The Scapegoat

by Sara Davis

  I sat, noticing as I always did the room’s most prominent decoration, which was displayed above the window in a long glass case: a broken wooden harpoon. Professor Pindar, it was said, was descended from New England whalers, though whether the fragment above the window had actually been wielded by his ancestors or was merely an evocative piece, I didn’t know.

  It occurred to me as I sat there waiting that it could be nice to make some remark about it—the harpoon, rather. I could not recall ever having mentioned it before, and I felt it might strike a friendly tone at the outset of our conversation. Who among us did not like to have their family heirlooms inquired about?

  I thought then with some compunction of my mother’s writing desk, which had been sitting neglected in my living room ever since her death. The truth was that I had never liked it, and I suspected that she hadn’t liked it very much, either, because I could not remember ever having seen it in her house.

  “Well,” said Professor Pindar, with a final shuffling of the papers in front of him. “That should do it. Would you mind closing the door?”

  When I returned to my seat it occurred to me that I still had yet to make a remark about the harpoon. Perhaps there was still time, I thought irritatedly to myself, but before I had a chance to think of anything, Professor Pindar said:

  “Well. I don’t want to presume anything, but I thought it might make sense for you and me to have a little chat.”

  He looked at me as though I might have some objection, and when I did not reply he went on.

  “I just wondered if this hasn’t been something of a difficult time for you.”

  A pause followed. I felt my face grow unpleasantly hot.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “The things people say … Really, very few of them have any idea what they’re talking about,” said Professor Pindar. “These decisions are much more complicated than you would think. Believe me, I’ve been on the committees.”

  Another bewildered silence. People were talking about … me? What could Kirstie have told him? Was it a crime to read one’s horoscope in the break room? A crime to sit beside your colleague at a lunchtime concert? Or perhaps—was it possible that he had heard of my dinner with the guest lecturer?

  “The impulse is to sensationalize, of course, but really, the time it takes for anyone to actually do anything; it’s like watching ice melt.”

  “I see,” I said. So, no, apparently, not about me. Or at least—I considered our conversation up until that point—so far it seemed to have been made up entirely of gibberish. And now too much time had passed for the remark about the harpoon. As usual, I had not moved quickly enough.

  “Anyways,” he said. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  How I was doing? It occurred to me that because of his manner, and its place in the chronology of our conversation, he did not merely mean this as a casual, rhetorical question. And yet I could not imagine what, in particular, he could be referring to. Certainly it would be impossible for me to address how I really was: my investigation, my suspicions, my unease.

  “Well,” I said, a little stiffly, and then I made an expansive gesture that I hoped would suggest that my answer encompassed a whole variety of circumstances. “No complaints.”

  Professor Pindar looked as though he was waiting for me to say more.

  When I didn’t, he said, “I know that you and your father weren’t … Maybe you were close, I don’t really know. But there was Barbara and the little girls, so that must have been…” He trailed off. “I can’t imagine it was easy.”

  The nape of my neck pricked.

  “And,” he said, shifting uncomfortably, “I’m sure it can’t help that that graduate student is in our department—in fact, I think you know each other—Kirstie Johanssen? She’s the one who … knew your father, isn’t she?”

  He stopped now and began to rub his right eye with his index finger.

  “I’m not going to pretend that this type of thing is my forte. All I’m trying to say is that from the outside, at least, the relationship looked a little strained. I mean, don’t get me wrong, what an exceptional man and a great president for the university—but those kinds of people don’t always make the easiest fathers, do they?”

  A moment—a strained silence—passed. Then a strange set of conditions threatened to intrude. I held myself still, very still, because the image of Professor Pindar and Kirstie walking side by side was constantly on the edges, pressing in. I fixed my gaze on a point above Professor Pindar’s gray head—incidentally, on the harpoon.

  He turned, following the direction of my line of sight, and brightened visibly.

  “Yes,” he said. “Isn’t that a hoot? As a matter of fact, my great-great-grandfather worked on the Essex. That’s the whaler that inspired Moby-Dick.”

  Another little silence went by.

  “Have you read it?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “No, well,” he said. “It’s very long. Took me several tries myself.”

  He turned away from me to look once more at the harpoon, and then turned back.

  “These family things,” he said. “They have a strange kind of power, don’t they? Actually, I grew up in Nevada, about as far from the sea as the day is long, and never saw the ocean until I went to college, but that thing was my dad’s, and when he died I thought I should give it a special spot.”

  Professor Pindar looked down at his hands and shifted a few times in his chair. It was evident that he was coming back now, back from this enjoyable discussion of the harpoon, to the topic at hand.

  “Like I said,” he began. “Not my strong suit, but I did want to let you know that even though your father has moved on, there’s no need to worry at all about your position here. We value the work you do, and that’s not going to change even though your father is no longer with us. Gosh”—here he laughed, a flurry of nervous, high-pitched sound—“that makes it sound like he died. All I mean is, since he’s left the university.”

  The blinds were drawn, and a viscous yellow midafternoon sun was seeping in around the slats. It had turned out to be a clear day after all; it was always a clear day down here in the valley, and I had a momentary pang of longing for Ottawa and gray.

  Strange, I thought. Ottawa again. I spent a few more moments there, in my memories, until I was interrupted by the sound of Professor Pindar clearing his throat. From the look on his face, it appeared that he had been trying to get my attention for some time.

  “I don’t want to take up too much of your afternoon,” he said, not quite meeting my eye. “Did you…” he asked, and began again. “Was there anything you’d like to add?”

  I considered. I looked past him and was once more struck by the thick yellow sunlight creeping in through the blinds.

  “You might like to open your blinds.”

  “I…” said Professor Pindar. “I’m sorry?”

  “May I?”

  I crossed to the window and raised the blinds, and as if the physical activity had jogged my thoughts, I was finally able to think.

  “What a nice view you have,” I said. From his window you could see the red-tiled buildings in the western part of campus, and behind them, the gray-blue wash of the foothills, edging delicately into sky. “My window overlooks the parking lot.”

  “Well,” said Professor Pindar. “I’m sorry about that, but when the new extension is finished there should be more room for everyone.”

  I held up a hand to cut him off.

  “No need to apologize,” I said. “It can be useful.”

  “I’m sorry?” he said again.

  Now that the blinds were up, the sunlight was shining fully in Professor Pindar’s face, and he was squinting into the glare.

  “It can be a useful view,” I said, clarifying, thinking of Kirstie in her running pants, her hand on Professor Pindar’s arm.

  Suddenly I felt my thoughts land, as a bird might land
on a tiny perch.

  “As a matter of fact,” I began carefully, “there is something I want to add.”

  “Oh?” said Professor Pindar. But for all he had professed to want just this, he seemed less certain about it now.

  “You say…” I said slowly. “You say you value the work I do here, and that I don’t need to worry about my position.”

  Professor Pindar nodded, making one hand into a visor to shield his eyes. “Yes,” he said, nodding vigorously. “Absolutely.”

  “But what…” I said, and I left the blinds then and crossed to the center of the room, “what exactly do I do here?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Would it not be accurate to describe my position as that of a ‘glorified secretary’? And, more importantly, why do you pretend that my father has ‘left the university’? Why is it so difficult for everyone to admit?”

  “To admit what?”

  But I found that despite it all, even I could not quite pronounce the words. “That there has been a death,” I said, more quietly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Professor Pindar. “I didn’t catch that. A death?”

  Then I noticed something that had been staring me in the face all along, something I should have noticed a long time ago. It was a heavy black paperweight, crudely carved to resemble a whale, sitting on top of a stack of papers on Professor Pindar’s desk.

  Well, of course, I thought, of course he would have such a paperweight. How fitting, after all that talk of fathers, their possessions, and special spots. Was this, I thought, a chuckle rising in my throat, another heirloom?

  “I know what you’ve been up to,” I said softly.

  “What?” said Professor Pindar.

  “What?” I said. “I think you know each other, don’t you, you and Kirstie Johanssen?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This morning,” I said. “From my window.”

  My words seemed to be bubbling up all at once, and perhaps not in the right order; I took a breath in, to slow myself.

  “This is a nice paperweight,” I said, taking it in my hand.

  “Thank you,” said Professor Pindar. “I— Wouldn’t you like to have a seat?”

  What a stupid ornament, I thought. Here was a man not content to merely hang an ugly weapon in his office; he had also bought himself a paperweight, in case anyone was in danger of forgetting this fact, that he was descended from New England whalers. What a farce.

  “My daughter gave it to me,” he said, looking pained. He stretched out a hand as if to take it back, but I did not return it to him. It was heavy and smooth, a pleasure to hold in my hand. Not just a pleasure, I thought, drifting away from the room, from Professor Pindar, from the sunlight that now poured robustly into the room; a feeling more fundamental, as if something I’d lost without knowing it had finally been returned.

  “I think there’s been some kind of miscommunication, somewhere along the line. Is someone … dead? You seem—have you had a loss recently?” said Professor Pindar. I could barely see him in the glare of the sunlight, but I could not mistake his tone.

  Had I had a loss recently? I had moved to the door as if to go, but now I found myself turning back to consider the question. I looked over, casually, at Professor Pindar, who seemed to have shrunk against the wall.

  “Have I had a loss?” I said softly, not quite to myself, not quite to Professor Pindar, but somewhere in between. “Life is just one loss after another, is it not?”

  I could not even begin to say, I thought, the kind of loss I’ve experienced, of everything moving forward as I stood still.

  26

  My face in the elevator’s mirror wore a grim, persistent smile, as if ready for an unkind word. Rather than shift it, I looked away. We dropped from the second floor to the first, and then to the basement level: the doors opened, and I stepped out into the atrium, the square-shaped, open core of the building, where a strangled sunlight filtered down from five stories above.

  I had no strong sense of what I’d meant to do there. Now I moved toward the sad coffee cart in the corner, with its depressed barista and depressing simulacra of patio furniture, but then changed course and turned away—but not quite soon enough to avoid making eye contact with a group of postdocs from my own department, who, I was horrified to see, were seated at one of the wrought-iron tables. There was a quick, painful moment of recognition, and then a much longer one of limbo, as I stood there, unable to proceed. At last one young man, a midwesterner whose name I had forgotten, raised his hand in a small, uncertain wave. Behind me I heard the soft ding! of a microwave. Startled, I waved back. Then, overcome with embarrassment, I hurried off down one of the low-ceilinged corridors that spread warren-like from the atrium’s central court.

  I let myself into the first empty room, a lecture hall in the old style, with steps sloping down to a small stage. I moved down a dark row and slid into a seat, closed my eyes and attempted to catch my breath, and heard only the agitated rushing of my own blood.

  Is someone dead? Professor Pindar had said— But I tamped that down, and found my thoughts returning to the atrium, to the friendly young man who had waved. Matthew—that was his name.

  How many such overtures had there been, over the years? It was true that, earlier on, I had mostly overlooked them. And more recently? I could think only of the dinner invitation with the guest lecturer, a much more complicated situation than it had initially seemed, not to mention one I had gravely misinterpreted.

  I felt the erratic beating of my heart slow a little, and I drew in a gasping breath. And what would life be like if I were the sort of person who waved casually at colleagues, who dispensed greetings like the enthusiastic Matthew? Quite probably I would also be a person who could say, without missing a beat, And where is Tübingen? I haven’t heard of it. Is it in the south?

  * * *

  Why not rest for a minute? I thought. I settled myself more comfortably in my seat. I could hear the geriatric ventilation system as it pushed feeble currents of air around the room, and the placid tick of the clock on the wall. A warm, drowsy feeling spread over me, and I had let my eyes close—just for a moment—when I became aware of another sound, someone speaking at a volume just lower than intelligible.

  “Excuse me,” the person said again, this time more loudly, and I opened my eyes to see a woman of late middle age standing over me. She wore a black felt hat with a narrow brim and clutched to her side a shabby and commodious handbag that overflowed with papers.

  “Yes?” I said, taken aback. I had not seen, or heard, her come in.

  “Someone sitting there?” she asked unpleasantly, jabbing a long finger at the seat next to mine.

  “No,” I said. “No, of course not.”

  My response seemed not to please her at all. If anything, she now looked more aggrieved.

  “Then may-be,” she hissed, “you’d be so kind as to move your…”

  She gestured to the seat beside me.

  “Paperweight,” I said, and then, more quietly: “Yes, of course.”

  * * *

  I endured her perfumed advances as she settled with unhappy noises into the seat beside me. She managed to contain her bulging handbag on the floor before her and then turned her attention toward the front of the room, where I saw that, to my astonishment, a man was now standing at the lectern. A distinguished-looking, silver-haired man who looked familiar, though I could not quite place him. And his arrival—how had I missed it?—was not the only new development. With the exception of a few empty seats here and there, the room was now full of people, apparently waiting for whatever would be happening onstage to begin.

  “Thank you all for coming,” said the silver-haired man. His voice was quiet but had an air of authority that was impossible to overlook.

  “I’m sure I speak for us all when I say how grateful I am to Professor Nahimana for hosting us, here in the belly of the beast. I know we’ve all been waiting for this day for a very long time.”


  A little ripple of applause.

  “It is an honor to follow such an important talk by Dr. Baker, whose new work on Haus Wachenfeld is, I think we can all agree, really very exciting. I wonder, Jim”—he appeared to address someone in the front row—“I could not help recalling a line that has always struck me as a lovely turn of phrase, despite the context.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering.

  “‘Along the road of the Teutonic knights of old, the Reich must again set itself, to obtain,’”—here he paused again—“‘um mit dem deutschen Schwert, dem deutschen Pflug die Scholle’—by the German sword, sod for the German plow.”

  This little recitation, incomprehensible to me, was met with a murmur of appreciation from the audience. He paused to sip primly from a glass of water and, shading his eyes with his hands, looked to the back of the room and said, “First slide, please, Melissa.”

  The hum of a slide projector, a whir, and click.

  “I’d like to begin,” he said, as the image behind him—a map, I now saw—expanded and contracted and now came decisively into focus, “on the island of Hispaniola.”

  He went on, but his voice faded from me as I became increasingly aware of my neighbor, who, in doing something with her handbag, had caused a thick bundle of folded papers to fall from the arm of her chair into my lap.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—” I whispered, and in the midst of returning it saw that it was not, as I had thought, some type of elderly person’s brochure, but a stack of small and poorly copied little texts, bound together with a dirty rubber band.

  A chill, premonitory shiver passed through me. What, I thought, was that?

  “So, as you can see, as the Spanish began to build their empire in the New World,” the man at the lectern was saying, “they looked to Rome’s expansion to justify their own.”

  I had seen such sheets of paper before, I thought. THE MISSIONS—I could have sworn I’d seen those grainy black letters, before she’d snatched the bundle, clawlike, back.