by Linda Kepner
“Scavenged,” she supplied.
“Thank you. Scavenged from our dumps.”
“Are the dumps better guarded now?” someone asked wryly.
“Bien sûr. We think. But we do not know. And there is that risk. And the dump now costs us three times as much as previously to maintain.”
“The dump,” someone muttered. “Gawd, I never thought of that.”
Bishou’s teacher-sense told her that this was turning into a good, interactive conference. Apparently, Dr. Gardiner thought the same thing. There was some more discussion, some more give-and-take, among the conference members.
Then Dr. Gardiner announced, “We’re going to take a coffee break, and you can discuss this outside. It will give you an opportunity to meet each other. Then we’ll come back to our next speaker, James Mandel from R.J. Reynolds, on the business of agriculture. Twenty minutes, everyone, then, back to your desks.”
People stood up. In French, Louis Dessant asked Bishou, “Now what?”
“A cup of coffee and a trip to the bathroom,” she replied, standing.
“Mmph.” He stood, too, and felt in his pockets. “I don’t know what I have for change.”
“Guests of the university get their coffee for free,” Bishou replied. “There should be a coffee cart in the lobby.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Truly? I never went to university. This is all new to me.”
“You surprise me,” said Bishou. “Please come.” Venez, s´il vous plaît. She said it the polite way, not viens, like she’d say to her brother Bat.
“Je viens.” I’m coming. Up the lecture hall steps, out the door, into the lobby. They followed the scent of coffee. The cart awaited. He followed her lead, getting a coffee cup, coffee, milk, sugar — and a croissant.
“Croissants! In America?”
“Not as good as the real thing,” she replied, “but bearable. Do you want to take this back into the lecture hall?”
“It doesn’t seem respectful. Can we find a corner out here?”
“Of course. Let’s step outside.”
Bishou led the way outdoors, where many of their fellow attendees sat on benches and planters and the grass. They found a space on a planter. Carefully, Louis spread out his napkin and put his cup and croissant on it. She smiled and thought, he’d never pass for an American with that kind of carefulness. She held onto her cup and set her cinnamon roll on a napkin on her lap.
He sipped coffee, then asked her, “How do you know French so well?”
“My mother is French-Canadian.”
“Down here?”
“Non, I am from New England, from Boston.”
“Ah, I see. And what brought you to Virginia?”
“My studies. I am working on my doctorate degree in world literature.”
“You are a woman professor, then?” he asked.
“Oui,” she admitted with a smile. “Now, just a graduate student, tutoring and assisting undergraduate students. But soon, in another year, I will be a full-fledged college professor, a doctor of literature.”
“Merde de merde,” he marveled. “And then what?”
“Then I will be looking for a job, like everyone else.”
He smiled, for the first time — a small smile — but she felt she deserved it. Then his brown eyes changed direction, focusing on three men standing before them.
Gray Jackson was one of them. “Hello again, Bishou. Mr. Dessant, these gentlemen are from Galveston, and they’re just starting a tobacco plantation on an island off the Texas coast. I said you might be a good man for them to talk to, seein’ as how you run a tobacco plantation on an island yourself.”
Louis motioned them to a nearby bench, and moved his materials down the planter’s edge. Bishou followed suit. One of the men eyed her. “It might be a little borin’ to listen to us talk tobacco shop, young lady.”
“She stays with me,” said Louis Dessant, “because I have hired her through the university. I am good in English much of the time, but there are words I do not know.”
“Huh. I’ll be darned. You’re a college coed?” Gray Jackson asked her.
“No, sir, I’m a college professor.”
“A lady college professor? This place has a Domestic Science school?”
She grinned. “You’d be sorry if I cooked your meal. I’m a literature professor.”
“I’ll be darned. I wonder if the University of Texas is doing this, training lady professors?”
Yes, they were, Bishou knew, but this was not the time to discuss it. “I’m sure they are, but I don’t know much about UT.”
As expected, the men turned back to Louis, to ask questions about tobacco growing, temperature, manpower, shipping, and labor.
Louis knew his stuff. Only occasionally did he need her to translate a word or idea. He had not begun his plantation; he had inherited it from his father and grandfather. He had a partner, Etien Campard, who took over much of the day-to-day operation and had wanted Louis to attend this conference. For the first time it struck Bishou as odd that Louis was here. The French tobacco-men, it seemed, didn’t attend American conferences, but usually stayed home and grew tobacco.
Gradually, more from his attitude than anything spoken, Bishou also realized that Louis Dessant was here because he had paid his way — not on some kind of scholarship or grant, the way she had lived her life. And he did not consider it an unusual expenditure, to fly halfway around the world and get a hotel and pay for a university program, out of pocket. Simply put, he was extremely wealthy. So why the heck was he here, and why was the President of the University so uncomfortable about him?
They moved out of the bright sun and into the air-conditioned lecture hall. Another lecture, much like the first, but with a different speaker. This speaker talked about legalities. Health lawsuits about tobacco, which were now becoming prominent. Liability and insurance issues. Back in their seats, Louis frowned in concentration at the speaker, but it was clear this issue didn’t matter to him as much as the tobacco infections did.
One of the dining halls was given over to the conference for the lunch break. It meant a brief walk across campus. They left their notes and conference packets at their desks.
As they walked, Bishou noticed something else. Louis had no interest in viewing the campus. Hard to believe that someone who hadn’t gone to college, had never been to America, didn’t look around him. Well, she did see his brown eyes flick briefly about. But not to move one’s head — not to pay attention? Maybe she read too much, after all. Someplace she’d read about that habit of not moving one’s head …
They arrived at the dining room reserved specifically for the World Tobacco Conference, and found seats opposite each other at a table. The smell of beef, peas, and mashed potatoes wafted about. Other men joined them, and discussed the morning’s lectures. Louis mainly listened and ate, so Bishou did, too.
They went back to the afternoon breakout sessions, small-group sessions more like seminars, where they discussed various issues of interest to the tobacco industry. Again, she kept her notebook out, which Louis borrowed when he needed to write down a question or ask for an equivalent term in French. As they passed the pen and notebook back and forth, one of Bishou’s suspicions was also confirmed.
As they were leaving at the end of the second session, one of the men from North Carolina, Vig Hansen, said, “My wife’s been out shopping this afternoon, but we’re meeting at the Rogers Steak House for supper, Dessant. You and Bishou want to come along?” He said it as ordinarily as if Bishou were the wife or girlfriend.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t,” Bishou answered, before anyone could say anything embarrassing. “I’ve got school work to do — I’ve got an eight A.M. class, I’m afraid.”
“Nor I.” Louis Dessant yawned. “I am trying very hard to adjust, but I have décalage, what you call, jet lag. For me, it is almost midnight.”
“You should have something in your stomach, Dessant,” Hanson said reasona
bly. “Breakfast is a long way away.”
Louis shrugged, and looked at Bishou. “Quelle vous voulez faire?” What do you want to do?
She shook her head. “Can’t. I really need to do this school work,” she replied in English. “I didn’t tell you the whole truth. I’m not taking the class — I’m teaching it.”
Louis shook his head, smiling. “There. Mademoiselle is out of it. But I can be tempted. I will go with you. I spend too much time alone.”
They parted ways, and he went off with the delighted North Carolinians.
Bishou hit up the Student Union for some soda and a slice of pizza, which she ate thoughtfully. She looked at her watch. Just 5:30, she thought, EVU Administration is winding down for the day. I’ll walk toward the administration building and let that be my coin toss.
She walked across the campus, toward the administration building, which housed the president’s office. She met President Lanthier coming out the front door, still putting his arm in one of his topcoat sleeves. The coin had been tossed, and it came up heads.
“President Lanthier? Can you spare me just a moment? I’m sorry. It won’t take long.”
He stopped, then smiled at her. “Bishou Howard. How is our finest doctoral candidate doing?”
She smiled back at him. “Still hard at work and loving it, sir. Thanks for asking.” Bishou grew more serious. “I wanted to ask you about the World Tobacco Conference, though.”
He brightened. “How’s it going? Well, I hope.”
“Yes, very well. It’s an extremely good conference. They’re really getting into the topics, and I think that bodes well for future conferences, really. I think they like it here a lot.”
“I am so glad to hear that,” said the President heartily. “It’s a high-profile event that gives us some very good publicity. It allows us to participate in the community, yet use our conference center and existing resources as well. Thank you for agreeing to help out Mr. Dessant, too. The World Tobacco Conference will have an even greater appeal if we can offer it regardless of nationality or language.”
“I totally agree, sir. But I did want to ask you one question, before we move on.”
“And that is?” he asked with a smile.
“Do you know what Mr. Dessant was in prison for?”
The President froze. He did not speak for a long moment. Then, in a very low tone, he murmured, “So that’s what it was.”
“You didn’t know either,” she said.
“I knew he had to get a special visa, and I had to report to the state police that he had arrived here safely,” the President replied. “Frankly, that worried me a little. I hadn’t realized I’d been so transparent.”
“You weren’t, sir,” Bishou lied. “I just noticed Mr. Dessant’s odd little mannerisms, and I wondered.”
“I don’t know. I presume some kind of white-collar crime, as they call it, because otherwise they wouldn’t let him out of the country — that is, out of French jurisdiction.”
“No, sir,” said Bishou. “He has calluses. He’s been at hard labor.”
“Jesus God,” said the President of the University. “No one ever told me that.”
Bishou motioned to one of the nearby benches. They both sat.
“First,” she said in the same low voice, “I want to promise you I won’t make waves. I just wanted to know for myself. It’d be easier to tutor him if I knew exactly what I was up against.”
The President sighed. “Bishou, I don’t know.”
She smiled at him. “Dr. Lanthier, I grew up in academia, you forget. This is like talking to my uncle.” Uncles were younger than dads. Actually, though, Bishou had no uncles. It was from her dad’s reactions that she knew the President was not telling the whole truth.
Lanthier smiled, and looked almost sheepish. Almost. “Truth is, I don’t know, Bishou. What I do know,” he looked for an expressive enough term, “is that, whatever happened, people over there are well-disposed toward him.”
“Who contacted us, the American or the French Embassy?”
“Both of them,” Lanthier said seriously. “I’ve got old school chums in both. He’s got tremendous support. I would go on, Bishou, as if you didn’t know any of this and it didn’t matter. After all, the conference will be over in two weeks, and Mr. Dessant will go back to Réunion Island. None of us will ever see him again. And excuse me for saying something harsh and politically incorrect, but I’m going to say it anyway, and if a third person claims I said it, I’ll lie like Ananias: Don’t develop a crush on him, a handsome romantic Frenchman with a dark past, and blow off this dissertation. I’ve put my ass on the line for you, our third-ever woman doctoral candidate.”
Bishou chuckled. “Never crossed my mind, sir. That dissertation is the most important thing in my life, and now you know it, too. And my family would come after me with weapons if I screwed it up — excuse me, sir.”
President Lanthier laughed. “Your thesis is Passion in Literature,” he reminded her.
“Researching it, not living it,” she reminded him.
The president patted her hand, sounding relieved. “With incoming freshmen, we know what we’re getting. With two-week conferences, we don’t. At least they’re not living on campus, they’re all at the local hotels, so it’s not our security issue. We feed their minds and bodies and send them elsewhere to sleep.”
“And Mr. Dessant really has a pretty good grasp of English, and the Texans and North Carolinians like him,” she added. “Some good networking going on there.”
“I am so grateful you think like an academician, Bishou Howard,” the President sighed, clasping her hand. “Thank you. Now I must run — I’m late for a dinner meeting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir.”
“But I’m glad we had this chance to talk. This should remain confidential. Let’s keep it just as low-key as we can, shall we?”
• • •
Dr. Roth, sitting in Bishou’s decrepit armchair, whistled and took another sip of cheap Chardonnay. Of course Bishou told her advisor what the university president had said — that was only academic self-preservation.
“D’you like him, though? Dessant, I mean? Does he strike you as a decent guy?”
“Yes,” said Bishou thoughtfully, “he does. And, at bottom, Lanthier really does give good advice — keep your pecker in your pocket, even if you’re a girl.”
“Lanthier probably wasn’t aware that your brother is a Sergeant Major in the Marines, though,” Roth observed wryly.
“Nor is he aware of it yet. I was polite,” Bishou replied. She sniffed the aromatic bouquet of the Chardonnay — it wasn’t that bad. “I said literally what I told you I said. Besides, Bat’s out of it. He left the Marines after his hitch in Southeast Asia. Someone has to stay at home to take care of our brothers. Our parents can’t cope with raising two boys. Bat can.”
“And you’re down here in Virginia.” Roth shook his head. “What happens after the doctorate?”
“I look for work. Wherever it is. If it’s close enough for the boys, I take one or both of them as well. That’s the deal. Bat did Marines, I do doctorate, we make sure Andy and Gerry are taken care of. They’re only eleven and thirteen years old. Our parents aren’t gaga, Dr. Roth, far from it — but, to put it nicely, sometimes they have unrealistic expectations from life. Mom’s already in a wheelchair, too.”
“You and Bat are the real parents.”
She nodded. “It’s always been that way. We’re used to checkbook balancing, oil changes, insurance papers, house painting, road trips, all that jazz.” She smiled. “Our family is very labor-intensive, but it’s fun.”
“I’ll take your word for it. So what about Louis Dessant?”
“I’m dreadfully curious, Dr. Roth. And I do feel that I could instruct him better if I knew where he was coming from. But at the same time — do you think I’m just giving in to feminine curiosity?”
“Hell, no,” said Roth. “Now I’m wondering, too.”
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“Maybe there are some ways to find out that aren’t quite as — direct — as just coming out and asking Mr. Dessant,” Bishou said. “I’ve got the feeling this is not a topic he wants to discuss.”
“Well, no wonder. But if you invite him out to dinner and start pumping him, every gossip on campus is going to talk about you, believe me. You know what this community can be like.”
“I’ll watch it,” said Bishou. “I’ll do my research under the table.”
“I think it would be wise,” said Dr. Roth.
Chapter 3
Bishou taught her 8:00 Intro to World Literature class. By 9:00, having lectured to three hundred freshmen, she was most definitely ready for coffee. She went to the student union, got her coffee, and checked her student mailbox. She saw a note from the interlibrary loan librarian, asking her to pick up some material she had requested. There would be a fee of $25, not the usual $3.
“That’s where my money goes,” she sighed, checking her wallet before she headed to the library.
An anemic young man at the interlibrary loan desk jumped up when he saw her coming. “Miss Howard, I’ve got those things for you.”
“Thanks. What was the fee about?”
“I teletyped a request to have materials express-mailed from Paris.” The cutting edge of high-tech; he was obviously proud of their work. “You’re lucky the Humanities Department absorbed part of the cost.”
“Yes, I am, thank God.” She gave him the $25.00, and waited patiently for a receipt. After all, she would have to do her taxes later. Undergraduates without encumbrances never thought of these things.
He handed her a large, flat envelope. “Crimes de Passion Modernes.” His accent was horrible. “Pictures and everything.”
“Really?” She opened the envelope.
“Really. Dissertation guidelines are being changed to accommodate facsimiles. They’re a literal reprint of the pages in question, and they’re going to be allowed in dissertations in a year or two — talks are underway.” He grinned. “Probably too late for you, but not the next candidate.”