The Secret Life of Roberta Greaves

by Ann Birch

  “I know it’s a fallen world, bro, but I wasn’t thinking about ‘blackmail.’ I was thinking about scaring him off any more sick encounters with vulnerable people. But now that you mention it—”

  “Please, boys, fill me in, will you?”

  “It’s this way, Ma,” Ed says. “Suppose Schubert did have something in mind when he made a big deal out of telling you he was reading Ovid. Suppose you talk to him soon — maybe phone him up and thank him for the interview or something — and he makes another reference to the ‘Myrrha’ story, says again that it’s sick or something….”

  “Then you say,” Charlie adds, “something to the effect that there are so many sick things in this world. And then you pitch in with Hester’s story about her encounter with some prick she calls The Skunk….”

  “And there’ll be a standoff without a word having to be spoken,” Ed says. “He’ll be so scared of his reputation being torn apart if you speak out, he’ll know to keep his mouth shut about your reputation. Secrets will stay secret.”

  “You’ll cover your ass, that’s what, and he’ll be able to cover his.” Charlie gets up from the table and takes the wine bottle from the kitchen counter. “So let’s drink to problems solved.”

  “To problems solved!” Roberta’s sons clink glasses. And then they notice that she’s not joining them.

  “What’s up?” they ask.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Roberta says. “If I could stop Schubert from victimizing girls like Hester, I’m for it. But blackmail — yes, you called it by its right name, Ed — is one step deeper into the abyss I’ve already fallen into...” She breaks off. “Thanks for trying to help. But I don’t see blackmail as a problem-solver.”

  “You’ll think about what we’ve said though, won’t you?” Charlie asks.

  She pushes her glass of wine aside and nods. Yes, she will certainly think about it.

  30.

  WHEN ROBERTA COMES DOWN to breakfast the next morning, the boys have already left for work. They’ve put the morning edition of The Gazette on the table beside a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice; Charlie’s offering, she suspects.

  She turns immediately to the “Entertainment” section. There it is, titled as always, “The Schubert Interview,” this time with the subtitle, “Roberta Greaves talks to The Gazette.” She glances at the photo that Joe took — not bad — and plunges into the text: “Attractive Roberta Greaves, scholar, writer, and teacher … blah blah … surrounded by books in her Trinity College office … blah blah … mid-forties, but looking ten years younger … impressive credentials … chosen from a worldwide academic community to translate the most important ancient manuscripts to surface in the past half-century….”

  The next paragraphs get down to a description of the finding of the scrolls by a small boy searching for firewood in a cave and how he gave them to his teacher who handed them over to the University of Crete. She reads on. “Greaves freely acknowledges that her friendship with Paniota Andriopoulos, Chair of the Department of Archaeology, may have influenced her appointment as translator, but there’s not a scholar anywhere who would deny that the choice was a good one.”

  And then there are two columns about the contents of Euripida’s stories, the translation process with its difficulties, and the worldwide accolades for Roberta’s work. All generous, she has to admit.

  Then she comes to the last paragraph: “But Roberta Greaves, in spite of her international acclaim and impeccable reputation, has always been a free spirit. She is not defined solely by her role in the world of academe. She has always had her own milieu. Her husband, with whom she lived happily for many years, was a racehorse owner who died suddenly. Lately, she seems to have rallied from that tragedy and moved on. I’ll be interviewing Dr. Greaves at the Harbourfront Reading Series in May, and perhaps by then, her many fans will be able to hear about fresh projects she’s been working on.”

  Shit.

  The phone rings. It’s Carl. “You’ve seen this morning’s Gazette, Robbie?”

  “Just read it.”

  “El Creepo is onto something, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I think so.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’m about to phone him and ask him to meet me somewhere after work. There are a few things I need to straighten out with him. I met George Korda once, for God’s sake, and now he’s babbling about my moving on to ‘fresh projects.’”

  “No, no, Robbie. Whatever you say, don’t mention Korda. El Creepo would infer that there’s good reason for your angst.”

  “Well, I’ve got to say something, but I’ll think carefully how to word it. James was a ‘racehorse owner,’ was he? Schubert knows very well he was an academic, like me.”

  “He wants to set you up as having a double life. Too bad he introduces that bit of innuendo in the last paragraph. Some people I know don’t bother reading the middle. They just glance over the beginning and jump to the end.”

  “Well, I guess I do have a double life. But he has one too.” Roberta tells Carl about Schubert’s assault on Hester. “The boys think that since I’ve got this insider’s knowledge about him, I could use it to my advantage.”

  “To keep him quiet about you and Korda, you mean?” Roberta hears his microwave ping. “Just a sec.” Roberta hears him open the door and slam it shut again with a loud bang. Then he’s back on the phone, and his voice sounds strained, angry in fact. “Blackmail? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Don’t worry. I have no intention of making my mess worse with that sort of stuff. But I’ve got to find out what he knows so that I can work things out. And I’m going to make sure he hears my suspicions about his assault on Hester. If I say nothing about anything, I’ll just be a trapped mouse that he can toss in the air and play with before he moves in for the kill.”

  “Okay, Robbie, but please, please be careful.” His voice is warmer now. It makes her happy.

  “I think whatever is in that microwave is waiting for you, Carl. So go eat it and get into teaching mode. I’ve got to do the same. I’m so glad you called. Don’t worry about me. I’ll find a way to handle all this.”

  “I’ll be thinking of you. Call me when you can.”

  She doesn’t have to be at Trin until ten o’clock, and she puts off her call to Schubert while she gets into her high-heeled boots and dark-green pantsuit in honour of spring, though it’s not until she’s got it all together that she realizes she doesn’t feel all that spring-like. She’s too busy rehearsing her comments to Schubert to experience any of the so-called rebirth and renewal of the season. A final wrestle with some gel on her wavy hair, and she knows she’s put off the call long enough. She’s just coming down the stairs to the phone in the kitchen when the front doorbell rings.

  It’s The Skunk himself. He’s dressed in his usual tailored Italian suit, but Roberta notices a bulge in his right pocket that distorts its perfect fit. “Dear Roberta,” he says, inserting himself into the front vestibule as she opens the door, “it’s way too early to be calling, but I had a teeny errand to run for Mater and, well, I just had to drop by and see how you liked my interview.” He treats her to his perfect smile. “Do feel free to rave on and on. I’m listening.”

  “Well, since you’re here, John, why don’t you come in for a minute — only a minute since I’m running a bit late — and we’ll talk about it.” She gestures towards the living room.

  Schubert looks around at her comfortable Victorian furniture, most of it inherited from her grandparents. “Oh dear,” he says as he moves in to scrutinize the Jacques and Hay secretary that was her grandfather’s favourite piece. “How utterly…”

  Roberta finds herself wishing for Ed’s girlfriend Ashley. She too had been intrusive as she snooped around at Christmas, but her comments had at least been admiring.

  Next it’s the pictures that draw Sch
ubert’s scrutiny. “Good heavens,” is his comment as he looks at her favourite, the 1910 de Foy Suzor-Coté oil on canvas of the habitant settler Esdras Cyr. Cyr is seated in a rocking chair, his eyes fixed slightly downward with a look of ineffable sadness. Roberta has often wondered what caused the old man’s sorrow and marvels at the skill with which the painter captured the moment so perfectly. Now, she moves in front of the painting, feeling somehow that she must protect Esdras Cyr from Schubert’s rude scrutiny.

  “Please sit,” she says, gesturing at a nearby chair. “I don’t have all that long to talk.”

  Schubert takes the yellow silk pocket square from his suit and for a moment Roberta thinks he’s going to flick it across the walnut arm of the chair. But he puts it back into his jacket pocket and sits down gingerly, perhaps worried about when she last vacuumed the dark-red velvet seat.

  “Well, what did you think, my dear?”

  “There was much of it I liked, John, much that was generous and insightful. But the last paragraph I found somewhat puzzling. One thing that bothered me: Surely you know that my husband James was a Trinity College professor with a special interest in Victorian literature.”

  “Ah, perhaps that explains this room and its furnishings and paintings. So … quaint. So…”

  “Out of it. That’s probably the phrase you’re searching for. But back to James, please. He was not a racehorse owner, though he did have a thoroughbred he loved to ride as a sport.”

  “Ah yes, well... But surely you have something to say about my comments on your new projects.”

  “I wasn’t sure what you meant by that remark. I may get to a popular translation of The Cretan Manuscripts, but I certainly haven’t committed myself to it yet.”

  “Dear Roberta, I know you have a rich and varied life. There’s so much beneath that elegant, refined surface you present to the world. And I’m just discovering that underbelly — if I may call it that. Lola Lancey, remember her? Well, she and I made a deal this month: I would give her latest grubby little novel a generous review if she could extract some inside info from the editors at Mayhem. Well, dear Lola has come through with a really interesting speculation.” And he draws from his right pocket the item Roberta noted earlier. Mira. “This is just a teeny something I wanted to check out with you. Now fess up. You did write it? You’re Renee Meadows, n’est-ce pas?

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it. The sentence on the back cover confirms my worst suspicions.” He turns the book over and reads, “‘A wicked, wanton, wonderful remake of age-old erotica,’ a blurb by one Jade Morningstar — whoever she is. You’ll fill me in, I hope, dear. But let’s just take a break now if you’ll permit, while I give myself a teeny pat on the back. I’ve done such amazing detective work. Feel free to call me Sherlock.” He leans forward so that his face seems uncomfortably close, though a few feet of Persian carpet separate them.

  “I don’t imagine it was that hard to put together, John, and I’m not too surprised you figured it out. You saw me with George Korda, you still had it on your mind at your Christmas party, and then, at the interview at Trinity, you made a point of telling me you were reading Ovid. I had a pretty good idea that sooner or later you were going to spring it on me. So feel free to call me Nancy Drew.”

  He sits back in the chair and shoves the book back into his pocket. She can see his disappointment. No doubt he expected — indeed, came over this morning to enjoy first-hand — wild weeping and denials. Perhaps she’s been the victor for round one. But she knows there’s more to come.

  “Now, I have a teeny dilemma here and I have to think how to handle it. I don’t want to be a big meanie, but the hoi polloi have the right to know that you wrote this little gem of erotica. Yes, indeed. Here they have the big-time scholar who’s translated an important archaeological moment for the world. They bow down and worship her. But for their own good, they must know that this goddess of academe is as lowdown as they are. So I think I must tell this frightful secret. Let everybody know that the high and the mighty are no better than—”

  “Oh please. Stop it. I’m finding it hard to cast you as The Avenging Angel.” Roberta waits for a moment to calm herself, but her anger rises up and takes over. “You, of all people. You, the big-time reviewer who translates the art world into simple language for hoi polloi. By the way, hoi is the definite article, so you don’t need to say, the. And I’m not too surprised to find out that some of your big-time reviews are based on sordid little deals that you make with authors. But I digress. Perhaps the masses should know the down-and-dirty about you, too.”

  Schubert’s face has turned pale. He puts his thumb in his mouth and takes it out again. “Dear Roberta, I haven’t the faintest, teeniest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Then I’ll remind you. I’m talking about your wretched assault of a young girl I know. She showed me the mess on the back of her head that you inflicted on her with a blunt weapon — your BlackBerry to be precise.”

  He takes out his handkerchief and dabs his forehead. “You have no proof.” A simple declarative sentence for once in his life. Roberta knows she has nailed him.

  “Oh yes, I think I have. The girl could identify you, your car, and the big grey building that houses The Gazette offices.”

  “Stop it. Stop it. I’ll deny everything if you take your accusations beyond this room.” He starts mopping his cheeks. “But let’s not be hasty, dear. I think we can make a deal. Or put it this way, can we not have an understanding between two friends, an understanding to keep our secrets secret. Yes?”

  Roberta does not answer.

  “We are friends, Roberta?”

  “No.”

  His thumb goes into his mouth again. Then, astonishingly, tears slip down his cheeks.

  Roberta watches him, feeling like a snake eying a toad. She could almost pity him, were it not for that poor child in the alleyway, that lost soul with no one to love but her dog. Schubert deserves no pity.

  He wipes his face again and takes a deep breath. He seems to be struggling for control. “To put it crudely then, let’s say that I keep your dirty little secret … and you say nothing about—”

  “Yours?” She stands up. “You’d better go, John.”

  “I need a promise.”

  “No promises.”

  He’s in the vestibule now. “You bitch,” he says, and then he’s out the front door, slamming it behind him, fleeing like a prisoner from a lock-up. Roberta watches him run to his car in Mrs. Schubert’s driveway — yes, it is a big black one, just as Hester said. He backs out in one smooth motion, and she can hear the roar of the engine seconds after he’s disappeared from sight.

  Roberta takes several deep breaths. Steadier now, she looks at her watch. Yes, she has just enough time. She goes up to her study, turns on her computer, and writes the necessary email.

  To the Editor:

  In the last paragraph of “The Schubert Interview” (April 6), your arts editor speculates about “fresh projects” I may be working on. He’s right. I’ve taken a major leap from my academic world recently. I have written an erotic novel called Mira for the publishing company Mayhem, just out now under the pen name Renee Meadows. The story is an old one — Ovid wrote it first — and it evidently appals and titillates its audience as much today as it did two thousand years ago.

  Yours truly,

  Roberta Greaves

  31.

  IT’S AN UNSEASONABLY COLD APRIL MORNING, and Roberta pulls her cashmere scarf up around her chin as she exits from the subway. On the ride across the city, she read The Gazette and saw her letter on the editorial page, one day after she sent it. So the news is out. But the great axe may not fall for a day or two. Not everyone reads “Letters to the Editor” immediately.

  From the subway exit at Bedford Road, she strides south on Devonshire, hoping to have time to check out a source in the Robar
ts Library before heading to her office. Her students have several study days before exams start, and she has to be available in case someone needs help.

  But as she reaches Hoskin Avenue, she hears a commotion. Looking down the street, she sees twenty or more students on the sidewalk in front of Trin. Some of them are holding up placards. Something political maybe? Grumbles about the bombing of Tripoli? Squinting into the biting wind, she can make out some of the words on one of the signs: “SCHOLAR SCUTTLES TRINITY STANDARDS: SOMETHING SOMETHING.” So the news she has dreaded is out. Damn it.

  Now she has to make a decision. She can turn right, as she intended, and head for Robarts Library on St. George Street. Or do what she must do. She turns towards Trinity.

  In sixty-five steps — she counts them, hoping to slow her heartbeat — she is in the midst of the protest. She looks around: Nobody here she could name though many of the young faces look familiar. At the bottom of the steps leading to the front door, a blonde girl in knee-high boots starts a chant: “PORNO PROF! PORNO PROF!” Soon, the rest of them are with her: “PORNO PROF! PORNO PROF!”

  The crowd seems to thicken as more students in academic gowns emerge from the front door and join in the chanting. Roberta knows there’s no way she can get into the building without being pushed about. She’s able now to see the other signs. There’s the inevitable pun: “GREAVES GRIEVES US.” And the others say it all: “DON’T BLAME OVID FOR THE MIRA MESS,” and, “SHAME, PROF GREAVES, SHAME.” Now all she can think of is escape. Where? Up Philosopher’s Walk? Cross Hoskin Avenue and head for the quiet of Hart House?

  Panicked, she turns and finds herself pitching into the path of a tall, spindly young man who brandishes a tape recorder in her face.

  “Jeff Lyons, from The Varsity. Care to comment on your letter in today’s Gazette, Professor Greaves?”

  “There’s not much to say. The gist of it is there in the letter.” She could probably get around him now if she moved quickly. No. She summons a dollop of courage from somewhere deep inside. Stand your ground, Roberta.