change everything. And huge questions were the only thing she carried inside herself now. What are we doing? What science can explain why it doesn’t help to try to save the world with your own two hands?
She was pulled back into the summer day by the braking of the bus as it reached the university. With small drops of tears dried on the inside of her glasses, in cut-off jeans, grey hoodie and backpack, she raised herself up with the help of her strong right leg. The rings on Vera’s left hand twisted and chafed against the crutch. If someone had noticed her make-up free face, they would have seen rounded features accentuated by bushy eyebrows and protruding ears.
It was the beginning of the second week of the summer course, and they were going to study the classics. She eased herself off the bus with her bandaged left leg, her messy brown braid swaying. She hadn’t understood it, but she had followed her dying antenna just the same and was now on her way towards the unknown.
Because this – the world as it is – surely this can’t be the best we can do?
3
Peter didn’t know what it was down to. Was it the summer day, calling to him to throw down the chalk and go to the beach? Was it Sandra’s distracting glances and embarrassingly flirty comments during the break? Or maybe the lecture wasn’t going too well because of that grey girl on crutches and her irritating questions. It was true that he hadn’t been teaching very long, but even so. He had never even heard of anyone questioning The Wealth of Nations before!
He had just explained Adam Smith’s classic theory about the Invisible Hand – how acting in one’s own interest actually promoted the common interest – when she started in. She was already asking the question as she raised her hand.
‘Why did Smith think that?’
Peter said something about England in the 1700s and how industrialization increased the speed of exploitation, which suddenly created great prosperity.
‘What great prosperity?’
A few people in the class giggled, but the grey girl with the crutches just waited for an answer. He had never seen anything like it: an inconspicuous person who boldly maintained eye contact for so long. It was as if she had a firm sense of self that was completely independent of what he thought of her or how she looked. She waited to hear what he would say, and he looked away with an unpleasant feeling of responsibility.
Before his first lecture, Professor Överlind had given him some advice about what to do if he got a question he couldn’t answer. ‘Just say, “I don’t know but I can find out and let you know during the next lecture if you want”.’ Professor Sturesson added, ‘Say, “you find out and tell us next time,” and then they’ll stop asking such questions!’
And that worked fine, as long as the student asked about the size of Peru’s GDP last year. Not even a university teacher could be a walking encyclopedia.
But the girl on crutches wanted something else. After his short capitulation, Peter looked up again. Her dark blue gaze passed through her irritatingly smudged glasses and forced its way right into his skull. She demanded that he understand what he was talking about. Peter was struck by a naked feeling that he didn’t.
Fortunately, endless hours hanging out in bars had taught him what to do if a girl asked an uncomfortable question. Deflect with a counter-question, preferably a charming one that got the girl talking about herself.
‘What do you mean?’ he managed to say. Maybe not the smartest riposte, but at least it was something.
‘Prosperity measured in terms of return on investment or how many people’s basic needs are met or what? What did Adam Smith mean?’ was her immediate response, and her gaze remained stubbornly focused on Peter’s.
The silence became embarrassing. The girl with crutches shifted in her seat. ‘How about I phrase it like this, instead: what is all this based on?’ She pointed at the book in front of her. Her voice was soft, but her eyes were unrelentingly penetrating. ‘Why is this a good idea?’
Are her eyes blue? Can she even see through those dirty glasses? Peter said something half coherent about how profit is presumably necessary in order to meet human needs, but that the pioneering economist from the 1700s perhaps wasn’t so precise on that point.
Sandra looked up from her French manicure, a shadow of worry on her attractive face. ‘Will this be in the test?’
Peter noticed the look that the girl with crutches gave Sandra. Fortunately the lecture was over – time was up. He wondered if she had done it on purpose when one of the crutches slid into the aisle just as Sandra passed. She tripped, and – damn! – succeeded in showing a little too much of the tattoo on her lower back.
Afterwards, Peter and Cissi Åström went for coffee. Cissi was the only one in the department on this fantastic summer day. She glanced at him. A critical observer might have seen a thoughtless youth with cocky posture and a slightly crooked mouth suggesting unreliability. But, like most people, Cissi only saw 184 centimeters of effortless beauty under his sun-bleached surfer hair.
‘Debriefing?’ The question came immediately. Apparently he was giving off stress vibes, and maybe Cissi remembered how a group of demanding students could annihilate you. Half numb, Peter followed his red-haired colleague.
‘Was it her, that Sandra?’ Cissi asked, smiling knowingly as they sat down at the table. Peter stiffened uncomfortably.
‘Do you know what she said to me? “I don’t have time for the test, because I have to write my blog!” Apparently she has thousands of readers just waiting to hear her creative twist on the fashion of the day, so I need to understand that she can’t prioritize a take-home test for one measly reader!’ Cissi snorted. ‘I mean, sure, I’m the first to agree that fashion is fun, but I wonder why some people even go to college!’
Peter was silent. He knew that starting an intimate relationship with a student was against the rules. It didn’t seem like a big deal if Sandra turned out to be uninterested in her summer class. It wouldn’t be the first time; girls often took circuitous routes to get close to Peter.
He wondered if Cissi had noticed anything, if this seemingly well-meaning pep talk was actually an effort to get him to admit, and end, his little adventure with the class’s curvaceous blonde.
‘But I’m only guessing! How did it go today?’ Cissi looked at him with interest.
‘Not so well. I was going to bike to the lake and swim, but I feel completely wiped out.’
Cissi supported her chin with her hand, and Peter saw that she thought she understood exactly what he meant.
‘It’s a strange feeling to stand in front of people your own age who are gawping like baby birds.’ She changed her voice, mimicking something Peter sensed was still Sandra. ‘Feed me knowledge! Give me my credits so I can get my grant! But, by the way, I only have time to study three hours a week!’
Peter looked out of the window at the fine summer weather. It didn’t really matter; a career in academia was nothing he had ever considered. He felt sorry for the poor bastards who spent their lives trying to get people to understand economics. He had only accepted the department’s job offer because Lennart was going to force him to spend his summer doing currency hedging and other administrative crap.
His
