Levin got up. “I wish you luck in the election, Gerald.”
Gilley rose, still flushed. “I suppose I got what I deserve for hiring you, also overlooking the harm you’ve done here, including advising your students to transfer to Gettysburg.”
“Did Bullock tell you that?”
“Never mind who told me. It’s an act of disloyalty to the institution that pays you your salary. If the University gets ahead of us student-wise, they’ll collect most of the budget and we’ll get beans. You’d better cut it out.”
Levin swallowed. “I’ll do what I have to.”
“Then you’d better keep this in mind. If I win the election, and I have a darn good chance to, let me tell you there won’t
be much of a future for you here. And when you leave, don’t bother to ask me for a reference. I have nothing good to say about you.” Picking up his shears he snipped a picture out of a magazine. “No more New Yorkers, goddammit.”
Levin returned to his office. His knees were trembly as he stood at the window, watching his career fly off to a faraway world. Yet the day was serene, the sky blue to the mountains. Not a cloud anywhere but in his head.
A knock on the door. He expected Bucket but Gilley appeared. He had calmed down, though his eyes were still moody.
“Maybe I let myself get a little out of hand,” he said, “though I still honestly think I will do a better job than CD once I am on my own here. Anyway, what I wanted to say is this. I just happened to come across a quotation in
Time
, that gives me a better understanding of the type you are.” He read from a tiny clipping. “It’s by George Santayana and says, ‘Americans are eminently prophets; they apply morals to public affairs; they are impatient and enthusiastic.”’
Levin said, “He also said if you don’t remember the past you were condemned to relive it.” He laughed his broken laugh, and Gilley, once more in a benign ambient, smiled.
“What I thought I would suggest is this,” he said. “Of course I’d still like to have your support—” he was gazing out of the window “—but if you can’t honestly give it to me, at least don’t vote against me.”
But Levin said he couldn’t do that.
Fourteen votes for Fabrikant were no small picnic to arrange, but since four or five were presumably on hand, nine or ten more, according to Bucket, “seemed not impossible.” Levin for some time had had certain hesitations about Fabrikant, including one that really troubled him, but CD was the only candidate other than Gilley who evoked some expression of respect, and since Gerald was almost certainly (inevitably) his enemy now, Levin’s situation in the department, so long
as it lasted; and future, insofar as it depended on recommendations, would do better under someone else as head, if that could be arranged. He urged CD, now that the dean’s notice was out, to carry on a vigorous campaign in the few weeks that remained before Commencement. There had been as yet little serious talk on anyone’s behalf, for although Gerald had begun to sound like a candidate as far back as last September, nobody had felt the matter was especially pressing. CD told Levin that he would do what he could short of aping Gilley buttonholing people in the hall and asking for their votes. For that Levin couldn’t blame him, but he asked for permission to speak to some of their colleagues in CD’s behalf, Bucket to try others. Fabrikant consented. Since Joe felt he would be more comfortable on the second floor, Levin went upstairs among the young instructors, those whom Fabrikant called “the unknown quantities.” He called on them with reluctance because a month of salesmanship had once harrowed him to the core. However he was received with the usual amicability, and was courteously listened to, except by Ferris Farper, who glowered as Levin nervously talked, then said he would never vote for anyone a buttinsky supported. But most of the other men seemed no more than mildly interested in what was going on. Either they hid their interest for reasons of their own, or it was a case of “whoever wins is good enough for me,” equalitarianism at its most desperate. For good or ill no one expressed any fervid loyalty to Gilley; some lowered their voices or sneaked a glance at the door when speaking his name. Levin sensed more dissatisfaction with the director of composition than he had anticipated, although he was aware that any administrator was bound to annoy some people just in existing. Still it was good there was no strong feeling Gerald was a sure thing.
Levin suggested the department was in the doldrums and needed a shove by someone with a few ideas; it astonished him that several of the men wanted to know what was wrong with the way the department was being run. They weren’t kidding.
The instructor was at first irritated; they deserved Gilley. Then, annoyed with his annoyance, he patiently explained what ought to be improved and they nodded and said nothing. He expected hot commitment but would have to get used to commitment withheld. He felt heavy-handed and big-booted among them, shaken by their blandness and reticence. Yet gently pinned down, they agreed the better the leader, the better the department. CD, they admitted, had merit as a candidate. He had in the past, they had heard, pushed faculty benefits. No doubt he would do things Gilley mightn’t care to try. It was rumored CD would give each instructor a lit class to teach and would insist that everyone in the professorial ranks take a comp class. Levin realized he had started the rumor by talking of it as a “possibility.” He hastily denied it was a plank in Fabrikant’s platform. But almost everyone complained Fabrikant was not very sociable. He never went to anyone’s house and invited no one to his; he never appeared in the coffee room; he practically lived in his office. “How the hell am I supposed to vote for him,” Scowers said, “if I’m not even sure what he looks like?” Fitznogle remarked, “I have a hunch he might be stubborn in close quarters with anybody who didn’t agree with him. I’d be afraid of that.” And Purtzer said, “Wouldn’t it be better to ask the dean to drop the election and bring a new man in from the outside? I’ve seen these elections before. They leave a lot of bad feeling and are more trouble than they’re worth.”
Levin went again to Fabrikant. “CD, I think it might pay you to talk to some of the men upstairs. I think they’d like to make your acquaintance and hear your ideas about what ought to be changed around here.”
But Fabrikant was not so sure he wanted to visit the third floor. “Let them come down here,” he suggested.
“I suppose you know Gerald’s been up there twice this week?”
“That’s his privilege. I don’t think it’s dignified to knock on
doors and ask the instructors to vote for me. Furthermore, I don’t like the antagonisms this competition arouses.”
“A campaign is a campaign,” Levin said.
“That may be,” CD said uneasily, “but if Gilley wins the election I’ll still have to live with him.”
“Granted, as he will have to with you, if you win.”
“He has his full professorship; I haven’t. He doesn’t need my assistance but I may need his cooperation in the future if the president turns down my promotion. It’s been on his desk long past the usual time,” he said glumly.
“Why would he turn it down?”
“I don’t know but I don’t want to encourage it. Gilley is one of his white-haired boys. They play golf and pinochle together. Things I can’t and won’t do.” He looked unhappy.
Levin nodded.
“However, I’ll see anybody who wants to see me.”
“Fine, I’ll tell them.”
“One by one, please. I hate crowds.”
Levin left him, troubled.
He still vaguely held it against CD that he had not told him his article was half baked. And what’s he hiding from in his office—still the Depression? sex? the frustrations of life? Is he the best possible man around or can we do better? But what most troubled Levin was the old question why CD had dropped the defense of Leo Duffy.
He telephoned Bucket at supper time. “Joe, maybe this is the wrong question right now, but do you have any serious reservations about Fabrikant?”
Bucket laughed self-consciously. “I have reservations about everyone, not excepting myself.”
“Do you think he’d make a better head than Gilley?”
“I would say so.”
“Does he stand a chance to be elected?”
“It seems to me he does.”
“Joe, why don’t you run?” Levin asked. “I bet people would support you.”
The phone was silent for a minute, then Bucket said, “That’s very kind but I don’t care for administrative responsibility.”
Levin said it was just a thought. He had been about to ask if Fabrikant had told him about the picture of Pauline and Duffy, but if Bucket knew, the instructor wanted him to mention it first.
The next morning he found a sealed note in his mailbox, his first written communique from Bucket: “Although I genuinely admire CD in several ways and will unquestionably vote for him, I’d be less than honest not to admit one reservation—his withdrawal of assistance to Leo in the Academic Freedom sub-committee of our AAP. Having said that, I hope you will excuse me from further comment.”
Levin hunted him up after the end of the hour.
“Excuse me, Joe—I hate to ask, but could you give me a little more information?”
Bucket refused. “All I will add is that secrecy in this matter is not merely willful on my part.”
He knows, thought Levin.
“Thanks,” he said. “I think I’ll talk to CD again.”
He had come to a reluctant decision and all day postponed doing something about it although he felt he must. In the late afternoon he knocked on Fabrikant’s office door but he wasn’t in. That evening, as the sun was setting, Levin drove to his farm and came upon the candidate on his horse in the meadow. The brown horse was a big-bodied animal on short legs, and Fabrikant resembled Napoleon with a cigar. Was he planning a new melon patch or a pitched battle? Austerlitz or Waterloo? Defense in front or rear?
Levin waded out to him through the knee-deep grass. The scholar, in a mellow mood, removed his cigar. “Nice of you to come by.” He gestured at the twilit sky.
“So peaceful,” Levin said, and paused, hat in hand.
Fabrikant waited, alert. The horse stirred in the grass.
“You recall,” Levin began, “I once asked you about Mr. Duffy, why you gave up defending him?”
Fabrikant, chewing his cigar, remarked, “I recall.”
Levin cleared his throat. “If you’ll pardon me, CD, why did you?”
“That’s a private matter.”
“Wasn’t it also a public one?”
After a silent minute the instructor said, “I’m not referring to the picture.”
Fabrikant frowned. “What picture do you have in mind?”
“The one Gerald took of his wife.”
The horse moved forward. Fabrikant checked her.
“Did he tell you about that?”
“No. Someone else did—not Bucket.”
The scholar grunted. The horse whinnied. “Whoa, Isobel.”
“Specifically,” Levin said, “what I’d like to know is, was it just the picture that made you change your mind about helping Duffy, or was it something else—or both?”
Fabrikant let out a puff of smoke. A statement followed: “When the photograph was called to my attention I realized there was more to the mess than I had guessed. An ethical problem presented itself which, until then, I had no knowledge of.”
“Did you tell the AAP committee about the picture?”
“I told them I no longer intended to defend Mr. Duffy.”
“That killed the entire defense?”
“More or less.”
“Wasn’t that too an ethical matter? That his rights had been violated and no one did anything about it?”
“It was my opinion that the introduction of that photograph cast a different light on his previous trouble.”
“All the picture showed—didn’t it?—was that they were naked coming out of the water?”
“I wouldn’t care to discuss that.”
“I’m trying to understand what—er—actually happened.”
“It was an indecent business.”
“The picture, or the sex angle?”
“Call it what you will.”
“Er—Did Duffy ever say anything—in explanation?”
“I don’t know. You can ask Gilley.”
“Did you tell Bucket?”
Fabrikant coughed. “He had sympathized with Duffy and asked me to explain my action. I afterwards promised myself I wouldn’t discuss it with anyone again, nor have I until this evening.”
“Excuse me for pursuing this,” Levin said nervously, “but it’s very important. Did Gilley say, when he showed you the picture, that his wife and Duffy were lovers?—that she had conf—admitted that to him?”
“He didn’t say anything. He stopped in my office and handed me the photograph. I took one look and handed it back. There was no further communication on the subject, except his remark later that his wife didn’t know about the picture and he would rather she didn’t.”
Fabrikant turned his horse and Levin had to step back. “I find this discussion unpleasant, Seymour.”