by James Gregor
“What’s up?” Richard asked finally, trying to tamp down his impatience.
“I don’t want to become like them,” she said.
“Like your parents?”
“Mmm.”
“It’s not going to happen,” he said, hoping to quell what he feared was a new upsurge of emotion.
“I’m afraid there’s something bigger pulling me that way. Something too big and vague to fight or even to see.”
“It’s not true. You have choices.”
“I’m not sure.”
It was the first time that he had heard her express uncertainty, except about some abstract philosophical issue, and even then she usually came down on one side or the other.
She asked him to tell her something that would equalize the air between them. He said he wasn’t sure whether he could do that.
Actually, what they were doing reminded him of that scene in The Idiot. Had she read it? A group of aristocrats recount to Prince Myshkin the worst things they’ve ever done. One man describes grabbing a woman’s simpering lapdog and throwing it out the window of a moving train.
“But Dostoevsky is a hard act to follow,” Richard said as a breeze blew across his face, making the comment feel more dramatic.
“That’s true.”
She squeezed his fingers, and he looked at her small pink hand as if it were an oddly brave bird that had dared to land on him.
“It’s almost as hard as Tolstoy,” she said.
“Almost.”
He smiled.
“This is why my career is so important to me,” she said. “It’s something that my family has nothing to do with. I control things. Nothing depends on them. It’s where I can get away from that company and my father. He wants me to take over.” She paused. “And that would be the end. Maybe it sounds strange, but my life would be over. I don’t think I would survive.”
“It doesn’t sound strange to me, Anne. You don’t belong there.”
“No.”
“You’re a born scholar.”
“That’s sweet of you to say.”
“You can go anywhere with it. I’m sure.”
She nodded but didn’t reply. Of course she already knew she could go anywhere with it. That was obvious to anybody.
“Do you know about the Clio Prize?” she said. “The department gives it out—to a paper written by a graduate student. If you get that, you’re basically guaranteed a position somewhere.”
“You’ll get it. You’ll win it.”
“I don’t want to go to Nebraska.”
“Why ever not?”
“Ha. Right?”
They watched a fluffy group of West Highland terriers trot past. The sky had grown clear and sharp. Her mood was lifting, and Richard sensed an opportunity.
“I might have to leave.”
“I’ve kept you long enough,” she said.
“I mean—I might have to leave the city . . .” He trailed off.
“What do you mean?”
She turned to look at him.
“I haven’t met a deadline in months. Antonella is threatening to cut off my funding.”
At the very least he would be suspended when she wrote her letter to the foundation, or failed to, and the money stopped.
“You can’t leave New York.”
“Who said ‘You can’t go home again’?” he asked.
“Thomas Wolfe.”
“You can go home again. You can go home and get stuck there.”
“It’s too expensive here,” she said, shaking her head slowly and, in doing so, scanning the hyperprosperity that formed one latitudinal border of the park. “It’s inhuman.”
He wondered whether she sensed the irony in what she was saying. Did she condemn herself as part of that inhumanity?
“It’s the fault of people like my father.”
He doesn’t live in New York, Richard thought. But then again, neither do a lot of people who own property here.
Anne stared at the turreted apartment buildings like a sad revolutionary. Richard hoped this would not be her entire reaction, a pointless commiseration about the inequality that surrounded them, as though it was ground they really needed to cover again.
“You’re not leaving,” she said, taking his wrist in hand.
“It feels like a foregone conclusion now.”
“Nothing is a foregone conclusion.”
“I don’t know.”
She looked down at the wet grass.
“What can we do?” she said, and he shrugged. “What are you working on now?”
“Well—” He brightened, trying not to be too obvious about his ulterior motive. “The Guinizelli, but I’ve got nothing.”
“I can help you.”
He looked at her with a timid expression. “Really?”
“We’ll start right away,” she said.
“Anne—”
“There’s not a chance I wouldn’t. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s easy for me. I have more than enough material. I always overproduce.”
“It’s too much.”
“It’s not. I said I would, and I will.”
He paused as if deliberating.
“Well, um, could you look at the paper I’m working on then? It wouldn’t be a big commitment. I’m just having some trouble finding the through-line.”
“Of course.”
“Maybe if Antonella saw that I could finish, she would give me some breathing room.”
“That’s what we’ll do then.”
“I respect your work and I would love . . . your advice.”
Something inside him teetered. He wanted to leap forth and recoil all at once.
“It will be fun to work together,” she said, smiling now.
“Yes it will,” he said, excited. “This is so generous of you, Anne.”
“It’s nothing.”
He smiled.
“Tonight, we’ll go to the library. Bring your notes. Bring whatever you have so far. We’ll figure it out.”
She was such a sweet, generous person, he thought. No one in his life, not even Patrick, treated him like this.
“You don’t know what a relief this is.”
FIVE
With her index finger, Antonella pointed to a stapled sheaf of papers on the desk.
“This is very good, Richard, very good.”
Behind her head, a screen of plants filled the window.
“Let’s see.” She picked up the papers, scanned a page, and read aloud:
“ ‘The difficult nature of the problem of language in Dante’s time is evident in his claiming superiority for the Italian volgare in one theoretical work—De vulgari eloquentia—while doing the same for Latin in another—Il Convivio. The resolution of Dante’s equivocal stance on language should be sought for not in theoretical works but in the Commedia itself, where he employs the Italian volgare to go beyond even the models of antiquity, written in Latin, from which he drew inspiration.’ ”
Richard nodded, though he had lost all sense of whether Anne’s words were insightful or merely pompous.
“When can I see more?” Antonella asked, with a previously absent level of excitement in her voice.
“Soon.”
“And you are going to apply to the conference in Montreal? Anne knows the details.”
Prudently considering how to respond, he paused. “We’ve had some discussions along those lines.”
“What changed?”
“Maybe it’s the weather,” he said, looking past her now at the budding campus, green beyond the window. “I’ve been feeling better. My head is clearer.”
He and Anne had worked together in the library for the past three days, crafting the paper from which Antonella had read aloud. He was still reeling from watching Anne’s nimble mind roam through the unkempt hamster cage of his research—collecting and stockpiling still-edible morsels, trimming rancid bits from salvageable parts, and sweeping away what was clearly dead. Ass
uming they would do this together—an equal partnership—Richard had at first made spirited, sincere efforts to contribute, and sensitively Anne had responded with an enthusiastic openness, taking his points into account. But in the end she’d accelerated away from him and discarded most of his suggestions. He had to admit that she had done most of the work on her own. But this was only their first time working together. A more balanced arrangement would emerge, he was sure, as they both got their bearings.
“It seems to me to be the way forward,” Antonella said. “I’ve sent the letter to the foundation. The money will arrive soon. I’m sure you’re relieved.”
“Very much.” He exhaled. “Thank you.”
She smiled her slightly parched smile. “I’m happy this was resolved. I think you have turned a corner.”
After his meeting with Antonella, Richard went to see Patrick for lunch in the student union building. They ate there sometimes despite its obdurately soulless decor, its odor of soya sauce, and the often enraging lineups for the ATM. If they felt they could afford it, they ate elaborate salads or moist veggie burgers immersed in condiments with elaborately milky coffee, and if they were feeling particularly broke, Richard ate a squashed tuna sandwich and Patrick ate nothing.
Patrick was deep in conversation with Barrett and Amir when Richard arrived. Richard sat down with the intention of being silent throughout the lunch, but this primed audience, assembled by Patrick and now at his disposal, made it so that he couldn’t keep himself from trying to mention the ridiculous thing he was going to do that night—join a protest on the lawn, and sleep outside in a tent.
“It’s important to keep going out,” Amir said. “You can tell if you have chemistry with someone. Even if I think someone is cute, I still swipe away out of ennui.”
“Ennui? If someone is cute, I’ll invite them over,” Barrett said. “That’s why I get more action than you.”
“You’ve always gotten more action than me.”
“Let’s talk about the real world. You have to know where to go. Urge is good for the bathroom scene, but the drinks are watered down.”
“I’m going to sleep outside on campus tonight,” Richard said.
“I think the Boiler Room is the worst for fatsos,” Barrett said, charging over Richard’s words and completely ignoring his perturbed face. “But Eastern Bloc is worse for sweat.”
“No Urge is worse for sweat!”
“Those bars are all the same,” Richard said. “It gets boring.”
“What gets boring?”
“I mean, they’re not interesting after a while,” Richard said.
“Do you even know where to go?” Barrett said.
“Give me a break,” Patrick said.
It was unclear whom he was addressing.
“Whatever,” Barrett said. “This city is lame anyway. I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“I don’t know. Maybe London, maybe LA.”
Richard looked away and saw a young woman drizzling vinegar on her French fries, a beatific look on her face.
“It’s not so bad here,” he said.
Later in the afternoon, he went to the protest and found Anne sitting on the ground, resentfully cross-legged. Beside her, Erin and Alicia sprawled on their stomachs, a furry plaid blanket beneath them. They were eating rice cakes slathered in peanut butter and writing slogans with black markers on cardboard placards. Around them, gaunt young men mingled with girls dressed in cascading vintage garb.
“Welcome to the conclave of our future leaders,” Anne said. She was wearing black sunglasses, which seemed to be growing larger with each meeting.
Richard sat down.
“Here,” said Erin, handing Anne a placard. In black marker it said My Grievance: and then a blank space.
“What’s my grievance?”
“Oh, I figured you could just pick one,” Erin replied.
Anne dropped it on the ground and stuffed her hands into her pockets.
“It’s weirdly cold,” she said. “Why? Couldn’t you have chosen a warmer day?”
Alicia unwound a thin pea-green scarf from her neck and handed it to Anne, who draped it on her shoulders begrudgingly. People were setting up tents nearby.
“Is that where we’re sleeping?” Richard asked.
“No, we’re sleeping there,” Alicia said, pointing to a listing green tent that was entirely too narrow to house the four of them.
“We won’t fit,” Richard said.
“We’re going to be up all night anyway. I’ve got a list of prepared chants,” Alicia said.
They sat and watched students pass by in the declining light.
“Was this a good idea?” Anne said.
“I don’t know,” Richard whispered. “But we probably shouldn’t leave now.”
She shrugged. “Probably not.”
Richard surveyed the scene. There was no one in earshot. “How’s your father?” he asked.
“My father left for the Vineyard or somewhere else dangerously close to marine life,” Anne replied, sounding indifferent.
“Are you okay?”
She smiled at him. “I’ll be fine. Did you bring anything to read?”
He shook his head.
“I brought Erwin Panofsky. I love that era.”
“Me too,” Richard said, pleased that she had decided to talk about something other than her family.
In his theory classes, he said, all the books had these beautiful titles—A Thousand Plateaus, The Transparency of Evil, Totality and Infinity—but the content never delivered the aesthetic bliss they seemed to promise.
“There are some important points if you dig around, though. It’s not all nonsense. Want a cookie?”
That was one of the interesting things about Anne’s mind, Richard thought: despite her intermittently old-fashioned air, she was open to new ideas; she didn’t dismiss out of hand what was novel, but she was nonetheless grounded in what had come before. Most other doctoral candidates, while intelligent enough, were naively dedicated to whichever explanatory discourse, whichever style of thinking, was currently in vogue. Didn’t they realize that in time it would be shown to be hopelessly limited, if not laughably wrong? Every discourse eventually was. In the end, you had to conclude, it was all a lot of fashionable bullshit.
“What kind?”
“They’re from Levain Bakery.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a gigantic cookie in a paper sleeve.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the cookie.
It had felt a tiny bit brutish and cheap to accept Antonella’s praise earlier, when it wasn’t really his to accept. Until his own capacities returned, he could—he would—say yes to Anne’s help to move past this fallow period. It wasn’t going to be easy, it was going to be hard on his ego, to sublimate himself to her. Part of him wanted to tell Anne how good Antonella thought the paper was, but then again she didn’t need the praise. She already had a lot of success in her life. And it wasn’t as if under normal circumstances he couldn’t do what she did. He’d been accepted into the program after all. System failure happened. He just couldn’t see the point of all this sometimes, and then he’d start wondering why he hadn’t gone into artificial intelligence or that kind of thing.
Because he wasn’t good at math, that’s why.
He decided that the next paper on which they collaborated, he would do better. He would show Anne that he had valuable ideas to contribute.
Erin came over and demanded to know if there was any sparkling water leftover.
“We’ve been yelling all night. We’re very thirsty.”
“We’ll go to Morton Williams,” Anne said. “But someone will have to watch our stuff.”
“And who is going to do that?”
They walked out of the gates onto Broadway and crossed the street toward the glowing windows of the supermarket. Inside, lines of expressionless people inched forward, pressing their cards against black boxes a
nd then grumpily stuffing produce into plastic bags. Richard heaved a twelve-pack of bottled water into the cart.
“It’s so wasteful,” Anne said. “And for a climate change protest.”
Richard shook his head.
“I hope they’re reimbursing you for this,” he said.
“Are you kidding?”
When they got back, Erin and Alicia were standing on milk crates, leading a chant. Occasionally a spectator would approach, inquire as to the cause behind the protest, and be rudely rebuffed. Richard eyed the tent with increasing nervousness.
They arranged the snacks and water into neat piles.
“So how did it go with Antonella today?” Anne asked. “You haven’t mentioned anything.”
“It went well.”
He was annoyed all of a sudden that she’d brought it up. And in public, no less.
“See? All you needed was a fresh set of eyes.” She patted him on the knee. “You had some very good ideas.”
“Nice of you to say.”
“Anyway,” she said, leaning toward him with a cozy expression on her face. “We’re not going to let you move into your parents’ basement.”
He smiled. “I certainly hope not.”
Around midnight, they went to bed, rolling out their sleeping bags and lying in the tent, heads on their backpacks. Erin and Alicia and the rest of the protesters finished their chants and began playing Broken Telephone in a circle outside.
“I wish I could brush my teeth,” Richard said.
When Anne didn’t respond, he tilted his head to look at her. It was dark, but he thought that her eyes were closed. He had expected her to initiate conversation. He had expected her to be a person, like himself, hassled by nighttime anxieties. Evidently she was not; she had begun to snore.
Still, even if it was as mute logs, they were sleeping beside each other in the same shared, narrow, confidential space. He felt suddenly disappointed that she was asleep. Also, a tinge of resentment she’d left him to face Erin and Alicia alone.
When they entered the tent a few minutes later, they made no effort to be quiet. But their flurried arrival did nothing to disturb Anne’s slumber. Erin squealed. Alicia made honking noises. She got on all fours and neighed like a horse.
“Liz snores!”
“Let’s get it on our phones!”