In the library—Sor had just sat down with the new critical work on Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground—Marguerite swarmed his brain. He couldn’t concentrate. Why? He thought. Their encounter today should not be having this effect on him. They had met so briefly. It was a simple meeting, two bodies passing each other, touching, and Hello Sor. So why was he thinking about her so much? She must have been lying dormant in his unconscious all these months. Their meeting at the Bernhardt Building had merely rekindled what he had felt for her that night at Plum’s dinner party.
He tried putting her out of his head but she kept coming back. The words on the page, sentences, slid past him, bypassing his normally receptive brain. He was reading but he wasn’t reading; nothing sank in, nothing seemed to stick to his besieged gray matter. Eventually he gave up. It was no use trying to read, he thought, and left the library still thinking about her, the kiss, her lips on his lips after Plum’s dinner, and the fragrance that emanated from her body when she came out of the Bernhardt School of Engineering building. I like you, Sor . . . I like you, Sor. It kept repeating in his head, over and over, like a malfunctioning wind-up toy, as he went through the revolving door.
TWO
Outside the library, the sun beat down hard on Sor. He was surprised by its intensity. The heat and humidity embraced his body like a tight-fitting layer of clothing, like a straight jacket, like a punishment. He sweated copiously. Small pools of perspiration congregated on his forehead; they would soon run down to his brows and eyelids. His neck and chest were wet. In the middle of his back, his undershirt clung to his body, damp and clammy. It was unusually hot for this time of year, but he wouldn’t complain. He had grown accustomed to the Florida heat. He preferred it to the winters in Calgary and New York. He didn’t miss the snow and freezing rain. He didn’t miss the ice-coated roads in winter. He found no joy in autumnal foliage. To him, autumn was the beginning of the dying season, the shutting down of life, hibernation, falling leaves, snow, and heavy, uncomfortable apparel. All the beautiful golden foliage that people gawked at could not persuade him it was otherwise, that it was anything but the usurpation of warmth, and the ushering in of a kind of death. Maybe it was his father’s Jamaican genes at work, he thought, why he had developed his animosity to the colder climes.
It was a long walk to the building housing the classroom in which he would teach his afternoon class, but he didn’t have to rush. Since he had left the library much earlier than anticipated—he still had more than an hour before his class—he could take his time getting there. He’d even have time, he thought, for a cup of coffee at Zanzibar, the school’s newly installed coffee and juice bar. It would be cool inside. He would order an espresso. He would sit at one of the tables near the window that looked out on the fountain in the manmade pond near the Sanford School of Education building and get a respite from the heat.
Sor had always found the campus to be quite plain, but today it seemed particularly depressing to him, maybe because of the heat, the glare from the strong sun, his unsettled mental state. The buildings all seemed alike to him, concrete structures, gray or brownish-gray in color, depending on how the sun’s rays struck them. Most were rectangular, put up hurriedly without any concern for style or desire to please the viewer’s eye. Who conceived, who put up these monstrosities? The architect should be shot, Sor thought. The housing for the students was the least pleasing—square and L-shaped boxes with tiny windows. There were only a few trees where the majority of the buildings were located, and surrounding them on all sides were acres of parking spaces for the twenty-six thousand students. He felt almost depressed by what he saw. He knew why, of course. He was nostalgic for the older campuses in New York, where he received his education and later taught. He reminisced fondly about the brick and stone buildings. Vintage stuff. On one campus where he taught, offices and even classrooms and dormitories were housed in old mansions, bequeathed by wealthy donors. Some smelled old and stuffy, the odor of old books, and the floors, scuffed and worn, reminded him of previous generations of students who strolled their halls and corridors. It was a good feeling. Here, the offices, the classrooms, even the library, did not smell of academia. They smelled like corporate offices, sterile, and always with a whiff of antiseptic cleaning compounds to ward off germs. Sor didn’t want to dwell on it, and quickly put an end to his criticism of the school’s architecture and his nostalgia for the past. Damn it, he thought, the architecture stank, but it’s where he taught. It was a kind of home for him. He should love it.
He had barely put the school’s architecture out of his mind when he started thinking about his father. The thoughts sprang up so strongly that it took him by surprise, like the heat that greeted him when he stepped out of the library. Why now? he thought. He had not thought about his old man in months. But he was happy for the intrusion. He didn’t want to think about Marguerite. He had a class to teach and he did not want to walk into the classroom with her running amok in his head. “Thank you, Papa, thank you,” he muttered under his breath.
Sor’s father had always pushed him to pursue teaching as a profession. But he didn’t want Sor to become a high school teacher like him. He wanted Sor to teach in a university. “That’s where your kind of brain belongs, boy,” he repeatedly reminded Sor when he was growing up, especially during his senior year in high school. Sor knew he had made him happy and proud when he became a college professor, but he wished his father could see him now, a full-time professor of English with a reputable university. His father had died before Sor moved to Florida and got his present position. But Sor wasn’t the type to dwell on the past, or regret the things he did or did not do—traits he picked up from his father, like the rules, habits, and principles he lived by, the strict formality that directed everything he did, the disciplined persona in which he clothed himself. “Never look back, Sor,” his father once told him. “Don’t have regrets. Don’t get into the habit of looking over your shoulder at the past. Don’t burden yourself with it, unless it’s to use your past experiences as a prophylactic to prevent you from repeating the same mistakes. What’s important is not to make too many bad choices. Bad choices are the killer. Bad choices make life complicated and messy.”
Sor felt, knew for sure, that a woman’s voice calling his father’s name from behind a revolving door, even if she had once kissed him on the lips one night in drunkenness—Sor still thought Marguerite’s kiss might have been alcohol-related—no matter how sweet and inviting, would not turn his father’s head. His father would not allow himself to metamorphose into an infatuated schoolboy. “Damn it,” Sor thought, remembering the disciplined life his father lived, and his sense of duty, “I will not be tempted. I am married. I will not be taken off course by another woman’s body. I’ll stay in my hole with Jasmine. I’ll…”
Sor was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost walked past Zanzibar. Inside, it was crowded, noisy. The three sleek television screens built into the wall were each turned to a different channel and turned up loud. At several tables, groups of students were laughing and talking at the top of their voices. Sor’s immediate inclination was to leave. He wasn’t in the mood for this kind of mayhem. He wanted quiet. But his need for an espresso had a greater pull on his being. He decided to stay. He was sixth in line. Maybe the more boisterous students would leave by the time he was served. As he looked around the room he noticed that some of the students had finished their coffees and colorful fruit drinks and were just chatting over their empty cups and glasses. They’d soon leave, he thought. Maybe there’d be a vacant table by the time he was served.
The student in front of him, attached to his iPod as if it were an umbilical cord, wagged his head like a nervous fetus to the music he was listening to. Sor wished his students would immerse themselves as intently with the stuff he taught in his literature classes. But they wanted reality, not fiction. They wanted non-stop excitement, ceaseless joy. They wanted fun. Fun. Sor hat
ed the word, and the canned, staged excitement he saw everywhere. You didn’t know what was real, what was phony anymore, he thought. The need for constant excitement had become an epidemic in the culture. Don’t they know that life can’t be all fun and excitement? They’re becoming like bees, like ants, ready to be led around like zombies. They must find shortcuts for everything. Everything must be easy. But short cuts do not build the stamina to deal with life’s harsh and unpredictable terrain.
They should have parents like mine… a father like mine, Sor thought. The mahogany bookcase with the glass doors in his father’s study in Calgary sprang up vividly in his mind. A great deal of his early education and intellectual development were connected with it. His memory of the bookcase was so strong he could almost touch it, almost feel its texture, and trace with his fingers the swirls in the dark wood—the color of the espresso he would soon be drinking. He could almost smell the wax his father used to clean the shelves every Sunday. He remembered how his father would dust each book with a feather-tipped brush as if they were priceless artifacts. He would allow no one else to do it. For a long time Sor could only look at the titles of the books through the glass door of the locked bookcase. He couldn’t touch them. He couldn’t read them.
Finally, when Sor was eleven years old, his father gave him one of the books to read. When he finished reading the book, his father questioned him about its contents. At first his questions were rudimentary, ones Sor could easily answer. But each time Sor read another book, the questions got more difficult and specific, requiring Sor to read each work more closely. Most of his father’s questionings began with the word “why.” Sor was bombarded by whys. Why do you like the work? Why does the main character behave the way he does? Why this, why that. This kind of questioning went on for two years.
On Sor’s thirteenth birthday his father gave him the key to the bookcase, along with these instructions: “You may read the books, but I expect you to keep them in the order in which you find them, and it’s your job to keep them and the shelves clean. Some of the books are bound in leather and are very expensive. Please take care of them.” Part of the unwritten contract was that every Sunday they would discuss the books he had read.
As if they were contraband, forbidden texts, Sor read the books speedily, hungrily, almost as if he feared his father would ask him to give back the key. Once a week, using one of his father’s old undershirts, he dusted the shelves, then dusted each book with the old feather duster his father had used. Every Sunday after the midday meal, Sor would sit down with his father and discuss the books he had read during the past week. Their Sunday discussions continued until Sor finished high school and left for college. In college his father called him every Sunday to discuss what he was reading. When he started teaching, they would discuss the books Sor taught in his classes each semester. In fact, their Sunday chats continued until the last Sunday before his father’s death.
“Sir, what would you like? . . . Sir… what can I get you?” the purple-haired girl with the nose ring behind the counter said impatiently, breaking through Sor’s reverie, her fingers fidgeting nervously above the cash register. There was now a long line of students behind Sor.
He ordered a double espresso and a slice of the almond pound cake he’d been eyeing in the display case.
Sor looked around the room. There was still no table where he could sit alone, and the noise from the televisions and the students’ chatter was getting louder. He couldn’t stay in this madhouse, he decided. He’d take his double espresso to his classroom, have it at his desk, and sit and read until his students started trickling in.
Sor had got his cake and was waiting for his espresso when he heard someone calling his name. “Professor Avraham… Sor… Professor Avraham.”
It was Dick Olephant. He was standing at a table by one of the windows, waving, beckoning Sor to join him.
Sor was happy to see Olephant. He liked him a lot. Apart from Julian Plum, Olephant was the only member of the faculty he associated with. He often visited him in his office. Olephant taught history, specializing in the ancient civilizations. He had written a number of scholarly articles on ancient Egypt, the civilization Sor admired most, and a seminal work on the rise of high culture in ancient Greece. He also taught an introductory humanities course that students fought to get into when it was offered. Because he started off as an art historian before getting his doctorate in history, Olephant had a far more encompassing grasp than most on the history of art and culture and how artistic movements fitted into the larger socio-economic, cultural and religious picture.
Sor had not thought of it before, but seeing Olephant, and remembering that the humanities courses he taught were offered by the art department, Sor suspected that Olephant probably knew Marguerite. He headed for Olephant’s table.
THREE
As he walked toward Olephant’s table, Sor wondered why he had not seen him before now. He had repeatedly looked around the room to see if there were any empty tables. Olephant’s huge, muscular body was not easily missed. Damn, he thought, the man looks like a football player, bulked up on steroids, in a white shirt and tie. I couldn’t have missed him.
“I had no idea you were here, Dick,” Sor said, as he joined him at the table. “When did you come in?”
“I was in the men’s room,” Olephant said, moving his books out of the way so that Sor would have space for his coffee and cake on the small bistro table. “A student held the table for me in my absence.”
“That’s why I didn’t see you. But what brings you to Zanzibar?” Sor said, when he had sat down and taken the first sip of his espresso. “You are the last person I would expect to find here. I know how much you abhor the toe-wash they serve for coffee in places like these.”
Olephant was a coffee connoisseur. Whenever Sor visited him in his office he would make a special brew for the two of them, usually using exotic beans Sor had never heard of. Olephant loved blending beans from different countries. “Ah, my friend,” he once said to Sor, after they had taken their first sip of an Ethiopian-Nicaraguan blend, “there’s nothing like coffee. It’s the intellectual’s elixir. Most creative people drink it. They need it, not just to keep them awake, but also to stir up their creative juices, wake up the lazier neurons in their brains. But, then, not all creative people depend on the brown elixir to liberate their creativity. William Wordsworth loved his walks. Coleridge loved taking walks, too, but sometimes got his inspiration from opium. Just think, Sor, Coleridge probably would not have written ‘Kubla Khan’ without a little help from the extract from the poppy seed. Of course, as you know, the poem wasn’t finished. That, too, might have been the effect of the poppy; its creative enhancing effect must have worn off before the poem was completed. The fickle muse fled, leaving Coleridge stranded with an unfinished poem. And there’s Picasso. Woman was his muse. He loved them young. They inspired him. They got him going. But once he got accustomed to them, and their muse-like effect wore off, he had to move onto fresher fields. The bull in him was not satisfied staying in the same pasture with the same mate for long.”
Olephant was divorced and was known as a womanizer on the campus. He had had numerous affairs with fellow faculty members and administrative people. He pounced on every newly hired female faculty member that crossed his path. “The idea is to get them in bed before they find out what a hound I am,” he once revealed to Sor.
Olephant took a sip of coffee from his mug and grimaced before answering Sor’s question. “I just got out of a meeting, and I have a class in forty minutes. There wasn’t enough time to get to my office and make some real coffee. There seems to be a departmental meeting every second of the day. And they’re all mandatory. One must attend. I don’t have a chance these days to sit in my office. Academia is no different than big business, with all its protocols and demands, and objectives, and endless meetings. I wish they’d let me attend to the students. They
certainly need me more.”
“Then I need not apologize for not seeing you in the past few weeks. You probably wouldn’t have been in your office anyway,” Sor said, cutting into his cake with a plastic fork and bringing a sizeable piece of it toward his mouth.
“To be honest, I was beginning to feel you were avoiding me,” Olephant said, a large grin on his stubbly round face—he must not have shaved that morning.
“It’s nothing like that. It’s just an awkward semester. I seem to have little time when I’m on campus to visit you and Julian. Anyway, how are you?” Sor asked, in a more serious tone, sensing that behind Olephant’s grin and light banter, something was bothering him.
Olephant took a bite of his chocolate cake and chewed it slowly before answering. “Stick with the woman you are with, Sor. Stick with Jasmine,” he said, and was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “But I don’t have to worry about you straying, Mr. Man of Discipline. You’ll always hunker down with the one you are with, because you feel it’s your responsibility to do so, no matter what. Stay that way. You won’t have my headaches. Don’t run around. If you have affairs, sooner or later you’ll meet someone who’ll pull on you—call it love, if you like—and pull you away from the one you are with. That’s what happened to me. I left Ethel and my two boys for someone I thought I was in love with. I thought she was in love with me. Maybe I loved the sex. Maybe I was infatuated with the new face, voice, the fresh conversations, the new positions in bed, the novelty of a new body, the fresh fuck.”
Jasmine Page 2