer asks me. “Had this student ever been accused of pla
giarism before?”
“Well, actually, there was one other incident…”
Mark tilts his head and blinks at me. “I wasn’t aware of any other incidents with this student,” he says, his voice icily formal. I wince at his tone but then remind myself that he’s in shock. Still, I’m hurt when he shifts his weight so I’m no longer able to touch his arm.
“It was his first infraction so I didn’t think it was necessary to make a formal complaint,” I say. “He was so upset, and he promised it would never happen again. As Miss—” I stumble, looking to Zoe, realizing I don’t know her last name.
“Demarchis,” she says.
“As Miss Demarchis just said, Robin was very sensitive. I think any accusation of plagiarism in the film would have been very upsetting to him, especially now. He looked very stressed today in class—”
“Yes, I think the picture’s coming together,” Mark says, shifting his gaze from me to the police officer. “The boy had a history of plagiarism, he was under a lot of stress because of finals and the film show, then Orlando Brunelli shows up and accuses him of stealing the screenplay for his film…He felt his only way out was suicide.”
“Suicide?” Zoe asks, her eyes widening. “But I thought he just fell…”
“But you said you didn’t see what happened,” the officer says. “Are you changing your statement, Miss Demarchis?”
Zoe shakes her head, “No, I mean…I didn’t see, I just assumed it was an accident or that Orlando pushed him.”
“No, I’m afraid it wasn’t an accident, and I was holding back Orlando. Robin looked straight at both of us, and then he pushed himself off the balcony.” Mark covers his eyes with his hand and shudders. “If I’d only known that the boy was suicidal…”
“I don’t believe it!” Zoe Demarchis cries, her voice verging on hysteria. With her pink hair and bloodshot eyes, she looks like a crazed rabbit. Mark tilts his chin up and as if by magic Frieda Mainbocher, the women’s studies professor, appears out of nowhere. I certainly hadn’t noticed Frieda here earlier. In her dowdy denim jumper and orthopedic Mary Janes she doesn’t look like she’s dressed for a party. I imagine she sensed the crisis brewing from her apartment on Thompson Street and showed up just in time to whisk Zoe off to the Women’s Counseling Center.
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