Infidelity (12 page)

‘An indiscretion?'

‘No further comment.'

‘You were a clinical psych?'

‘I was, yes.'

‘That's what half the people here want to do. You should join us for a drink one Friday night. Give us some horror stories.'

‘Well, thanks. I'm not usually here on Fridays – I'm a two-day-a-week unit. Did you know that's what Human Resources call us? Units. But I might take you up on that offer some time.'

15

T
here was a crowd of students in the hallway as I made my way to the lecture theatre where Sarah was scheduled to give her regular Friday lecture.

Until now, she had been reluctant for me to hear her speak, but it was clear these Friday morning lectures were the highlight of her week. This was to be the week for ‘Puss in Boots' and Sarah had warned me she was going to be quoting me. She had thought I might like to be present to ensure justice was done.

‘There'll be no acknowledgement,' she said. ‘This is shameless plagiarism. Think of it as being in lieu of rent.' (Rent? Was that a joke? Had I been missing something?)

I was running early, and just as well. There was a jostle of students in the hallway outside the Safra Theatre, and a sign on the door directing the overflow to a video-linked lecture room nearby
.

Having promised Sarah I'd sit unobtrusively near the back, I found there was no choice – when I entered the large, raked theatre, recently refurbished and bristling with modern fittings, the only vacant seats were in the very back row. I headed for one in the middle of the row and brushed apologetically past several students getting settled in their places, armrests down and notebooks ready. Though I was casually dressed, I had imagined my age would raise the obvious question in the minds of those around me: What's
he
doing here? But I spied a group of older people sitting a few rows in front of me and recalled that Sarah had told me other academics from her department sometimes dropped in on her Friday lectures.

A red light on a wall-mounted camera to my right winked from red to green, and there was a cheerful buzz of expectation, reminiscent of a theatre crowd waiting for the lights to go down – a sensation not remotely reminiscent of any other university lecture I'd ever attended.

On the dot of five past ten, Sarah entered the room to a ripple of applause, as if some of the students were so looking forward to this, they couldn't restrain themselves from acknowledging her arrival. Resplendent in a charcoal grey suit and emerald silk shirt, she strode to the lectern and smiled at the students. ‘Good morning,' she said, relaxed and in complete control. There was an answering murmur of greeting from several students. Most, though, were simply looking expectantly at her.

‘“Puss in Boots” today,' she began, ‘the first in our series on pussies in the literature of children's rhymes and fables.' This had the effect that was clearly intended: a titter ran around the room, mainly from male voices. Sarah gave a theatrical sigh and smiled indulgently. ‘Let's get the innuendo out of the way first, shall we? We've still got to get through “Pussycat, pussycat where have you been?” and “I love little pussy, her coat is so warm”, to say nothing of “The Owl and the Pussycat”. We know that pussy is used as a synonym for female pudenda – sometimes specifically the vagina, sometimes the vulva, sometimes the bush of pubic hair, sometimes the entire package. The Freudians in our midst might be interested to know there's an old slang term “pursy”, referring to rolls of abdominal fat that look like a purse – not hard to see how that might have led to “pussy”, given Freud's thing about the symbolism of purses and handbags. If you're that way inclined, please set it aside for the moment and try to remember that the mighty Sigmund himself once remarked that, sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar. So for this morning's lecture, a pussy is just a pussy – a popular diminutive for cat or kitten among children. Any dissenters?'

Who, then, would have dared?

‘Anyway, the Freudians can have their say in tutorials. Given the social-class implications of today's story, I'll also be terribly interested in what the Marxists might think. I'll have something to say about that at the end of this morning's lecture. Now to the fable itself.'

From having read Sarah's draft paper, I was already familiar with most of what followed, so I had been prepared merely to observe – I hadn't expected to be particularly engaged. Yet her delivery, her timing, her anecdotes, her asides, her jokes were delivered with such panache, I found myself drawn in.

She began by telling the story, straight through, as many of her students would have heard it in childhood, illustrated by the projection of a series of pictures that would have gladdened any child's heart. She followed this by taking us through its multiple versions and translations, demonstrating the influence of cultural context. She amused the students with a satirical account of the life of a typical upper-class Parisian of the seventeenth century who might have been the target for Perrault's version of the tale.

Her treatment of Puss himself was brutal. Her comment to me that Perry might have been her personal Puss – passed off as idle speculation on that Sunday night when I had slept in her guest room for the first time – now seemed to have become the subtext of her lecture. Though the parallels were far from exact, there was enough of a spark in that interpretation to have a lit a fire in Sarah's belly.

‘You see what the creators and refiners of this fable were driving at? Puss portrays himself as being supportive of his master – this cat will go to any lengths to set the miller's son up for life, provide him with a castle, even a new identity. But at what cost? Absolute subservience to Puss. Puss is in control. Puss holds the strings. The so-called master is hostage to Puss's largesse. Think how horrible a fate that would be – to be the prisoner of someone else's apparent generosity to you – to be beholden forever to your benefactor.'

Sarah paused dramatically and looked around the room.

‘Now . . . put yourself in the picture. Take a moment to think about some modern manifestations of the “Puss in Boots” fable. Some modern traps. Some forms of marriage? Yes? Some types of employment – perhaps a job where you hate the work but are locked into the benefits? Yes? You can imagine, can't you, someone who sticks to a spouse they despise because they love the house, or some other perks that go with the spouse's job or the spouse's money? What about being married to the master of a university college, for instance, and living in splendour you couldn't otherwise afford? Or imagine being catapulted into wealth and fame and finding yourself hostage to the cult of celebrity? Okay, I'm going to pause – three minutes – while you jot down some initial thoughts – dot points – that could plau­sibly form the outline of your own contemporary version of the fable. I want you to develop these for your tutorials, but get something down now, while your thoughts are fresh.'

There was a hum of conversation as the students started scribbling, and I watched Sarah searching the rows of bent heads until she spied me. She smiled the same kind of smile that had so captivated me in the Royal Academy just ten weeks earlier. I smiled back, recalling how we had begun this morning together and hoping she might be recalling it too, even in these circumstances.

‘Okay.' She clapped her hands twice and there was absolute silence again. ‘I'll take four questions. Who has a question?'

A forest of hands. They were ready for this. Sarah picked four students and asked them to stand in their places. She heard and answered their questions in turn. The questions were thoughtful and intense, Sarah's responses generous and enlightening, though I wondered if Perry's ears were burning.

She had been keeping a close eye on the wall clock. The lecture was due to end at five to eleven and at eight minutes to, she rounded off her final answer, closed her folder of notes and looked up into the faces of her students.

‘While you're preparing your own scenarios and getting your thoughts together for the next round of tutorials, I have a word of advice – perhaps it's almost a warning – for all you Freudians, Jungians, Marxists, libertarians, feminists, anarchists, atheists, creationists, sceptics and assorted zealots. It's advice that applies to this entire course.'

She looked directly at me and paused, a smile not quite forming on her lips.

‘The word is . . . mystery. The advice is . . . don't kill it. Don't analyse and interpret everything to death. These stories contain some enchanting little mysteries – inconsistencies, ambiguities, fantasies. If we're not careful, we can become so rational about all this – or even so ideological about it – that we lose sight of the fact that there may
be
no answers to some of life's questions. Not every dilemma is capable of resolution. Not every puzzle can be solved. Some of them aren't even puzzles – they are just there, verbal rocks lying around that don't need to be built into a wall at all.

‘That's not to say we can't explore, analyse, interpret to our heart's content. But don't be too ruthless, too dogmatic or too smug. Remember, we found at least three ways of making “Mary, Mary . . .” seem historically plausible. I'll give you another example. After the Easter break, we'll be tackling “The Owl and the Pussycat” and some of you will be scouring the literature for the derivation of that famous runcible spoon the animals used to eat their mince and slices of quince. Let me save you the trouble, so you can devote yourselves to more productive work. “Runcible” was a word made up by Edward Lear, the author of the verse. It was a nonsense word he obviously relished – throughout his oeuvre he attached it to a cat, a goose and a wall as well as a spoon. So when you're puzzling over a mystery, or trying too hard to make sense of
everything
, remember the runcible spoon. It doesn't mean
anything.

‘Okay, that's my warning. Have a pleasant Easter break, those of you I won't be seeing in tutorials before next Wednesday. And that reminds me – if you're serious about plumbing the culture, make sure you get to a couple of Easter church services next week, even if you wouldn't normally darken the door of a church. Listen to those archetypal stories, take a close look at the icons – you might even spot a runcible cross.'

Sarah gathered up her papers, nodded to her audience and strode towards the door, pausing for a moment to acknowledge the wave of applause that had engulfed her.

I was waiting in Sarah's bed, as usual, when she returned from her one o'clock tutorial. As she swept into the bedroom, I complimented her lavishly on her lecture and she laughed with delight. She undressed quickly, throwing her clothes wildly about the room as she shed them, ending with a careless fling of her lace panties onto the pendant light.

‘How did you like my peroration?' she asked, as she slipped into bed beside me and wrapped both arms around my neck. ‘Admit it – you were surprised to hear yourself quoted so accurately. Go on, admit it!'

‘I was surprised to be quoted at all. Surprised and flattered. Of course, I was equally surprised to find you'd come so quickly to my side of the argument.'

She smiled and said nothing.

‘But you were brilliant,' I said. I meant it: it
was
a triumph. ‘Is that what it's like every Friday morning? Packed out? Video link for the overflow?'

‘Mostly, yes. Only for that one lecture each week, though. That's my big scene-setter for the following week's work. Not all those students are taking my course, by the way – some of them aren't even doing arts. They've started coming to the Friday lecture just for the fun of it, presumably – friends might have brought them – I don't know. The dean was very sniffy about providing an extra lecture theatre for the overflow. Anyone would think this was Psych One, she said to me, as if a big class was a sign of flagrant populism and lack of rigour. I had to convince her it could be a valuable marketing exercise for her entire department. Who knows? A few engineers or scientists might decide they could benefit from contact with some deeper truths.'

I planted light kisses on her forehead and nose, and began to stroke her hair, but she ignored me. She had more to say. Knowing I had seen her in full cry had stimulated her, excited her, but not in the way I was hoping for.

‘Tom,' she said, rolling onto her back, ‘remember when I bristled, weeks ago, when you said my work sounded like fun? Can you see why I bristled? Can you?'

‘Of course I can. It is fun for me to listen to you, though, being so engaged with it.'

‘But I need it to be more than fun for you, too.'

‘Well, I understand that it's important work, like any literary analysis . . .'

‘No, but that's the point – it's not just like
any
literary analysis. This material is cultural bedrock. These are the
very first
stories most children hear. They shape their understanding of what a story
is
,
for a start. These stories are the first formal encounters many children have with right and wrong, good and bad, funny, sad, scary, silly. It's their first glimpse of
mystery.
Why wouldn't I think it was important?'

I listened intently to this. I stroked her hair. She still hadn't finished lecturing me. (I was not sure she had taken family lore or children's TV sufficiently into account, but this wasn't the moment to quibble.)