The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  “It’s nothing to do with that,” the rabbi spoke with some dignity. “People’s feelings are at stake; so is the welfare of the children; and it is clear that both Lisa and Sharon Chevre need help. As a rabbi, it’s my duty to give a moral lead. I’ve got to say something.”

  “And if not now, when?” said Manford.

  “Anyway, enough of that,” Wally said changing the subject. “I understand there’s been a ball here in your honour.”

  “It was wonderful,” Sherrie said. “There was a huge crowd. And it was Victoria’s birthday, too. We all sang ‘Happy Birthday’, and then Thomas Jefferson gave her a lovely silver bowl as a present.”

  “We were touched,” Victoria said.

  “It was at the Sweetpea Country Club?” Wally asked.

  “You know,” I said. “I really don’t understand about American country clubs. Is it true there are restrictions on who can belong to the Sweetpea Country Club?”

  Manford took a deep breath, “In the past,” he said, “Jews and blacks were excluded. But that’s all changed now – with a little nudge from the Supreme Court. Sherrie and I have been asked to join many, many times. But we like it here.” He waved to an elderly couple who were just entering the dining room.

  “So you could belong if you wanted to? You don’t have to be members of a Jewish country club?”

  Sherrie put her arm around Manford. “Look,” she said. “You’ve got to try and understand. We go to all the gentile functions. And Manny is a trustee of the college. But we don’t really belong and we never will.”

  Sherrie’s tennis clothes were immaculate; her nails and lipstick matched perfectly and her hair was an ambitious shade of gold. She looked like a woman who never thought of anything more serious than the whiteness of her laundry or the decor of her bathroom. But she clearly had something important to say. She leaned forward.

  “There’s still antisemitism in Sweetpea. Everyone’s very polite, but you know it’s there. I think the minute Jews forget and think that the world has changed so much that there is no Jew-hatred, that’s when you have problems like a Hitler. I know about this. My mother’s cousins back in Hungary were in with the government. They thought they were different; they thought they’d be safe. They weren’t. They were carted off like everybody else …. I’m happy to go to parties at the Sweetpea Country Club when I’m asked, but I don’t want to sit round their pool. No. I’m comfortable here. These are my people and this is where I belong.”

  There was a silence around the table. Victoria and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same thing. Where did we belong? Where had we ever belonged?

  After lunch, we said goodbye to Wally and Sherrie. Manford walked us to our car. “Oh dear,” he said looking at the Rolls. “I see your winged victory is missing. I hope nobody here at the club took it.”

  “No, it happened last week. We went to see some friends in Railroad City.”

  “You took that car to Railroad City?” Manford was incredulous. “I’m not surprised you lost your statuette. I’m only amazed you still have four wheels!”

  I looked crestfallen. “Will it be very difficult to get a replacement?”

  Manford laughed as he shook my hand. “I’ve got a big box of them. They’re always getting stolen. Come by any day this week and I’ll give you a new one.”

  Before term started, we received another email and photograph from Magnus. He was sitting on a horse wearing a cowboy hat surrounded by a group of white-haired ladies. He looked decidedly out-of-focus.

  This is me. We’re in Venezuela. Damn hot. And these women are driving me crazy. I haven’t had a moment’s rest since we left New York. I thought Violet was trouble. But I’ve been pursued by a whole group for the last month. They won’t leave me alone. Because I’m listed as a doctor in the passenger list, they call me Doc and think I’m a medic. They keep coming up and asking me about their arthritis …

  I had a chat last night with one of the gentlemen hosts. The ship employs four of them to entertain the ladies. I’m beginning to think I should be put on the ship’s payroll. He told me that he initially thought he might find an elderly millionairess who would marry him and solve his financial problems. But he soon learned his lesson. They give you presents like gold cigarette lighters, but they won’t get married. Their children won’t let them. They don’t want some old guy cutting in on the deal.

  Anyway, I can hardly get out of bed. Currently I’ve been hiding in my cabin hoping the women won’t find me. But the evenings are hopeless. I’ve got to go to dinner, and they’re lying in wait for me in the dining room. Then they want to go see the shows and end up on the dance floor. Got to go now and rest up for tonight.

  Love Magnus

  Victoria was extremely amused. “Magnus is going to end up like the Flying Dutchman, endlessly travelling the world!” she said.

  The next evening Oscar and Nancy drove us to a meeting of the Sweetpea Alumni Association at the Sweetpea Club in Washington. This was their monthly get-together, and I was to be the main speaker. Oscar asked if I would give a little talk about the award ceremony at Buckingham Palace. He wanted me to show the video of when I was given my OBE. Although I told him it would be inappropriate, he insisted I wear my medal.

  The Sweetpea Club was located in Georgetown in the same street as the Lazy Daisy Club. Over the entrance was the crest of the college. Inside a group of about sixty men and women were chatting in the lobby. The walls were lined with portraits of former presidents of the college as well as watercolours of some of the older college buildings. Oscar took us to a bar in the corner of the room. A waiter handed us fruit punch and another came around with large trays of canapés. At seven we went into the dining room, which was named after George Washington Wombat who had founded the club. The Wombat Dining Room was a large circular chamber with striped burgundy wallpaper. Over the mantle, there was a large portrait of George Washington Wombat himself wearing an academic gown and mortarboard. He certainly filled the canvas.

  Before we sat down, Oscar asked me to say grace. After dinner, one of the club servants brought in a large television and video recorder. Oscar introduced me as the new Thomas Jefferson Porpoise Distinguished Professor of Ethics. He explained that I was recently given an award by the Queen of England, and that my talk would be about the British honours system. I felt foolish wearing my medal, and even more ridiculous showing the video.

  Afterwards, there were a number of questions. One elderly gentleman asked if I had met the Duchess of Cornwall, the erstwhile Mrs Parker-Bowles. This was followed by a heated exchange between several alumni about the respective merits of Princess Diana and Camilla. An elegant woman wearing a silk print dress asked if I had made the acquaintance of the Queen’s corgis. When my talk ended, Oscar gave a profuse vote of thanks, and reminded everyone that there were pledge forms and envelopes on the table for anyone who wished to make a donation to the college. The assembled company then stood up and, with extraordinary fervour, they all sang the college song. Victoria and I felt very embarrassed and British.

  On the way back to Sweetpea, Oscar praised my address and told me how successful the evening had been. He had looked at the pledge forms before we left. The elegant woman who had asked about the corgis had donated fifty-thousand dollars. Oscar explained that her late husband had graduated from the college over sixty years ago and had made a fortune in manufacturing cardboard containers.

  “Harry,” he urged, “this talk of yours is a winner. Everyone in this country wants to know about the royal family. We would be so grateful if you would do it again sometimes. You see there are alumni meetings all round the country, and everyone would be interested in your experiences.”

  From the back seat, Nancy effused about the video. “It’s so colourful,” she exclaimed. “All that pageantry. We have nothing like that in the United States.”

  As Oscar drove us to the cottage, he emphasized the importance of donations to the college. Then he went on, “I�
�ll arrange a schedule with my secretary. You mustn’t be burdened with this, but I can just see the faces of our alumni in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Denver, St Louis, Minneapolis, Chicago, Boston, New York, Philadelphia and Miami when you and Victoria talk to them about the Queen. They’d all just love it.”

  I was upset. Before we went to bed, I got a beer out of the refrigerator and some pretzels. “How can you eat anything else?” Victoria asked.

  “Still hungry,” I said. “Look, Victoria, I didn’t come here to be a fund raiser. I thought they wanted me for my books and my scholarship.”

  “Don’t be naive, Harry. You’re here to add glamour to the college. That’s why they want me, too. You heard what Thomas Jefferson said at the ball. He thinks I’m from a long line of English aristocrats.”

  “Perhaps we should bring your father to live over here to add to the circus.”

  “Come on Harry … you’re going to have to be a sport about this. They’re doing a lot for us.”

  “But I’m supposed to be a professor …” I objected.

  “You are a professor. But you’re a professor who’s an advertisement for Sweetpea. You’ll feel better once classes start.”

  During the first week, there were several days of orientation for the freshmen. My first class was to take place on Friday in the Old Confederate Hall. Before it began, I went to have a cup of coffee in the Faculty Club. The bar was largely empty except for a group surrounding Joel Perley. I heard him say, “Don’t worry! He’ll make a mistake before long and then we can make sure he goes.”

  As I entered they looked awkward and fell silent. I went over and joined them with my coffee, but they melted away with different excuses. I was left with Joel. “I thought I’d introduce you to the first class,” he explained.

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said.

  As we walked over, he told me that he had just heard from John Pilkington of St Sebastian’s. Apparently they knew each other. They had met the previous year at a biblical conference in Washington. I had a sinking feeling. What, I wondered, had John told him about me.

  Before we reached the hall, we overtook Mimi who was strolling along accompanying a very pretty student. She had soft golden hair and wholesome pink cheeks. On her head she wore a Sweetpea baseball cap and her dress was a pastel flower print. “This is my niece Susie-Beth,” she said, “She is taking your course.” She introduced us.

  I smiled at her. “Yes, you mentioned her when we came over for that delicious pie,” I said. “Are you enjoying the college, Susie-Beth?”

  “Oh yes,” replied Susie-Beth. She had a soft little voice. “Auntie Mimi has been so kind.”

  “Could I borrow a copy of your latest book?” Mimi asked, “It hasn’t arrived in the college bookshop yet.”

  I was flattered. “Sure,” I said, “Do you want to come and get it after the lecture?”

  “I’ve got to get back to school in ten minutes. Perhaps Susie-Beth could fetch it. Would that be OK?”

  Susie-Beth smiled prettily. We said good-bye to Mimi and the three of us went into the hall. There were at least a hundred students. They were tanned from the summer. Some had brought in drinks in large containers with ice. A few were talking on their mobile phones. Joel introduced me briefly and sat down. Then it was my turn.

  I explained that the course would be about Christian ethics, and handed out a syllabus. Everyone was very attentive. Susie-Beth was sitting in the front row with her uncle and gazed at me throughout the lecture. She did not take notes. When I had finished, there was very gratifying applause, and the class filed out. Susie-Beth stayed behind and together we set off for my room. She seemed shy, but I did manage to get her to tell me that she came from South Carolina, that she had been educated in a small Christian private school and that she was the eldest of three sisters. She had found the University of Virginia overwhelming and several of the professors had been, in her own words, ‘gross’. I thought it better to enquire no further.

  When we arrived at my office I unlocked the door and asked her to wait for a moment. I was just going to collect my mail from the faculty office before it closed for lunch. I returned several minutes later, but she was no longer waiting in the corridor. I pushed open the door of my room. The first thing I noticed was her cardigan folded neatly on the floor with the baseball hat on top of it.

  Then I saw her. She had draped herself over my sofa, her flowery dress riding high to reveal shapely, tanned thighs. “Professor,” she said, in a soft little voice, “I’m so glad we can have some time alone. I want to talk to you about my credits. I’m sure you can help me, can’t you? I can make it worth your while.”

  Degrees ’R’ Us

  For Boris

  The young pursue only folly;

  By degrees their wisdom is lost.

  (attributed to John the Boughtonite)

  CHAPTER ONE

  St Sebastian’s Revisited

  The leaves were just beginning to turn when I arrived in Washington DC for the annual conference of the International Academy of Philosophy. It was the start of the autumn term – or the fall semester as our American colleagues have it – but in the lobby of the Hilton Plaza Hotel, teaching and students were forgotten. There were thousands of delegates from all over the world and they were all only interested in each other. The lobby was a veritable babel of talk. Who was going up; who was going down; who had reached the heights of an established Chair at Harvard, Oxford or Berlin, and who had been cast into the outer darkeness of yet another temporary post in South Dakota, Salford or Minsk.

  I was due to give a short paper on the third day dealing with Immanuel Kant’s metaphysics and was listed in the programme as Dr Felix Gass of St Sebastian’s University, England. Unfortunately it was too late to get this corrected to ‘Glass’. Whilst in Washington I had arranged to visit my old colleague Harry Gilbert and his aristocratic wife Victoria. Harry and I had worked together for ten years at St Sebastian’s University in England. We had not known each other particularly well, since we had been in different departments, but we had always shared common interests. I was still teaching there, but a year ago Harry had moved to Virginia and was now in his second year as the Thomas Jefferson Porpoise Distinguished Professor of Theology at Sweetpea College. He had contacted me when he heard that the Academy of Philosophy was meeting in Washington. He said he was anxious to hear the news from St Sebastian’s, and that he would pick me up from the hotel at two o’clock on my first afternoon.

  I was not confident that Harry would find me. The lobby seemed to be permanently heaving with shabby-looking academics clutching folders, looking lost, asking for further clarification from the harassed hotel staff and bumping into old friends. There was a constant clatter as old acquaintances were greeted and new deals were proposed. Bearded, distinguished-looking scholars with their breakfast egg still on their ties mingled with learned ladies in spectacles and sensible shoes.

  However, as I made my way through the throng, I caught sight of Harry immediately. He was standing near a large potted plant at the entrance reading the conference programme. A plump, greyhaired, somewhat dishevelled figure, he had gone native. He was wearing an American button-down blue shirt, khaki trousers and ox-blood loafers without socks. He seemed pleased to see me and he led me outside where a large red Rolls-Royce was parked just outside the entrance.

  ‘Is that really yours?’ I asked increduously. Clearly American salaries were on a more generous scale than British ones.

  ‘Got it when I came, Felix. I knew the brother of the local car distributor in England and he gave me a special deal. Victoria’s very scornful of it. She thinks it’s vulgar.’

  ‘I think it’s great,’ I said as we set off. ‘I’ve never been in a Rolls-Royce before!’

  As we drove to Sweetpea, Harry told me about the College. I knew that he had had considerable difficulties in his final year at St Sebastian’s; the Vice-Chancellor was anxious to retire all senior professors to save mon
ey and the word was that there had been an acrimonious fight which ended in Harry’s resignation. In fact the debacle at St Sebastian’s had been a blessing in disguise. He and Victoria were enjoying Sweetpea and found the American way of life very congenial. As a Distinguished Professor, there were few teaching responsibilities and most of his new colleagues were pleasant. Victoria had a good job too, she wrote about antiques for the Washington Post. I was interested in this because my wife was also a journalist, albeit for the radio.

  Harry had been persuaded to undertake one surprising duty. The President of the College had asked him to give talks to alumni groups in all the major American cities. This year his itinerary had included Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Denver, Los Angeles and San Francisco. Apparently this was nothing to do with philosophy or ethics, Harry’s academic speciality. I was astonished to learn that the President insisted that he tell the alumni about the ceremony at Buckingham Palace when the Queen had awarded him the Order of the British Empire for his ‘Services to Christian Ethics’.

  ‘It’s most embarrassing,’ he said. ‘I have to show them a video of the ritual and wear my medal and then they all ask silly questions which I can’t answer about Princess Diana and the erstwhile Mrs Parker-Bowles.’

  I was mystified. ‘Why does the President want you to do it?’

  ‘Oh it’s fundraising. For some reason Americans are transfixed by the royal family and I have taken on mystical significance because I have actually shaken the royal hand. I have to say the gatherings are very successful. The alumni are always attentive and afterwards they write enormous cheques. To date I have raised more than four million dollars in pledges for the college, so there isn’t a hope that I’m going to be let off this in the future. Still, the supply of American cities must come to an end sometime….’