Tooth and Nail: A Novel Approach to the SAT (A Harvest Test Preparation Book)

by Charles Harrington Elster

  Chapter 8

  A Shrewd Conversation

  At the intermission, Jimmy surprised Phil by playing the suave social director. After the lights had come up and they’d all stepped into the aisle, Jimmy introduced himself and his roommates to the three young women, then offered to buy refreshments. Now the six freshmen stood in the main lobby, sipping soft drinks amid the buzz of animated conversation.

  Phil looked at Caitlin, who was studying some posters of past theatrical productions on a nearby wall. She had blasted him with condescension, making him feel like a fourth grader by telling him to learn to read between the lines. Then she had caught him staring at her and had squashed him like a bug. Was it worth attempting another conversation with someone who seemed so haughty and supercilious? Probably not, he thought, but what the heck. He had nothing to lose except his pride.

  “You have an interesting face. Would you mind if I sketched you sometime?”

  Caitlin turned. “What?”

  “I like to draw, and I’m pretty good at it, I guess, and I was just wondering if you’d be willing to let me draw your face. You’ve got a very interesting face.”

  “What’s so interesting about it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just unusual . . . different.”

  Caitlin laughed. “Different, huh? What’s different about it? Is it especially ugly or something?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just the opposite.”

  Caitlin smiled.

  Good, Phil thought. All is not lost. Feeling more confident, he went on. “It’s not your average, everyday face. It’s got a lot of character. It’s kind of . . . exotic.”

  Caitlin looked at Phil for a long moment. Is he for real, she wondered, or is this just another impudent come-on? All through high school she had encountered guys who for some inexplicable reason had thought that saying something inane or offensive was the best way to gain her attention or her affection. Most of them had treated her as if she were a brainless sponge, ready and waiting to soak up their every word. How could they have expected her to take them seriously?

  Caitlin studied Phil’s face. His hair was dark and wavy and combed neatly. His eyes were also dark and quite vivid. His nose curved down slightly—an aquiline nose, like an eagle’s beak, that was strong but stopped short of arrogance. His mouth was strong and full too, but there was something gentle about it that matched the tentative way he spoke. It was a friendly face, she decided, full of integrity.

  “Thanks. That’s a nice compliment,” she said finally.

  “You know,” Phil said, changing the subject, “I saw you earlier tonight, at Steinbach Commons. You were talking to Bill Berkowitz, the editor of the Herald.” He decided not to mention her comment about his shirt. Let her bring it up, he thought.

  “That’s right,” Caitlin said. “I remember seeing you there too. I told you I liked your Hawaiian shirt,” she added with a winsome smile.

  Phil swallowed quickly. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Anyway, it was sort of a lucky break. I was telling Carmen Torres—this English professor who ate dinner with us tonight—that I wanted to be a reporter for the paper, and she pointed out Bill to me.”

  “That’s interesting. I’ll be taking an intro class with Professor Torres.”

  “Really? That’s great. But watch out—she told us her students call her the Dragon Lady.”

  Phil laughed.

  “So how do you know Bill Berkowitz?” asked Caitlin.

  Phil told her about Bill and Leo, and when he mentioned Leo’s involvement with Edward Anthony Prospero, she said that would make a great article because of the new Prospero Library.

  “It would be perfect if I had a story idea ready to hand Bill tomorrow,” she said. “Do you think you could introduce me to Leo so I could interview him about the Prospero collection?”

  “Sure, I’ll do anything to help an aspiring journalist.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything within my power—that is, if you let me draw you.”

  “Phil, you have no ethics,” Caitlin said. Then she smiled. “Okay, it’s a deal.”

  Before Phil could think of what to say next, he felt a hand thump down on his shoulder.

  “I see you two are getting along famously,” Jimmy said. With a droll, sidelong glance at Phil, he added, “Have we been discussing Romeo and Juliet or The Taming of the Shrew?”

  “Neither, actually,” Phil said, giving Jimmy his best you’d-better-shut-up-or-I’ll-pound-you look.

  “Why would we be discussing The Taming of the Shrew?” Caitlin asked.

  “Because I thought you might be looking ahead to next week’s offering,” Jimmy said. “Maybe we all can come earlier and get better seats together.”

  Phil marveled at how shrewdly his roommate manipulated the conversation. He seemed to have a clever answer for everything. Maybe too clever for his own good, Phil thought, as he saw Jimmy wink at him and then turn to Caitlin.

  “How do you like the production?” he asked her.

  “I think it’s exciting. The acting’s good and the interpretation is original.”

  “Original?” Jimmy’s expression was a melodramatic combination of astonishment and indignation. “Anyone can do something radical or absurd. That doesn’t make it original.”

  “You’ve got a point there. But don’t you agree it’s refreshing when artists take risks like that?”

  “Maybe about as refreshing as watching summer reruns of ‘Wheel of Fortune.’” Jimmy leaned forward, put his hand next to his mouth, and spoke in a stage whisper. “You know what? I’ve heard this place is called the Stink. Maybe that’s because it’s infamous for rotten productions.”

  Caitlin laughed. “C’mon, you know that’s not why it’s called the Stink. It’s just a facetious nickname, because stink rhymes with Fincke.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Whatever. All I can say is, every time the actors open their mouths they drive another stake into the heart of some of the most eloquent language ever written. If I were the Bard, I’d be turning over in my grave watching this.”

  “That’s because you just crawled out of one yourself,” Caitlin quipped. “Jimmy, who says a production has to be conventional to be good? If you were Shakespeare, wouldn’t you be gratified to know that after four hundred years not only is your work still being produced and enjoyed but people are taking an innovative and contemporary approach to it?”

  Jimmy snorted. “Gratified? Why, I’d be mortified!”

  By now the animated debate had attracted the attention of the others.

  “Hey, Jimmy,” Chris cut in. “Get a life, will you? Since when did you become the college drama critic?”

  “Your idea of how Shakespeare should be produced just reflects your own bias,” said Juliet.

  “I agree’” Lucy said. “You can’t prescribe what a work of art should or shouldn’t be. You have to judge it in context.”

  “All right, all right, everybody,” Jimmy said, throwing up his hands. “The next time the Stink stages a production of Julius Caesar, I promise I’ll try out for the title role. Or would you prefer to assassinate me right now and get it over with?”

  “Now that sounds like a plan,” Chris said.

  Jimmy sighed. “Et tu, Bednarski?”

  Everyone laughed, and a moment later a voice came over the P.A. announcing the end of the intermission.

  Long after her roommates had gone to sleep, Caitlin lay awake in her bed in LaSalle Hall, ruminating.

  It had been a full day, a good day. She had traveled halfway across the country to a new place where, if everything worked out right, she would spend the next four years of her life gaining knowledge and experience and making new friends. She had been lucky to get nice roommates, and she had met an interesting professor and the editor of the Holyfield Herald. She had also seen a good play and eaten some delicious pizza afterward.

  Caitlin was grateful to Annie, the cab driver, for suggesting Salerno’s. The others h
ad wanted to go to Pesto Palace because it was the biggest restaurant on Chickasaw Street and it was teeming with rowdy students. But she had persuaded them that there was a better place farther on. And they weren’t disappointed. Salerno’s was lively but not so loud that you couldn’t have a normal conversation. They all sat around a big table with a red-checkered tablecloth, gobbling down thin-crusted pizza with the meat on top, just as it should be. It took only a couple of bites before everyone was praising Caitlin’s choice.

  When they had finished eating they talked for a long time, sharing stories about their respective high schools and their aspirations for college. The discussion was convivial and stimulating, full of jokes and laughter. Shortly after midnight the boys walked the girls back to LaSalle and said goodnight.

  If so much could happen in just one day in college, Caitlin wondered, then what lay ahead?

  A plethora of possibilities crowded her mind, and the more she pondered her future, the more awake she became. Finally she decided that if she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well get up. She slipped out of bed and into her robe and stole quietly out of the room.

  She made for the stairwell, climbed the steps to the top, and found the door to the roof unlocked. When she stepped outside, the cool night air enveloped her and she pulled the collar of her robe tight around her neck and throat. Bits of gravel crunched under her slippered feet as she crossed to the parapet and looked out.

  Holyfield College lay shrouded in shadowy sleep. Hooded lamps dotted the empty flagstone pathways of West Quad, and here and there a light glimmered in a window, but most of what she could see of the campus was dark. Above the grim silhouette of Tillinghast Library the moon hovered like a wizened old professor lost in thought.

  Caitlin listened to the night’s tranquil sounds—the soothing, rhythmic call of crickets and the trees creaking as they swayed. Somewhere, something exquisite was blooming, probably in Olsen Garden, she thought. She breathed deeply, drinking in the rich aroma, then gazed up into the night.

  The silvery cloud of the Milky Way streamed across the wide sky. Myriad stars dimpled the darkness with light—more stars than she had ever seen anywhere before. Caitlin felt as if she were gazing into a distant mirror that reflected the whole world. Was she one of the minuscule stars in that scintillating sky? she wondered.

  The bell in the Holyfield tower struck twice. Two o’clock. Caitlin sighed and leaned against the cold stone wall. No use faying to resolve all my feelings tonight, she thought. I’d better get some rest so I’ll be ready for my appointment at the Herald in the morning.

  She blew a goodnight kiss to the pale, pensive moon and hurried back to bed.

  Chapter 9

  Don’t Judge a Book by Its Cover

  Sunday

  Leo Kabnis tucked in his shirt, knotted his tie, slipped on a blazer, and, after a quick look in the minor, dashed out the door and down the stairs.

  Hurrying along the flagstone pathway, he glanced at his watch: 9:45 A.M. No problem making the ten o’clock meeting on time, he thought, but too late to grab some breakfast beforehand. He’d just have to hang on until lunch.

  Leo looked up and saw it was a cloudy morning. As he strode past students on their way to the dining halls or church, he wondered about the awesome responsibility Professor Prospero had given him. What would being a literary executor entail? Would it require much of his time? Would he get paid?

  The aromas of baked dough and frying bacon pervaded the air around Steinbach Commons. Leo had to resist the urge to go in and satiate his hunger. At the corner of College and Holyfield streets he waited impatiently for the light to change, then trotted across and bounded up the well-worn stairs to the vaulted entrance of Tillinghast Library.

  It was the Sunday before the first day of classes, and the library was officially closed. Leo showed the security guard the special access permit he had been issued for the executors’ meeting, and the man ushered him in. He briskly crossed the dim, empty lobby, entered the rosewood-paneled elevator, and pressed the button for the third floor.

  As he walked down the hall toward the Bohring Conference Room, the bell in Holyfield Tower began tolling the hour. Listening to the familiar sound that had measured all the days and nights of his college years, Leo smiled. The imposing tower and its massive bell were an integral part of the atmosphere on campus. Leo remembered how as a freshman he had found the constant clanging unsettling, at times even ominous. Now he rarely noticed it, and whenever he did it served to remind him of who he was and where he was going, and he found that reassuring.

  The last peal of the bell trailed off as Leo entered the conference room. At the end of a mahogany table that dominated the stately wood-paneled and red-carpeted room, Professors Carmen Torres and Bartholomew Martext sat conversing quietly.

  Torres looked up. “Leo, how are you? How was your summer?” she asked, rising and giving him a hug.

  “Fine, Carmen. How was yours? Did you get to England?”

  “Indeed I did. It was wonderful. I dug up loads of material for my book in London and Oxford. Which reminds me, Leo. You haven’t forgotten what I told you about your essay on Chaucer, have you?”

  “Oh, no, I haven’t forgotten. But I have a whole list of questions I’d like to talk to you about.”

  . Since taking an advanced composition class with Torres his freshman year, Leo had been an appreciative beneficiary of her support and concern. Last spring he had taken her seminar on English epic poetry, and she had liked his term paper so much that she had urged him to make some revisions and submit it for publication. Over the summer Leo had broadened his research and pondered her suggestions. Now he needed a sounding board for his ideas.

  “You had such an interesting thesis,” Torres said. “What was your title again?”

  “‘Virtue, Necessity, and the Paradox of Chivalry in The Knight’s Tale.”’

  “Ah, yes. Excellent. We could discuss it Friday afternoon during my office hours if you like.”

  “That sounds great. Thanks a lot.”

  “So, Carmen, is this the wunderkind you’ve been telling me so much about?” Martext asked. His urbane baritone voice was carefully modulated.

  “A felicitous word, wunderkind,” Torres said with a chuckle. “Bart, allow me to introduce Holyfield College’s preeminent undergraduate scholar, Leo Kabnis. Leo, this is Bartholomew Martext, artistic director of the Fincke Theater and professor of theater studies.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Professor Martext,” Leo said.

  “The pleasure’s mine,” Martext said, getting up to shake Leo’s hand. “But call me Bart. Like Carmen, I’m not one to insist on the traditional forms of academic address.”

  Leo had often seen Martext around campus but had never met him. His friends in the theater program had told him that the man was a brilliant but capricious director, affable and agreeable one day then aloof and obstinate the next. Martext’s striking appearance gave credence to these accounts. He had a stern mouth, a chiseled jaw and nose, and fervid, deep-set eyes that seemed to smolder with barely suppressed emotion. Those features, coupled with his long, wavy salt-and-pepper hair and sideburns, made him look like some grim pioneer or fanatical preacher who had just stepped out of a daguerreotype from the nineteenth century.

  Leo knew many professors who might be described as idiosyncratic, but Martext struck him as a few degrees beyond that. He seemed to be the kind of person who self-consciously cultivates an unorthodox image the way a shrewd actor might exploit the inherent peculiarities of a character to amuse or stir or shock an audience.

  There was a muffled noise at the door. Leo turned to see the squat, rotund frame of Theophilus Bibb, the Stanley B. Prattle Professor of Intellectual History and chair of the Renaissance Studies Department, waddle into the conference room.

  Bibb was dressed in his customary attire: a lackluster old pair of wingtip shoes, a baggy, somewhat threadbare gray wool suit, a rumpled white shirt, and a faded red bow tie. In one ha
nd he held an ivory-tipped cane, in the other a battered leather briefcase. Bibb’s salient facial features were almost ludicrous, Leo thought. The tip of his bulbous nose was raspberry red, his bushy gray eyebrows seemed permanently raised in an expression of arch amusement, and his crown was as smooth and hairless as a tired-out tennis ball.

  “Good morning, Professor Torres, Professor Martext,” Bibb said in the orotund voice of a seasoned lecturer, nodding to his colleagues. “Leo,” he continued, lumbering into the room and setting his briefcase and cane on the table, “so good to see you again. I must say I was delighted when I heard you’d been selected one of the executors. It’s precisely what we obdurate old academics need—a vivacious representative from the undergraduate ranks to arouse our phlegmatic blood.”

  There was something ambiguous about the way Professor Bibb said the word ranks that made Leo think he was putting a double spin on the word, as though he associated a foul, or rank, odor with the Holyfield student body. He searched the professor’s face but couldn’t detect any trace of irony or condescension. Bibb’s benign expression was inscrutable.

  In his sophomore year, as one of the electives for his double major in English and humanities, Leo had taken an upper-level seminar with Bibb entitled “Authority, Authorship, and the Evolution of the Printed Word,” in which they had studied various reproductions and translations of works by a diverse selection of authors from Dante to Dryden.

  Leo had found Bibb a devilishly demanding but superbly entertaining teacher, learned and witty and brimming with obscure facts and lively anecdotes. With inimitable style, Bibb had expertly elucidated the esoteric mysteries of textual analysis, and under his tutelage Leo had worked so hard that toward the end of the semester he could almost feel his brain growing, pumping up like a muscle disciplined on the bench press of knowledge. As a result, Leo had earned an A from a man notorious for dispensing them about as often as Halley’s comet makes a flyby past the earth.