“Personally, I still wish he had gone back East sometime, he’d have been better off for opportunities. He’s the only one of the whole department here who will take the trouble to read up on an idea and write it out. He’s had more than twenty different articles and essays published and some day hopes to have them all in a book. He has long since deserved his advancement, but I told you about this seniority business, and besides, the old dean who has just retired, Dean Feeney, was a tight-fisted man, and so for that matter, though I’m not trying to prejudice you—he has his virtues but he has his faults —is Professor Fairchild. They could have advanced CD as far as he is entitled, but they said the department wasn’t big enough to hold three full professors. CD says they don’t like
his plain talk is why they haven’t given him his due. He’s an outspoken man and isn’t afraid to call a spade by name. Last June CD blew up when he didn’t get his promotion, and he told Professor Fairchild a thing or two. He promised to see what he could do this year. Please don’t go around spreading that—it’s nobody’s business but CD’s.”
“No, ma’am, I won’t.”
“Well, he’s promised before, but I guess Professor Fairchild feels it’s no nails in his pants if CD doesn’t get what he ought to. Which is worse than it sounds, because he’s always had it good with those textbooks that CD wouldn’t, as a scholar, lower himself to write. And there are others around here whose names I won’t mention who are jealous of him. CD says they have average minds at best, and he tries to stay away from them so they don’t waste his time. I’ve heard him wonder if some of the professors here have a college education themselves. Of course that really isn’t so, but CD says there’s an essay by William James—he’s also from Harvard—and it’s called, ‘The Social Value of the College Bred.’ The whole point to it is, if you have read it, that the reason for getting a college education in the first place is so you can tell a good man when you see him, and that’s what nobody seems to be able to do around here.”
Levin listened, holding his hat in his hands.
“You’re getting impatient,” she said. “I’ll help you find CD.”
“Kindly don’t trouble yourself,” he said, rising and dusting his raincoat. “Not after your sciatica. I’ll look myself.”
“Watch out for Lady Macbeth. She’s our cow and has a frisky tail for strangers.”
He followed her directions—going around the back of the house and across a weedy pasture. He crossed a dirt road he wasn’t sure was part of Dr. Fabrikant’s property—trespassing made him uneasy—went through a stand of poplars and as they thinned out, found himself confronting a hefty, big-uddered white cow, Lady Macbeth, without doubt, and God help him if her lord were around. Horrified by the immensity
of the beast, he retreated, his hat slapped off by a poplar branch. As he tried to sneak up and snatch the hat from the ground, Levin stepped into a recently deposited cow pie. Cursing, he wiped his shoe on some dead leaves. Lady Macbeth approached, mooing. Levin grabbed up his hat and retreated through the trees. On the road he heard the sound of hoofbeats, and as he looked up, saw a horse galloping towards him. He jumped wildly aside. The startled rider managed to pull the animal to a halt; Levin knew at once he was Dr. Fabrikant.
Gripping the reins short as he calmed the frightened mare, Dr. Fabrikant, a cigar butt clamped between his teeth, the pupil of a gloomy left eye enlarged over that of a sober right, under heavy eyebrows examined the intruder. His sister had said he was fifty but the associate professor looked older, his face seamed by many lines; he sat stiff on his horse, giving an impression of unease. Stocky, short, on top of his small mount, wearing an old camping hat, he resembled U. S. Grant, but Grant lacking something, maybe his whiskey barrel. Though he looked like an outdoor type in khaki pants and jacket, with field boots laced to his knees, Dr. Fabrikant appeared to Levin, conscious of his prior knowledge of him, an inside man momentarily out.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he explained. “I got lost looking for you.”
“I don’t permit salesmen on this property,” said Dr. Fabrikant. “That’s tacked up on a tree in front of the house.”
“I’m not a salesman—not any more, a month finished that. S. Levin is my name—I’m sorry to disturb you. I was passing by and thought I’d say hello for a minute if I might. Your sister—Miss Fabrikant, told me you were out this way, and on account of her sciatica I went to look for you myself. I’m the new man here.”
“What new man?”
“In the English department I should’ve said. I heard about you and came to pay my respects to a fellow liberal.”
Dr. Fabrikant, shifting his weight on the horse, studied Levin.
“I also heard from more than one source that you’re the leading scholar of the department”
The associate professor, removing his cigar, laughed in two short syllables—engine and caboose. “That’s not saying much.”
“I hope to read your articles sometime.”
Dr. Fabrikant bowed, finally seemed pleased. “Nice of you to come.”
“The reason I mentioned liberal is I happened to notice the title of one of your courses in the college catalogue. I also heard you were an outspoken defender of—ah—Mr. Duffy.”
The horseman’s expression was at once wary. “What did you hear about that?”
“Not much, really, except you had been sympathetic to him —for a while at least.”
“Duffy was a damn fool.”
“You don’t say? I’m sorry,” Levin was disappointed. “I had hoped he was worth defending.”
“He was—up to a point.”
“He seemed to me, when I heard about him, like a sympathetic person.”
“Did my sister tell you about him?”
“Oh no, sir. Some other people did, including Professors Fairchild, Gilley, and Bucket.”
“You’ve met them all?”
“I’ve been here almost a month.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York City—Manhattan, to. be exact.”
Dr. Fabrikant dismounted and they shook hands.
“What satirical wind blew you hither?”
“I came for the change you might say.”
“It’s more than change, it’s transmogrification.”
“I know I’ll like it once I make a friend or two.” Fabrikant lit a match and sucked in the flame, at the same time continuing to look Levin over. He thrust the burnt match
into his pants pocket. “Woods are very dry about now.” He gazed at the trees, puffing his cigar.
“Well, I guess I ought to be going,” Levin said. He had hoped to stir up an invitation to stay a while, but the associate professor extended none.
They walked together, Fabrikant leading his horse, till they reached the road that led to town.
“Enjoying a place depends a lot on the people you meet,” Levin was saying. “I already like Mr.—Professor Bucket, and I’m fond of Dr. Gilley.”
Fabrikant grunted. “If you’re fond of him I don’t think you’ll care for me.”
Levin, off balance, did not know what to say.
The associate professor mounted his horse, then came an edict: “Gilley and I may be in a contest for department headship after Fairchild retires. If you’re a liberal, you may be called on to prove it.”
He galloped back in the direction he had come.
The Syrian graduate student Mrs. Beaty had been expecting turned out to be Mr. Sadek Abdul Meheen, from Damascus, and Levin made his acquaintance the day he arrived. He was a short young man with a fluff of curly black hair on a balding brown skull, and a delicate Semitic nose that sniffed in the direction of vagrant odors. His moist black eyes were gently popped. He was respectful of Levin as an instructor, and although he spoke English well, consulted him in matters of usage. Levin tried but was not much taken by the man, hidden as a person and fanatic about hygiene. The fumes of Lysol stank up the bathroom for a half hour after he had been in it; he rubbed everything he touched—before, not after—with his personal bottle. He was majoring in sanitary bacteriology and taking courses in rat control and the bacteriology of sewage. But he played chess better than Levin and talked entertainingly of the Middle East.
Although they were uneasy with each other the two men
restlessly roamed the Easchester streets together. The town, though attractive, was much of sameness. It had grown in a semicircle around a bend in the Sacajawea and now extended thinly to the western and northern hills; surrounding the long rectangle of green campus and red-brick college buildings. Downtown was a treeless grid of boxlike store and small offices buildings, unimaginative and verging on abstraction. The goods in store windows supplied its only color. Around the business district were many old-fashioned double-pediform houses, mainly carpenter-built on small plots of ground, squeezed together; some were redeemed by gardens, shrubbery and trees, whose apples, plums and walnuts often rotted on sidewalks as Levin walked, evoking in him guilt for the waste. Farther out, past the campus, appeared the modern ranch houses with picture windows; tilted roof types; and split-levels climbing the hills. The fraternity and sorority houses were the most magnificent of the community. During the day, Levin enjoyed the town though it seemed entirely contemporary, without visible or tangible connection with the past. Nature was the town’s true history, the streets and park barren of fountain spray or sculpture to commemorate word or deed of any meaningful past event. Lewis and Clark had not slept here, nor Sitting Bull, Rutherford B. Hayes, nor Frank Lloyd Wright. After the covered wagons apparently little had happened that was worth public remembrance except a few serious fires and the expulsion, not hanging, of Leo Duffy. But what Easchester lacked in communal memory and imaginativeness, it made up in beauty of natural setting, trees and clouds, cleanliness and quiet. Roses and ivy grew up some of the phone poles; and automobiles by law stopped at street corners when pedestrians crossed. This was civilized. Not since New York had any harried driver called Levin dirty names as he hurriedly crossed the street. There were no harried drivers. The new instructor’s spirit was eased. He did not mind the smallness of the town. Had not Concord been for Thoreau a sufficient miniature of the universe?
But at night remembrance of New York City struck him like a spear hurled across the continent, adding weight to his body and years to his age. He walked with the map of the city underfoot; sometimes he thought of it as a jeweled grave to fall into, or a wound at his side. At night he missed the movement and mystery of people in dark city streets. The anticipation of adventure next block—walk one more and meet your fate among strangers—a bag of thousand-dollar bills dropped at your feet, or a wise and beautiful woman waiting for you at the corner. In Easchester, an hour after supper, although lines of cars were parked tight along the downtown curbs, the streets were weirdly deserted. Sadek and Levin met almost no one unless they entered a beer tavern or movie; these were usually two-thirds empty, more lonely than the streets. Levin had heard that the fraternal lodges were crowded, but at ten P.M., the town, from river to hills, except for a few scattered lights signifying human existence, was dead. Still they wandered, Sadek regretting that “a poor scholarship student” could not afford a car, Levin, who couldn’t drive, not planning to learn. For want of something more exciting to do they walked out into the country; nature, except for the luminous furniture in the sky, hiding in the dark. Peering into the night, Sadek restlessly sniffing, they sought something it never seemed to offer. They were, Levin knew, on the prowl for a woman, who if she miraculously appeared, would run if she saw them—the bug-eyed Syrian who had smelled her out with his conjuror’s nose, and the black-hatted, bearded Levin, unwed instructor, famished for love and willing to marry.
Several days before registration the college students began to arrive in town. Levin, though excited by their coming, was a little afraid of them for their looks and youth, whereas he was old at thirty and knew too much they didn’t. The girls were mildly attractive, often hefty, not many truly pretty ones but the few who were, could make him ache. More could than could not. On Friday night before Registration Week Levin
sat with Sadek in a booth in a tavern they had taken to coming to at the end of the evening. The tavern was barnlike, with a short blunt bar at which a few men with inexpressive faces dawdled. They drank with little talk, or quietly played shuffleboard. It surprised the new instructor how vast yet still the place could be. Most of the students left before eleven except for a married couple or two who sat around till midnight. This night Sadek and Levin were sitting in the rear booth, close to where the waitress stationed herself when she had nothing to do. She was a big-boned girl with a thinly pretty face. Her frame lacked flesh but her legs were good and her small hard breasts tantalized Levin.
She had served beers in a booth up front and was presently leaning against the wall, Sadek engaged in wooing her in a manner that had caused Levin astonishment and embarrassment the night before, when the Syrian had first demonstrated his attack. His method—was
this
the lore of the Levant? —was to turn his face to the girl’s hips, where she was standing at rest, lean forward and address an incantation directly to the confluence of her anatomy. He crooned in an unknown tongue, his sensitive nose not more than a inch from her body. The waitress, after an amazed stare, squirmed, but then found it funny and broken into a nervous giggle, although she blushed when her eye caught Levin’s. When she left to take an order, Sadek, as if his performance were nothing out of the ordinary, pared his nails with a small penknife, unmoved by Levin’s sharp warning to behave. After the girl returned and took up her relaxed position against the wall, he again directed his plaint, or crooning, to her midpart. This occurred once more before they left the tavern. Tonight, as the Syrian repeated the ritual—it took less than thirty seconds and no one but Levin seemed to notice—the girl looked into the far distance but her eyes were tender.