The Faculty Club: A Novel (7 page)

"The Nazis raided the laboratory and walked right by the beaker, God knows how many times, over the years. When the war was over, de Hevesy returned to Denmark and found the beaker untouched. He distilled the gold, and in 1952, the Nobel committee presented Professor Franck with a new medal."

He paused and smiled at me kindly.

"That's amazing," I said. "How did you find the beaker?"

"I purchased it at an auction in Copenhagen. I had to have it. What a magic trick! Good dissolves itself, passes right through
evil, and reforms on the other side. Flawless. Come. I don't want you to be late."

Late for what?

We walked through a door behind his desk, into a dimly lit room. All at once I smelled a clean, pungent, hollow smell. The first thing I noticed was the strange chandelier hanging above me, and in a moment of revulsion I realized that its twisting, interlocking shapes were bones, tied and fixed together. It swayed gently as fresher air breezed in from the study. Candles rose from the empty sockets, spilling wax over the bones and illuminating the room with a dull amber glow. The shadows flickered and revealed other shapes in the room: above me, cloaked angels made from skeletons were suspended from the ceiling, giving the impression of flight; bony wings butterflied out from their spines. The walls and ceiling were covered with hideous designs: lines and circles of leg bones, wrists, vertebrae. Then I saw the worst thing of all--a fireplace composed entirely of hundreds of skulls, stacked into a macabre mantel.

"It's a reproduction," he said from behind me. "The Capuchin Crypt, in Rome, under the church of Santa Maria della Concezione."

"What is it?"

"An underground tomb, decorated with the remains of four thousand monks who died between 1500 and 1870. Five rooms, all filled with bones. And when you leave, they hit you with the kicker."

He pointed to the far wall, where a sign was illuminated over a row of skulls. It read:

What you are now,

we once were.

What we are now,

you will be.

"Anytime I start taking life for granted, I come sit in here for a while."

"Oh," I mumbled. I wondered how any sane person could sit in here without being chained down.

"Come," he said.

He placed his hand on my back and led me into a long hallway. On both walls, I saw tall glass cases filled with knives, rifles, swords, spears, clubs, maces, crossbows, tomahawks, battle-axes--all mounted to the wall and illuminated with bright lights.

"What's the story here?" I asked.

"No story," he said pleasantly. "I just like weapons."

We came to the end of the hallway. He turned to me, and there was a black cloth in his hands.

"I need to ask your permission to blindfold you."

"Really?" All of a sudden, Miles's goat seemed a few steps closer to being a frightening possibility. "Are you serious?"

He half-shrugged.

"I'm afraid so, if you'd like to go further."

Something told me he wasn't kidding.

Well, I thought, I've come this far.

I nodded.

He moved behind me, and the world went black.

I was suddenly aware of my other senses. I heard the dragging of a heavy door and felt a draft of air.

"One or two steps more," he said quietly.

There was a jolt, and we were moving briskly down in what felt like a prehistoric elevator, the kind with accordion doors. I had no idea how quickly we were going, but the temperature was dropping fast.

When the door opened, cold, wet air hit my face. He led me forward. The ground suddenly felt rough and uneven.

"Stay to your left," he said. "In fact, keep one hand on the wall if you don't mind." He walked directly behind me and kept a hand on my shoulder.

We walked in silence. The air smelled clean and crisp, like limestone and salt. I couldn't tell if we were in a small tunnel or a large chamber, but somehow--I have no idea why--I believed that to my right was an abrupt drop.

My fingers ran over something slimy and warm.

Five hours ago, I was in the library briefing cases like a good law student. Now I was blindfolded underground with a man who collects acid.

As if he sensed my thoughts, the man--call him Mr. Bones--whispered, "Please, just humor me a little longer. You have nothing to fear."

"You don't hear that all the time," I whispered. I was starting to feel a little crazy in the dark.

"I'm sorry?"

" 'You have nothing to fear.' You don't hear that much. The guy at Starbucks doesn't say 'You have nothing to fear.' Someone says that, it's usually a bad sign."

He slapped me on the back like we were old college buddies.

"
There's
that sense of humor I heard about. Relax. I wouldn't bring you here if you didn't deserve it."

Deserve
what,
exactly--the Ivy League version of
Deliverance
?

We finally came to a stop. I realized they did their job well. If I happened to be the unlucky reject who didn't make the cut, I'd have no idea how to get back here--whatever here
was
.

I heard a heavy grinding sound, and then a door opening.

My blindfold was yanked away and my eyes were overwhelmed by a blast of golden light. It was too bright, too fast. I couldn't see a thing. Rough hands shoved me forward. I reached out, trying to keep my balance. That's when I heard the door behind me slam shut and lock.

The world came into focus and I found myself in a ballroom, lined on all sides with elegant mirrored walls that made the room seem infinite. Golden chandeliers flooded the room with a warm radiance. I heard music.

The room was filled with men in tuxedos and women in black dresses. I was in a far corner, away from the crowd. I scanned the hall and didn't see Nigel, Daphne, or John anywhere. In fact, I didn't see a single person I recognized. I turned around and there was no door behind me, only a tall panel between two long mirrors. I pressed on it, and of course it didn't budge.

Did I mention I hate parties? Luckily, I had a flash of a memory, something from middle school that gave me hope. I'd taken my friend Vivek to my church's end-of-summer roller skating party. Vivek was the only Indian kid in our town. His house had statues of human elephants and four-armed women who appeared regularly in my dreams. About halfway through the party, the youth pastor asked us to sit at the far end of the rink. He skated up. "Is everyone having a good time?" he asked. We all said yes. "Let me ask you a question," he said. "Does everyone here know for sure that they're going to Heaven?" Again, we all nodded. But the pastor looked puzzled. "Well, my question for you is, how do
you
know
? Let's try something else," he said. "Raise your hand if you've accepted Jesus Christ into your heart."

We all put our hands up. Everyone except Vivek. For a second, I watched him look blankly from person to person. Everyone was staring at him. His hand wavered, and then it went up too.

I'm not a particularly brave person. My school was small, and you were either in or you were out. And when you were out, you were really out.

But something about the whole situation rubbed me the wrong way. So, I put my hand down. I looked at Vivek, and after a moment, his hand came back down too.

I figured if God wanted to know what was in my heart, he could just look.

Now I
was
Vivek, in this vast room of strangers of a very different religion. I just hoped some of the karma from that day might swing back around tonight.

I was filled with a sudden sense of liberation. I started thinking of all the things I would do when tonight was over. I thought about that girl I met in the middle of the night and walked home, the one who spilled her oranges everywhere. I figured I might just march right up to her door, ring the doorbell, and ask her out. So what if she'd already turned me down? She was distraught. She thought I was judging her. She was judging herself. I wanted to tell her to lighten up, let it go, come have a slice of pizza and be a normal twenty-five-year-old for once. I mean, does everyone here have to take themselves so damn
seriously
? Is that what we get out of this school--the belief that everything we do is a matter of national importance? If that's the case, I thought, it's going to be hard to ever have fun again.

I looked at myself in the mirror, straightened my tie, checked my teeth, and marched into the crowd.

* * *

Halfway through my second drink, I bumped into a walrus of a man, complete with a comically curled mustache. His tuxedo shirt strained at the buttons, and his woolly hair was parted on the left and traveled away from his cowlick in two heavily gelled waves. I don't know if I walked into him or he walked into me; more likely, the crowd surged us together, until there was no choice but to say something. I would've been okay with "Excuse me," but he raised a plate and showed me a half-devoured piece of cake.

"I shouldn't be eating this," he confided.

"Why not?"

"Just had a quadro six months ago. Know what a quadro is?"

"Not really."

"Quadruple bypass. Fucking doctors cracked my chest wide open. Got a scar from here to here. Nasty. Wife says I look like Frankenstein."

Frankenstein on an all-brownie diet, maybe.

"Know the old saying 'Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse'?"

"Sure. Like James Dean."

"Right-o. My motto is, 'Live fast, see your cardiologist, and leave a fat old corpse!'"

He gave a wheezy, disturbing laugh that involved his hands and shoulders. He mopped the walrus mustache with a handkerchief.

"Beautiful ceremony, no?" he asked, mouth full of cake.

Ceremony? What was he talking about?

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Good grief, man, the
wedding
."

What wedding?

I decided to play along, for lack of a better plan.

"Yeah," I said. "It was great." I held out my hand. "Jeremy Davis."

"Ah. Gordon Perry." He crushed my hand in his meaty palm. "Bride's side or groom's side?"

I gave him a chummy smile.

"Guess," I said.

He scrunched his face up and scrutinized me. "Young. Handsome. Employable. Must be bride's side."

"Right-o," I said.

"Ha! Maybe you can inform my wife I'm not a complete fucking idiot."

Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

"And what do
you
do for a living, Jeremy?" he asked, placing another forkful of cake into his crowded mouth.

"I'm a law student," I said.

"Oh, great.
That's
what this country needs. Another lawyer."

Okay, wait a second. Lawyer-bashing? Walrus men? Was I even at the right party?

"Say," he said, pointing his fork at me. "Know what you call ten thousand lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start!"

He poked my chest with the back of his fork-holding hand and gave the wheezy laugh again, louder this time, his head and shoulders bobbing up and down until his face started to flush.

Suddenly, behind the man I spotted Daphne, across the room in a black dress that dipped just slightly between her breasts. I felt a shock of excitement. Her hair was twisted up over her head, showing off the long, creamy curve of her neck. She was surrounded by a crowd of attentive men and unhappy-looking wives. Her eyes caught mine, and I felt a jolt shoot down my stomach.

Without thinking, I took a step in her direction. It was a bit unsteady--how fast had I polished off those drinks?

A thick walrus hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"Wait, wait. A lawyer and a snake get run over in the middle of the road. How do you tell the difference?"

I pinched my eyes closed for a second, took a deep breath, let it out.

"How?"

"The snake's the one with tire marks in front of him!"

The man got even redder this time. Little beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He dabbed at them with the handkerchief. I started to worry he was going to have another heart attack right here.

I looked back to where Daphne had been, but she was gone. I felt an intense longing for that tan neck, the bright red lips, the blue eyes framed by black hair.

"Myself, I'm in the life insurance game," the walrus was saying. His eyes lit up, like a great idea had just occurred to him. "Say . . ." he said, poking my chest again.

I pointed to my drink.

"Looks like I could use a refill. Very nice meeting you."

I pressed deep into the room, trying to put as much crowd between me and my new friend as possible. Near the bar, I heard a familiar voice. I saw the tall, handsome figure of John Anderson, standing a full head above the crowd. He had his quarterback arms spread, each one around the shoulder of an older, distinguished-looking man.

"Judge Hermann, I found a Raiders fan for you to argue with," he said.

Everyone in their circle laughed, and I felt a surge of envy.
Great,
I thought--
he's chatting with a judge, and I'm trading lawyer jokes with Archie Bunker
.

I decided not to pass through John's view. I set out toward the opposite bar instead. I saw a table where a bride and groom were chatting with guests. Behind them was a band on a small dais, bronze horns and a cocktail singer in full swing.
What the hell were we doing at someone's wedding reception?

A wave of relief spread over me as I spotted Nigel, chatting with a serious-looking older woman in an expensive suit.

"Nigel," I said, a little louder than I meant to. "Hey, Nigel!"

He cast a quick glance at me and said something to the woman. They shook hands, and she handed him a business card from her fancy purse.

He stepped over to me.

"Jeremy," he said brightly, giving me the once-over. "How are you, old chap?" He shook my hand like we hadn't seen each other in years.

"I don't know, Nigel. This party. These people. It's not what I expected."

"I see." He stole a glance around me. A quick one, but long enough for me to catch him.