by Ruby Namdar
For a second time, lightning struck inside Andrew’s brain, this time more rapidly followed by deafening thunder. Yes, he did know Shirin Zamindar. He knew her well, very well. She was his graduate student, who transferred from Cambridge a year or so prior to their acquaintance. A daughter of one of the most affluent families in India, she spent her youth in a prestigious Swiss boarding school and moving between a few European capitals. Her work was somewhat undistinguished, not to say mediocre, her reputation in the department was owed mostly to her expensive taste in designer clothes and the rumors surrounding her wild love life. Her dissertation, named Patriarchy Within Patriarchy: The Influence of Colonialism on the Oppressive Structures of the Traditional Family in India, was comprised mostly of clichés, unimaginatively imported from the works of the more important thinkers of the schools of postcolonial and women’s studies. But Andrew, in spite of all this, had supported her work in the department. He had done so out of the simple, intuitive, yet profoundly felt belief that the truth was arrived at by a multiplicity of voices, not by intellectual monotone. Andrew drew in another deep breath, trying to stabilize his racing thoughts, which rushed uncontrollably across his mind.
How very typical, he thought contemptuously, feeling the rage mounting inside him, ready to erupt. How very Bernie-like, to want to appear progressive and egalitarian while hiring a vapid, spoiled brat who slept her way into the faculty for lack of a better set of skills. How very like Bernie to adorn himself with the appointment of a young woman—and a woman of color at that!—but to choose one who could never threaten him, or anyone else for that matter!
Andrew’s anger continued to rage for another second or two, filling him with self-righteous, vindictive vigor—but then it suddenly subsided, leaving behind an emptiness in which a different inner voice now sounded. That was too easy, way too easy! It was lazy and despicable of him to push Shirin into the demeaning slot of a trust-fund brat, a social climber or class slut. The truth is that there was something about her, hidden under the many layers of predictability and banality, that were the result of her academic training. Once the yoke of her doctoral program’s expectations was broken, she had actually become a more serious worker and a more serious thinker. She spent more hours in the library and seminar rooms—her tastefully chosen clothes and beautifully quaffed hair a sharp, refreshing contrast to their usually drab and inelegant surroundings. The articles she published became more interesting, more original. A sudden, scary realization crept into Andrew’s mind, forced itself on him in a brutal clarity that made him shudder: Could it be that it was precisely because she stopped working with him that this change had occurred? Could it be that it was his presence in her life that had caused her to cling to those ready-made clichés and recycle them so tirelessly? Perhaps it was him, Andrew, and not Bernie, who wanted to adorn himself with the presence of this young woman while keeping her in the unthreatening, banal slot he had chosen for her? Andrew flinched visibly, as if he had been stung. What an absurd thought! How could it be? Hadn’t he, of all teachers and mentors, encouraged his students to liberate themselves from what had already existed and seek what was not yet put into words? Andrew’s chest constricted; breathing was an effort. Something swelled uncontrollably inside him, setting his thoughts flying at a fast, frenzied pace. And there was that other thing, too! That other thing, that he had so conveniently half-forgotten, in spite of it being such a rare—very rare!—occurrence. After all, he was a man of strong moral fiber and almost never strayed from the ethics of his profession. Had he really forgotten their brief, very brief, affair that started right after she submitted her dissertation and was, officially at least, no longer his direct subordinate? A wave of panic rushed over Andrew: How much did Bernie know? Is this the reason for that long, meaningful look he gave him before mentioning Shirin’s name? It would be a total disaster if the rumors about his affair with her became public, a total disaster! True, there was nothing illegal about it, not even unethical, not really, and yet, it would be a terrible thing if this bit of information became public. A chilling wave of paranoia slithered swiftly into Andrew’s head, wriggling inside it like a venomous snake: Did Shirin tell Bernie? Were they in cahoots, resolved to bring Andrew to his demise? What if the whole thing had been planned? What if it all had been a diabolically clever sting operation meant to blackmail him, to force him to quietly step aside and allow her to take away the coveted appointment that until not so long ago was considered his and his alone? The poisonous serpent kept twisting and turning inside Andrew’s skull, its jerky movements more and more violent. What a fool he was, allowing her to tempt him like this! He should have suspected it from the first minute! One couldn’t put anything past her! The toxically euphoric realization that he had been deliberately set up by Shirin Zamindar sent a rush of adrenaline into Andrew’s body, taking full possession of him and inflating him with rage before it ebbed suddenly, leaving him drained and depleted, again. Nonsense! That, too, was too easy. Too easy, and totally wrong! It would be a vicious lie to claim that she had set out to seduce him, a total, shameless lie. It’s true, he did not court her while she was his research student, not openly at least—but the thought of it had often crossed his mind during the time in which they worked closely together. And that famous seduction scene, in that gorgeous Alsatian restaurant that had recently opened, not far from the New York Public Library, where they both attended a panel discussion one winter night? That seduction scene—preserved in his memory by the fragrance of the fruity Alsatian wines and the irresistibly alluring shimmer of the antique polished copper cookware that hung on the walls, lending the restaurant the air of a charming country inn—wasn’t it his own brilliant, masterfully executed production? How lowly it was of him, how cowardly, to lay the so-called blame on her? And how lowly it was of him, how despicable, to forcibly forget the desperate, surprisingly vulnerable quality of her lovemaking! How could he expunge from his memory her touching, almost childlike eagerness to please him when they were together? A sudden, silent, dry sob rattled Andrew’s body. No, she had not manipulated him at all! What happened between them was not a part of her alleged faculty seduction crusade, the stuff of nasty corridor-rumors. As a matter of fact, these rumors were never substantiated, were they? Why then were they—no, why then was he—so ready to believe them? Why was he so eager to assume such ugly assumptions about her and her motives? Was she more of a threat to him than he had ever dared to admit? And why did he so forcefully deny the distinct feeling he had, the sense that for her this was not necessarily just a small, amusing, noncommittal fling as it was for him? It was the same feeling that caused him, truth be told, to abruptly end their affair, much more quickly than usual. And why, for heaven’s sake, hadn’t he bothered to tell her even once, out of simple courtesy, that he had indeed read her last publication and that it was, quite honestly, nothing short of brilliant? Was it really so preposterous to suspect that it might have been him, and their work together, that caused her to recycle those damned clichés for which he then disdained her? Was he semiconsciously pushing her into the slot of the ridiculous, predictable role of a knee-jerk rebel? Turning her into a crude caricature of herself? Why? Because she was a woman? Because she was Indian, or “a woman of color”? Did it enable him to ignore her as a true intellectual force to be reckoned with? And could it be—this thought made Andrew cringe in pain—that the choice to appoint her as the new director of the interdisciplinary program was actually the right decision? A seriously considered, professional choice and not just a fashionable, manipulative gesture as he automatically assumed it to be? Andrew leaped from his chair in panic. The intensity of his thoughts had suddenly become unbearable, and he tried in vain to push them out of his head, to unthink them. He is right, this dirty old lecher, Bernie, this greedy, power-hungry, heartless, cynical puppet master. He is right! Shirin Zamindar does represent the future while he, Andrew, is the one who’s been recycling himself, repeating the same old, tested, pseudo-progressive tric
ks for the last twenty-some years, riding the wave of his now cold youthful promise. Andrew’s knees gave in. He plopped his body heavily back on the chair, desperately struggling to push back this horrific possibility, this terrible realization, push it back so hard and so deep so that it would never be able to emerge again.
Bernie watched him patiently, sympathetically witnessing the wordless emotional roller coaster to which his old friend and colleague was strapped. He stretched his hand toward Andrew’s untouched drink, the content of which was by now totally diluted by ice water, and gently pushed it toward Andrew—together with the black leather coaster that was by now soaking wet from the water condensed on the cold glass. Andrew mindlessly took the glass, lifted it to his lips, and drank its entire content in one gulp—swallowing the disgusting swill like Socrates drinking his hemlock. All was lost now. He knew it with humiliating yet liberating clarity. All was lost! There was nothing to be done anymore. The matter was out of his hands.
He was led like a blind bull to the ring. The great white bull! That’s what Bernie had been trying to tell him on that winter morning in his roundabout, Machiavellian, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t way. He didn’t really try to save Andrew, that was bullshit—he just wanted it on the record, so that Andrew couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned. They didn’t even leave you the right to be angry, they robbed you even of that! What was he supposed to say now? He couldn’t just sit there. He had to say something. He had to express his fury, which, he was forced to acknowledge to his chagrin, felt dangerously close to an insulted child’s uncontrollable sob of grief rather than the roar of a wounded old lion.
Andrew realized his mistake as soon as he began to speak. His words came in angry, wildly aimed volleys. He was aware of it, aware he was destroying his last chance at convincing anyone. He understood it all with a painful lucidity, with a realer-than-real clarity—and still he couldn’t stop. He suddenly had a feeling that there was something else, something that Bernie was hiding from him. He glanced across the table, consumed by hate . . . but his eyes could go no further. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Bernie, the vile puppeteer who had made him dance before sacrificing him like a disposable pawn on the chessboard of power and influence. He broke off his tirade in the middle and sat silently, feeling powerless and ridiculous, staring at the empty glass in front of him.
“Another touch of whiskey?”
“No, thanks. Well, all right. Just a touch.”
Another mistake, he did not need another drink! Whatever, what difference did it make by now? Bernie got up from his chair, went to the bar, and returned with two fresh drinks. Andrew mindlessly accepted the glass Bernie offered him. Although he knew he shouldn’t have, he took it and emptied it in practically one gulp. He was drained. Even his anger was suddenly gone, vanished into thin air. That was Bernie for you, the ultimate seducer! One couldn’t stay angry at him for long, no matter how hard one tried.
Bernie sat facing him in his chair, leaning forward with a movement that, in the movies, signaled that a frank disclosure was about to take place. He was a great moviegoer, Bernie, a great lover of Hollywood—of TV sitcoms, too, no doubt. Where did he find the time for it? A foolish question. Men like Bernie found time for everything; they devoured life like a slice of pie. Here comes the speech. It had already begun.
“My hands were tied, Andrew. You need to understand that.”
Bernie wanted, as always, to have his cake and eat it, to get what he wanted without being resented. He had to know he still was loved. “The forces working behind the scenes were very strong, stronger than either of us.” Voilà! So now they were comrades in arms again, two rational men upholding the pursuit of knowledge, not the opportunism that masqueraded as it. Did Bernie believe that himself? Apparently, he did. He always did. That’s what made him what he was.
Bernie went on spouting empty phrases and Andrew, though no longer listening, let himself be lulled by their sympathetic tone. That was one more mistake, a serious one, but he needed all the comfort, however phony, that he could get. The whiskey festered in his stomach, emitting the sour vapors that were a sure sign of the heartburn to come. Home! He was going to be sick, he needed to sleep.
Andrew rose without excusing himself and went to the door, suddenly feeling drunk. Bernie regarded him in silent sorrow. His hand on the doorknob, Andrew reconsidered and turned back, looking at his old friend, or his ex–old friend, in the eye for the first time since realizing he had been set up, laying the unasked question at his feet. The glint vanished from Bernie’s eyes, along with his patronizing tone. For a moment, surprising even himself, the good, old Bernie emerged from the shiny pleats of his presidential, twenty-five-hundred-dollar suit. “You understand, old friend, it wasn’t me. I wasn’t even asked. I was a pissed-on little pawn just like you. It came from above, from the board of directors. Have you heard of Koshal Pooldar? Pooldar, as in the new Pooldar Library? Yes, it’s the man that I sat next to at that ridiculous dinner at Cipriani’s two weeks ago. I know you know who I’m talking about, I saw you peering at us through that ghastly flower arrangement. I was sure you knew everything! It turns out he’s Shirin Zamindar’s maternal uncle, or godfather, or the second husband of her mother, or something like that. . . . Need I say more?”
There was no need to say anything else. Andrew left in silence without saying good-bye, gently closing the door behind him.
6
Dawn is breaking. The path leading to the Viceroy’s Palace is colored a bright indigo. Two large mastiffs sprawl on either side of its majestic entrance a few dozen yards away, regarding me with stony eyes. Then they come to life and turn into lions. They recognize me. One bounds quickly toward me. I turn and run. Ahead of me is a tiger. The lion is closing in. I run, leaping over the gray rocks, frantically looking for a stone to throw at it. It’s breathing down my neck. I turn and throw a stone. It recoils and takes to its heels. Now I’m chasing it. It turns into a naked boy, his long hair smooth, wrapped around him like a royal robe. He throws a stone at me and I prepare to be devoured. The second lion is right behind me. I can feel it about to spring. A red light goes on. There’s a siren. The screen flashes: Direct Hit for Lion 1. The screen blurs. Another red light: Direct Hit for Lion 2. The screen fades out. The game is over. Darkness. The room is dark. I’m shivering. It’s cold. The air is electric. Without warning, a heavy, tropical rain begins to fall.
7
June 25, 2001
The 4th of Tammuz, 5761
It was already eleven thirty. Where had the morning gone? Two and a half hours of concentrated effort and he hadn’t a single line to show for it. Not a word. Every minute spent facing the computer was a pure hell of blind, futile willpower fighting to get past a wall of blank words. Again and again he hurled himself at it, injuring only himself. Letters danced before his eyes like malevolent trolls. The tenser he grew, the more annoyingly his head buzzed. He wasn’t a miracle worker! He couldn’t squeeze water from a damn stone! How many days had gone by since that god-awful meeting with the president? A week already. Its shock and humiliation hadn’t worn off. They were poisoning his body and mind, causing a general paralysis. He hadn’t told anyone about it. No one: not Ann Lee, not Rachel, not even Linda. How could you talk about such a thing? What could you say? Never mind. He would think of something. The main thing was to concentrate on his work. That was the main thing! Publish or Perish was still the name of the game. It was a gladiator’s arena, a fucking slaughterhouse. If only he could drop it all and go to the Cape with them. If only he could go to bed and never get up again.
Andrew jumped from his chair. What unadulterated crap! For the third or fourth time that morning he strode to the bathroom to wash his face, splashing water all over it. If the faucet had been higher, he would have stuck his head under it and turned it on full force. No, he would have been too embarrassed. Back to work! He dried his face with the damp towel and returned to the computer, pretending to feel refreshed. A shitty little articl
e he once could have written in his sleep! He didn’t even care about the magazine it was promised to. Why not just send them an apology? He was sorry to say he was too busy to meet the deadline. Everyone knew how busy he was, now that he was about to take on the added responsibility of . . . fuck! Fuck them all, every one of them!
Twelve thirty. Not a line. Swimming across the English Channel would be easier than writing a single clear, coherent paragraph. He needed inspiration, something to tear away the heavy, grungy curtain blocking him from writing. No, nothing online. Something classical, something solid to give him a fresh start. Barthes! Roland Barthes, of course! How hadn’t he thought of it? There was nothing like Barthes for a suitable quotation; he was the Oscar Wilde of literary criticism. Writing Degree Zero: perfect! He was at zero degree himself, and it wasn’t even funny.
Andrew went to a bookshelf and took down a thin book that felt like an expensive bar of chocolate. Speaking of which, did he have any at home? A little pick-me-up wouldn’t hurt. He tossed the book onto his desk with what was intended to be a kind of French, debonair gesture and went to the kitchen to look. Again and again he rummaged through the same cabinets and drawers, as if expecting some chocolate to turn up by magic. There was none to be found. Why should there be? He never kept sweets at home. Might Ann Lee have hidden some somewhere? Where would she have kept such a yummy little secret? Ann Lee. She almost never dropped by anymore. To hell with the chocolate! He would buy some later. To work! But wait. Mightn’t there be some in a drawer after all?