“Ach. I must beg your pardon. My condition is provoked by heat. Bright light can be bothersome as well. I hope you shan’t be too uncomfortable.”
We came to a delicately furnished room. A pair of pale pink sofas faced each other, perpendicular to the fireplace, which was accented by a hearth rug. In the middle of the room was a low glass table, atop it a half-empty china cup and saucer. The curtains were heavy enough to block out all sunlight; two brass floor lamps with chinoiserie shades provided the room’s only illumination.
“You would like some tea, perhaps?”
“That’d be lovely, thanks.”
“Please sit down. I shan’t be long.”
Watching her go, I wondered about this condition of hers. She seemed healthy enough. She walked slowly—not out of difficulty but with grace. It was the walk of someone accustomed to having others wait for her, the speed of dignity. She wore a long floral dress beneath a creamy cardigan, and from the back I saw her white hair tidily pulled into a bun, a pearl hairpin at twelve o’clock. Her sole concession to informality was a pair of slippers that slapped at her heels as she disappeared.
I got up to poke around. Aside from the entry hall, there were two ways out: the one she’d taken, leading, presumably, to the kitchen, and another opening into a still deeper darkness. The living room bowed out toward the front of the house, creating space for a dining-room set that gleamed through the dim.
Most striking was the lack of photographs. Who doesn’t keep a portrait of mother and father over the mantel? Spouse? Children? Friends. Yet there was nothing except a ceramic clock. Indeed, the walls were almost bare. Near the doorway to the kitchen hung Audubon’s famous lithograph of the Carolina parakeet—extinct in nature but alive in art, their greens and reds and yellows so vibrant that one could almost hear them screeching. Near the back hallway was an oil, a nighttime seascape, black sky and black ocean.
I heard her coming.
The sofa cushions gave up a faint breath of perfume as I sat.
She handed me my own cup and saucer. “I don’t know your preferences, so here are lemon and sugar. Should you want milk, I can fetch some.”
“That’s perfect, thank you.”
“You are quite welcome.” She sat opposite me, her posture immaculate. “I hope you found me easily?”
“Yes.”
“And you were not inconvenienced.”
“Not at all.”
“Excellent. I commend you on your punctuality, a virtue in regrettably short supply. Der erste Eindruck zählt. ”
German gets a bad rap for being uniformly guttural and heavy. Her accent was airy, balletic; I still couldn’t pinpoint it. Her English shalls and shan’ts seemed less an affectation than the product of upbringing, and I wondered if she had been raised with British tutors or studied abroad. If so, that would imply a wealthy background. Before I made too many assumptions, though—
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “but I still don’t know your name.”
She laughed. “How extraordinary. I apologize again. My brain must be frozen. I am Alma Spielmann.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Spielmann.”
“And the same to you again, Mr. Geist. You must forgive my abruptness on the telephone. I regret that this is a bad habit of mine. I remember when even a brief call cost a fortune. When I was your age—ach. I don’t want to be one of those old ladies whose stories begin, ‘When I was your age.”’
I smiled. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Oh, there are many places to begin. Yes? No subject is out of bounds to the philosopher.”
“Don’t feel obliged to talk philosophy on my account.”
“I feel nothing of the sort,” she said. “That was the reason I asked you here. I have known a number of philosophers over the years. You might say that I was a bit of a philosopher myself. But they are nowadays quite difficult to come by. Before you, I had calls from two filmmakers, three writers, a linguist, and someone studying forestry. All from Harvard, like you, although you are the first I have troubled to invite. I suppose that is my punishment for advertising in the student newspaper. I mistakenly believed that this would attract a more sophisticated element.”
“What was the problem?”
“They were all dreadfully stupid.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“For them, yes, it is too bad. It is a terrible thing to be stupid, don’t you think?”
“... yes.”
“You seem to disagree.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“But you don’t agree.”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s my place—”
“Bah. Please, Mr. Geist. I haven’t asked you here so you could parrot my opinions back to me.”
“Well,” I said, “some people would consider consciousness a kind of curse.”
“And do you?”
“Me? No. Not most of the time.”
“Some of the time, then.”
“I think we all have moments when we’d like to be able to shut off our minds.”
“That is what wine is for,” she said. “Is that what you would like to do, Mr. Geist? Shut off your mind?”
A lump of self-pity rose into my throat, and I almost started blubbering about Yasmina, about my rudderless career, about the fact that I was here singing for my supper. I shrugged again. “You know. Angst.”
I’d been right in thinking her eyes green; but they changed, or seemed to change, when she smiled. “Very well, then. I don’t mind that you are unhappy. It shall make you more interesting to talk to. That was the other problem with your predecessors. They all sounded so improbably cheery.”
I laughed. “I’m sure they thought they were doing the right thing.”
“Yes. This is the American way, after all. But the Viennese do not believe in happy endings.”
“I was wondering.”
“About?”
“Your accent. I thought it might be Swiss.”
She looked offended. “Mr. Geist.”
I apologized—in German.
“Your own accent is good. Clean. I must ask where you learned to speak.”
“I lived in Berlin for six months.”
“Well. I shan’t hold that against you, either.”
“I’ve never been to Vienna,” I said.
“Oh, you must go,” she said. “It is the only real city in the world.” She smiled. “Now. Let us discuss whether it is better to be happy or to be intelligent.”
IT HAD BEEN a long time since I’d had a conversation anything like the one I had with Alma that afternoon. We did not proceed methodically. Nor did we aim to produce a conclusion. To the contrary: ours was a sublimely haphazard cascade of ideas, metaphors, allusions. Neither of us staked out a firm position, remaining content to lob words back and forth, sometimes in support, sometimes to draw contrast. I cited Mill. She quoted Schopenhauer. We argued over whether one could in fact claim to be happy without any grasp of truth. We talked about the concept of eudaimonia, which the Greeks used to describe both the state of being happy and the process of doing virtuous acts, and from there we moved to a debate about virtue ethics, systems of values that emphasize the development of character, as opposed to deontology, which emphasizes universal duties (e.g., “Don’t lie”), or consequentialism, which emphasizes utility, the happiness generated by an act.
It was the best conversation I’d had in a long time, precisely because it had no goal other than itself. Three facts about her emerged as we spoke: one, she was ferociously witty; two, she seemed to have read every major work of Continental philosophy published prior to the 1960s; and three, she enjoyed playing the provocateur. As such, we engaged not in a race but a dance, the two of us circling each other, every one of our ideas sprouting ten more. At last she drew up.
“It has been a delightful afternoon, Mr. Geist. For today let us table the debate. Now, I must please ask you to wait.”
While she was
gone, I glanced at the mantel clock, astonished to see that two hours had passed.
“For your trouble,” she said, handing me a check for one hundred dollars. “I trust that is sufficient.”
Actually, I didn’t think I deserved anything at all. Something about getting paid for a pleasurable activity feels wrong. Though in no position to argue—it would’ve been impolite, and I needed the money—I did think a bit of feigned reluctance was in order. “It’s too much.”
“Rubbish. I shall see you tomorrow? The same time?”
Without hesitation I agreed. She was so enchanting, so European, that I fought the urge to kiss her hand as she let me out.
“May I ask a question?” I said.
“Please.”
“I’m glad to have met you—very glad. I have to ask, though, how you knew you could trust me. I mean, I hope this isn’t something you do often, open your door to strangers.”
“I find your concern touching, Mr. Geist. You need not worry; I am a good judge of character, even over the telephone.” Her eyes changed. “And naturally, I own a pistol.”
She winked at me and shut the door.
7
Once again I commend you on your punctuality, Mr. Geist.”
This time my tea was waiting for me, but instead of putting out the entire sugar bowl, she had left a single cube—exactly what I’d used the day before—on the rim of my saucer. We took our same seats, and she folded her hands in her lap.
“So,” she said. “What shall we talk about today?”
I reached into my pocket. “I’ve taken the liberty of coming up with a list of topics I thought might interest you.”
She lowered her reading glasses, skimmed in silence. “I see that you have a spiritual side to you. That must be a severe handicap in an American philosophy department.”
“It can be.”
“Perhaps you would care to share with me the focus of your studies. You must write a thesis, yes?”
“... that’s right.”
She looked at me over the page. “You are under no obligation to discuss it with me. I merely intended to give you free rein.”
I don’t like to trumpet my failures—who does?—and had it been anyone else asking, I would have changed the subject. It was, I think, the newness of our acquaintance that disarmed me. “It’s on hold at the moment,” I said.
“I see.”
“I’m taking some time to rethink. I mean, I’ll get back to it soon.”
“Of course ... May I ask what it concerned, formerly?”
“Everything,” I said, “and therefore nothing.”
She smiled.
“It started out all right,” I said. “It’s just that it’s gotten a little overgrown.”
“How much so?”
“In its current incarnation, it runs about eight hundred pages. I know,” I said, “it’s a disaster.”
“There is nothing wrong with writing a long book, provided one has much to say.”
“Right. But I don’t.” I paused. “It’s actually a form of writer’s block.”
She nodded faintly. “And your professors? Have they given you no guidance?”
“I can’t blame anyone else. It’s my fault for letting it get to this point.”
“Take heart. You are a bright young man.”
“Tell that to my advisor. Or as she likes to call herself, my ‘so-called advisor.”’
“This seems to me no point of pride. If one is an advisor, one ought to advise.”
“She wasn’t my advisor originally. The man I used to work with was actually very good to me.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“He had a stroke,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “Pity.”
“Yes, well, I think I gave it to him. Anyway, with Linda, it’s never been a happy marriage. She used to try to convince me that I’d be better off in another department.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t think it matters, as long as it’s not hers.”
“How perfectly awful.”
“I’m sure from her perspective it was totally justified. But no, she wasn’t very nice about it. She’s not a very nice person.”
“She sounds dreadful.”
“No argument here.”
“I should very much like to break her leg.”
“That seems redundant, considering that she’s paraplegic.”
“Ah,” she said. “In that case, I ought better to break her arm instead.”
I smiled.
“You did have a topic, once upon a time.”
I nodded. “Free will.”
She cried delightedly, clapped her hands. “Mr. Geist. I must ask you to wait.”
She slipped down the darkened hallway leading toward the back of the house, returning shortly with a slim leatherbound book.
“My own modest efforts,” she said, handing it to me.
I rendered the title page from the German: An A Priori Defense of Ontological Free Will. Below Alma’s name it was noted that this document was in partial fulfillment of the doctorate, Department of Philosophy, the University of Freiburg, 23 März 1955.
“Alas, it was never submitted. Except for a few bibliographical notes, however, it is complete.”
Even had I possessed the skill to translate it on the spot, I would have felt out of order doing so. “It looks fascinating.”
“Bah. You flatter an old lady.”
“I’d love to read it.”
“Well, perhaps one day you shall get your wish.” She smiled and held out her hand. I gave the book back to her, and she set it down on the sofa beside her.
“May I ask why it was never submitted?”
“You may ask,” she said. “However, I shall not answer.”
“My apologies.”
“That is unnecessary, Mr. Geist. Let it suffice for me to remark that you are not the first student to have difficulties with an advisor. Now. Let us talk about free will.”
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, my knocks went unanswered. I tried to look through the front window, but the curtains were still drawn. I worried. Had I offended her with my nosiness? She hadn’t specified the nature of her “condition,” and my imagination immediately fixed on calamity: she was lying helpless on the living-room floor, her heart exploded, her hand stretched toward the door, feet scrabbling against the bare wood. The image made my own heart squeeze. I began to pound and call her name, then hurried around to the driveway, where four wooden steps led up to a side door. Through its small window I could make out the darkened interior of a service porch. All other windows within reach were shuttered. I pounded some more, then walked down the driveway toward the garage and backyard. Snow had softened the hedges, fleshing out the bare bones of a quince tree. I climbed onto the back porch, which was outfitted with a pair of rattan chairs, and knocked there.
Nothing.
I wondered if I ought to call 911. Then I remembered that I didn’t have a working phone. I returned to the street and went up and down the block, ringing doorbells. Nobody was home. Of course not; it was three o’clock on a Wednesday; people had jobs. Standing on the sidewalk, shifting to keep warm, I reasoned with myself. The house was wide and deep and high, and if she was upstairs, napping, buried under blankets, she might not have heard me. To rouse the neighbors—to call for an ambulance—to batter down the front door—only to have Alma emerge in her nightgown ... Surely I was overreacting. Aside from which, who did I think I was? I’d known her for two days.
I walked the mile back to the Science Center pay phones and dug out her number. The voice that came on the line was so weak that at first I thought I’d misdialed.
“I apologize,” she said. “I am not quite myself today.”
“Do you need a doctor?”
“No, no. Please. I am fine.”
She didn’t sound fine. But—again—I hardly knew her, and I didn’t want to badger her. I asked if there was anything I could do.
“No, th
ank you. I must rest.”
“Should I come tomorrow?”
“Please do. Thank you, Mr. Geist. You are too kind.”
SHE WAS WAITING in the doorway the next day when I arrived. “I must apologize again. I ought to have warned you that such a thing could happen. Unfortunately, my attacks are impossible to predict.”
I kicked the snow from my shoes. “As long as you’re okay.”
“Yes, thank you. Although painful, they are not dangerous.”
I nodded. I wanted to ask what the problem was, but it seemed overly familiar. Whatever had happened, she appeared to have recovered fully. I followed her into the living room and took my appointed seat.
“Naturally, I shall pay you for your time.”
I scoffed. “I was here five, ten minutes, at most.”
“That isn’t valuable to you?”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Well, regardless, I have devised a system that ought to spare you future worry. If I am feeling well, I shall turn on the porch light at a quarter to three. If I am unwell, then the light will be off, as it normally is. At a glance you shall know.”
“That’s clever.”
“Yes, I thought so.” She smiled. “Let it not be said that I am not resourceful. Now, let us proceed to more important matters.”
LOOKING BACK, I can appreciate how quickly we fell into a routine. I would come over every day at three o’clock. Finding the light on (as I did most of the time), I would knock and be admitted to the living room, where my tea would be waiting, prepared in exactly the right way. For two hours we would talk without pause, at which point she would utter her closing phrase: “For today let us table the debate.” The for today part was what kept me going, because it reassured me that the conversation hadn’t ended, would continue tomorrow—and possibly forever.
I could have made better money tutoring. Plenty of people I knew charged two hundred dollars an hour tutoring the SAT. I didn’t care. I might not get rich talking to Alma Spielmann, but to me it was the perfect job: straightforward, bracing, dignified. As I rode the elevator up to Drew’s apartment, passed through his revolting kitchen, and sat on the pitted sofabed, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I would soon be able to afford my own room. Assuming Alma kept me on. I had to hope she did, as the alternatives were unthinkable.
The Executor Page 6