by Daniel Klein
M.”
Yes!
Digby arrives at the appointed spot with minutes to spare. He loiters outside the restaurant entrance assuming several casual poses, but none strike him as convincing, so he takes out a Parliament Light for a prop, letting it dangle Belmondoishly from his lower lip without lighting it. That is when, peering in Louden Clear’s window, he spots his employer dining with a silver-haired man in a navy blazer. Each is leaning across the table toward the other in what looks for all the world like intimacy. Then again, the old-timers may just have hearing problems.
“Have you been waiting long?”
Digby turns to behold the Reverend Bonavitacola. She is wearing Diesel jeans and a T-shirt picturing Friedrich Nietzsche along with the philosopher’s famous line, “There are no facts, only interpretations.” Digby has mixed feelings. On the one hand, the Nietzsche quote strikes him as beneath her, on the other, Digby’s reading of her bosom beneath Nietzsche’s words is that it is considerably more voluptuous than he had remembered. He is convinced that he does not deserve to even lay his eyes upon this creature.
“Not long at all,” Digby replies with some difficulty, considering the cigarette dangling from his lip. He removes and tosses it. “Listen, I see Mrs. Hastings in there. Should we find another spot?”
Mary sends Digby a quizzical look, as if he is suggesting that there is something untoward about the two of them meeting in public.
Or is it she who feels odd about their little rendezvous?
Mary surprised herself with how eagerly she went about setting up this meeting. It is not as if she is all atwitter about the prospect of writing for Cogito magazine. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Surely it is too early after Reuben’s death for her to be even thinking about the company of another man. And, of course, that is the least of it, considering this other insane entanglement she has gotten herself into.
But the more perplexing question is, Why this flaky character, Digby Maxwell, of all people? He is just barely attractive in a lost puppy sort of way. And he gives off an air of New York condescension that, in Mary’s estimation, is actually New York provincialism. Could it simply be that he is funny? It is true that funny has been sorely missing from Mary’s life for a very long time.
“I just meant that Felicia seems deep in conversation,” Digby says apologetically, although he is not sure what it is he is apologizing for.
Mary peeks inside the restaurant and smiles. “Oh, yes. Felicia’s devoted lawyer. You’re probably right. There’s a Moroccan place over there. Do you do couscous?”
“Yes, yes.”
She leads the way.
As soon as they are seated, Mary says, “How about if I recount my story about Cape Cod and then critique Paul Tillich’s essay on the eternal now? No Eckhart Tolle, promise.”
“Twenty-five hundred words,” Digby replies.
“Or less, I hope.”
“Whatever it takes.”
“I’ll try my best to make it hip and au courant,” she says. “But I can’t promise anything. I’m a little out of touch with the zeitgeist du jour, you understand.”
“So you’ve heard about the new mode at Cogito?”
“Of course, everybody has,” she says. “You’ve been sent to save us from our irrelevance.”
Ms. Bonavitacola is obviously mocking him. Digby takes it like a sport.
“I’m trying to thread the needle between academic philosophy and ordinary life,” Digby says a tad too earnestly, then attempts to remove the sting by adding, “You know, between the deep and the superficial.”
Miss Mary laughs.
Digby has a fleeting glimpse of paradise.
“If there’s any way you can toss in something about heaven—you know, the sweet hereafter—it couldn’t hurt,” he says.
“I’m a Unitarian,” Mary replies, grinning.
“I’ll take that as a No.”
After a moment, grin gone, she says, “Listen, Digby, I’m not entirely sure I’m the right person for this job. Writing—I don’t know—it always makes me feel like a fraud. I don’t have the gift.”
Digby is at a loss for words. Or rather, several slickly witty words come to his mind, as well as several standard insincere words of comfort of the kind he often used to buck up writers like Tommy Gasparini when they had crises of confidence as deadlines approached. But none of those words seem worthy right now. So instead, he simply looks into Mary’s cerulean eyes.
“Having second thoughts?” she says.
“None.”
“I’m counting on you for help,” she says. “Guidance.”
“That’s the nicest thing anybody’s said to me in a long time.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too.”
Happily, their couscous arrives before either of them is required to speak again. They dig in.
“Last time I had couscous was in Walla Walla,” Digby says after a couple of bites.
“You were with Yo Yo Ma, right?”
“No, Boutros Boutros-Ghali.”
“Bishop Tutu couldn’t make it?”
“No, that night he wanted seafood.”
Mary closes her eyes for a minute, cogitating rapidly, then a delicious smile blossoms on her lips. She opens her eyes and cries, “Mahi-mahi! Right?”
“Absolutely!”
Their laughter rings out in the tiny Moroccan restaurant, apparently alarming their waiter who abruptly appears at their table to ask if they are still ‘working’ on their food. (Waiters everywhere seem to see eating as yet one more time-consuming job in people’s lives.) In any event, they pay the waiter no heed. Mary has offered Digby an upturned open palm across the table and, after a moment’s confusion, he slaps her five.
This initiates a whole new level of conversation, abbreviated back stories of how they each came to be here in this now. Mary married Reuben, a mathematician, while she was still in divinity school; they had no children; she had thought of becoming an academic—philosophy and theology—but then thought better of it; she loves Louden, but sometimes feels stifled here. Digby’s life digest is even briefer: divorced, one child, now hoping to get to know that child better; recovering from an assortment of failures, he sees Louden as a last chance to become a functioning adult.
After lunch, Digby walks Mary back to the church. He would like to carry her books, but she doesn’t have any. Mary leads, taking them on a shortcut through the college campus. Without effort, Digby is able to keep his eyes off the parade of pastel sweaters.
“After all that Swarthmore intensity, this place is a relief,” Mary says.
“I haven’t talked with any of the students yet. Are they as blank as they look?” Digby immediately regrets saying this. On the spot, he decides to rid himself of all New York sarcasm and snobbery. This will be Step One in his character rehabilitation to be deserving of this woman.
“I see it as openness,” Mary says cheerfully.
As if on cue, a gaggle of students in jeans and matching lavender T-shirts appears from around the corner of the college library. On closer inspection, the T-shirts are not identical, being emblazoned with a variety of legends: “Gold Star Lesbian,” “Gaybie,” “Stromosexual,” and, most intriguingly, “Hasbian.” Some carry neatly lettered placards variously calling for tolerance, equality, and superior regard (“Bi’s Know It ALL!”). In their midst, looking surprisingly cheery, is the gender philosopher, June MacLane, whose placard reads, “One Gender, One World.” Mary waves at her and June waves back, managing to fine focus her wave so that it excludes Digby.
“Is she a friend?” Digby asks Mary.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid she doesn’t like me very much,” Digby says, sounding like the high school loser that he always suspected he was.
“June is very serious, very committed,” Mary says.
So am I! Digby wants to snap back. But, being in spiritual rehab, he demurs. Instead, he says, “Personally, I prefer the two gen
der modality.”
“Me too,” Mary says, smiling at him. “But that’s my limit. I don’t go any higher than two.”
Have I mentioned that I want to spend the rest of my life with Mary Bonavitacola, including bringing her breakfast in bed every morning?
In front of the church, Mary says, “When is it due?”
“Beg pardon?”
“My article.”
“How about in a week?”
“Ouch!”
“Okay, ten days. It’s my last offer.”
“But what if I just can’t do it?”
“You can.”
“But what if I can’t?”
“I’ll think of a suitable penance.”
Mary laughs and offers Digby a hand to shake. He would like to leverage that proffered hand into a pull into his arms, but once again he resists his dual-gender impulses. They shake hands like business partners.
“Meantime, I may call you for guidance,” Mary says as she turns toward the church door.
Digby waits until she is inside to finally execute his Morris dance.
CHAPTER 9
According to the popular songs of Digby’s father’s youth—the songs his father had listened to every Sunday evening via Time-Life’s Magic of Love boxed, 33⅓ RPM set—people in love invariably experience an altered worldview. Gone are Weltschmerz, petty thoughts, and weather worries. In are ambient optimism, generosity of spirit, and the perception that everyone else is either also in love or on the brink of it. A lyric example: “When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fazool, that’s amore.”
So it is that when Digby returns to his office and sees Rostislav Demidov and Madeleine Follet whispering to one another at her desk, he finds himself mentally drooling, pasta fazoolishly. Love conquers all, apparently including unintelligible communication. As Digby approaches, he sees a new, snappy looking GPS sitting on top of Madeleine’s desk. Wrapping paper and a red ribbon lie beside it. A gift borne of love.
“You make me an insult,” Rosti is intoning.
Perhaps, Digby decides, he has altered his worldview too soon.
“It’s just so you always know where you are, Rosti,” Madeleine replies tenderly. She, at least, remains in the pasta fazool zone.
“I know I am where,” Rosti counters. “Here!”
Digby realizes that he has not asked Professor Demidov if he would like to contribute to the Heaven Issue of Cogito. Perhaps he could create an extensional logic acrostic that spells out Shangri-la.
Madeleine looks up at Digby. “A woman called.”
Mary?
“Who? Should I call back?” Digby replies excitedly. He feels no need to hide his fervor around a fellow/sister lovestruckee.
“She didn’t leave her name. She’ll call back.”
Aha, so, Mary and he are already at the secret communication stage.
“And don’t forget the president’s cocktail party this afternoon,” Madeleine continues.
“The president?”
“President Herker. In the faculty common room.”
“Are you sure I’m invited?”
“Everybody is. Oh, and we got two more cancellations. Indiana U and Oxford. Pulled their book ads.”
“For a grand total of how much?”
“I don’t know. Something like twelve hundred.”
“Dollars? Oh my goodness.” Although Digby is committed to a thorough character makeover, he is not quite ready to abandon all sarcasm. He fears that would leave huge gaps of dead air in his day-to-day interactions.
“This came in a little while ago. Postage due.”
She hands Digby a plain brown envelope with the words PLAIN BROWN ENVELOPE stamped on it—an old Tommy Gasparini prank.
In his office, Digby opens the envelope with the antique bronze letter knife that came with Bonner Hastings’ oak desk. Inside are seven illustrated pages from Tommy, starting with a Hogarth woodblock print of St. Jerome gazing at heaven and ending with a Kacho Oji animé from a series called The Legend of Lost Heaven. Digby’s read-through of the accompanying text confirms his first impression: the piece is brilliant, visually dazzling, insightful, and a hoot.
Digby removes his shoes, leans back in his swivel chair, lifts his stockinged feet onto his desk, and gazes out through the window at the budding wildflowers and beyond, the quad of Louden College. By God, he feels good. First Chuck and now Tommy have come through for him with first class articles, applying Manhattan smarts to old school subject matter. Classic wit meets the classics. Not only is the renovated Cogito going to be a true original, but maybe Digby truly is the man for the job. The ad pulls by those stodgy university presses are actually a testimony to his innovative genius; they simply cannot keep up with him. In fact, in this precious moment, Digby feels he is finally fulfilling his early promise in a way he never imagined. He feels absolved of all irony, so much so that the roach his fingers encounter in his jacket pocket seems an adolescent relic. And then, of course, there is Mary. A woman of both wit and substance. What an absurd and wondrous combination. Is she to be included in his newborn destiny?
The phone rings. From down the hall, Madeleine yells, “That woman again.”
Digby removes his feet from the desk in an act of decorum. It is the least he can do for Mary.
“Hello?”
“I need your mailing address.” A woman’s voice, not Mary’s. Digby cannot immediately identify whose voice it is, but it is just familiar enough to send a shpritz of gastric acid up to the back of his throat.
“Is this—?”
“Yes. Sylvia’s mother.”
That would be Digby’s former wife. “How are you, Fanny?”
“You are behind in Sylvia’s tuition,” Fanny says.
“That’s because she’s no longer in school.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
For a junior partner at a tony Manhattan law firm, Fanny’s grasp of fundamental logic—for example, Aristotle’s Law of the Excluded Middle (‘A’ is either true or it is not true, it cannot be anything in between)—is subpar. Then again, maybe the relationship between legal thinking and logical thinking is weak at best. Nonetheless, with this argument, Fanny has reached a new low in garbage reasoning, right up there with the Tea Party activists. Digby has always found it more difficult to argue with blatant illogic than with coherent stupidity: it is harder to know where to begin.
“She’s supporting herself, Fanny. She told me so herself.”
“That tuition money is part of my general expenses,” Fanny says. Digby thinks he understands what she is saying this time: Fanny has been pocketing his tuition payments, and further, she is quite certain that she is morally entitled to do so.
Although Digby readily admits that he treated Fanny badly in his late shithead period, he is not quite ready to let her establish the penalty for his transgressions, especially with the benefit of sophistic moral reasoning. In any event, punishment certainly appears to be what Fanny must be after, not subsistence. At this point, she earns roughly four times what Digby does.
“This sounds like a problem for the lawyers,” Digby says.
“Exactly. What’s your mailing address?”
Digby gives it, then adds, “Not that you’re interested, but things are going well up here.”
Predictably, Fanny responds by hanging up. Digby smiles. He is proud of himself. This is one Fanny guilt trip that never lifted anchor. Digby even detects a charitable wish in his heart, fleeting as it is: he hopes that Fanny can get on with her life as happily as she is able. Yes, he actually feels that. His character improvement program is working absolutely splendidly.
By the time he finishes doing a quick first edit of Tommy’s article (Tommy always had a proclivity for run-on sentences, some running the length of the page, and this piece is no exception), it is time for Digby to suit up for the president’s late afternoon cocktail party. The occasion, Madeleine informed him, is Herker’s annual Rite of Spring and its purpose is to build fa
culty camaraderie before the end of the spring term, by which time it would then be too late to build anything.
Despite the fact that Digby’s array of ties is down to three—a black clip-on bow for weddings and funerals, an Italian paisley that looks like a high-end Rorschach Test, and his threadbare Christmas tie sprinkled with portraits of Santa and his helpers—he spends a good five minutes dithering over his choice. Usually, he dons the paisley number only when he is feeling particularly insecure and out-of-place, so it seems the natural choice for today’s outing; but when he considers the possibility that Mary might be there, he has second thoughts—she might find it tacky. Still, he tries it on and looks in the mirror. He decides it makes him look overripe, a floral arrangement going to seed at the top—his face. So the black clip-on bow it is, and Digby is pleased with the overall effect—the can’t-be-bothered-tying-his-own-tie nerd-genius.
There is a spring in his step as he saunters down Brigham Street to the Rite of Spring fete. He catches a glimpse of his bow-tied self reflected in Write Now’s window; he decides he looks rakish and vaguely mysterious. A stranger in town. Who is he? What does he want? Will Louden ever be the same after he has trod its streets? As he nears the quad, he hears ethereal voices rising up, obviously the mystery man’s theme music. Not exactly, for he now sees that the strains issue from a lavender-shirted chorus gathered under a budding willow on the sward. It is the gay cohort singing “Crucified.”
The party is in full swing when Digby arrives, a good thirty or forty folk chattering and laughing. The reception room on the ground floor of the Administration Building is ablaze with flowers, the gold-framed oil portraits of Louden’s past presidents draped with plastic ivy (these men appear considerably more optimistic than the Harvard past presidents hung on the Harvard Club’s walls), and here and there, white linen-covered card tables bearing drinks and nuts manned by students in white shirts and—oops—black clip-on bow ties. The mystery man is done for. Digby quickly removes and pockets his tie; he is content to be taken for a nerd, but he draws the line at being taken for the help.
“Martini, sir?” one of the help asks.
“Uh, yes. But hold the vermouth.”