have read Portrait of the Artist. I mean, after all, how can you claim to understand the twenty-first century if you haven’t read Portrait of the Artist? I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat? Alvin, where’s my drink?”
Professor Peggy O’Neil now had a fleet of tenders; besides Alvin, there were Mel and Bobby, Alex Hamilton, Bertha Bankopf, Merrill Woodsman, the utility socialites Herb and Nancy Grupp, and more were expected, for this was the annual end-of-semester department get-together and cocktail party.
“ . . . I’m starved. Isn’t there anything to
eat? . . .”
Kate Reese entered the room, pausing to look about and get her bearings and then moving toward the galaxy clustered about Peggy O’Neil. Alex Hamilton put his arm around her waist, and she pecked him on the cheek. Pottle Tinker patted her on the shoulder and greeted her: “I’m . . . hrumph . . . happy to see you. I think . . . hrumph . . . you’ve been . . . hrumph . . . avoiding me.” Kendall Turing kissed her on her ear when she turned her head.
Kate was now the party’s cynosure, and Peggy O’Neil was talking largely to herself.
“ . . . and I simply told him, ‘Hillis, you, Geoffrey and Harold live in a dream world. I mean, you don’t know. . . . ‘“
The room was filling rapidly. Guests entered two-by-two, three-by-three, and four-by-four. With each set of arrivals, the decibel level rose perceptibly, a cacophonous cocktail symphony.
“ . . . they deal with the cream of crop. The best students. Is there anything to eat? I’m starved. . . .”
The host, Professor Adam Adam, came to the rescue. To save Professor Peggy O’Neil from the horrors of inanition, he offered her a tray of golden spheres and a bowl of sour cream.
“I just don’t understand why—What’s that?” asked Peggy O’Neil, pausing long enough to notice the proffered provender.
“It’s falafel,” said a dour Professor Adam Adam.
“Fa- what?” inquired Peggy O’Neil.
“Fa-lafel,” said Adam.
“What’s falafel?” asked O’Neil.
“It’s a Mideastern dish. Actually, deep-fried camel dung,” explained Adam.
“Oh!” said a startled Peggy O’Neil. “Oh, you’re kidding.” And she giggled. “Seriously, what is it?”
“Try it, and see if you like it. Take one and dip it in the sour cream.”
Peggy obeyed. “Hm, not bad.” she said. “Not bad at all.” She took another, dipped it, shoved it in her mouth, and continued: “But I want to tell you about my new project. I’m very very excited. . . .”
Isolated in a corner with Bobby, grumbling Mel muttered, “What a pain in the ass. I don’t know why you insisted that we come to this party.”
“You know,” said Bobby, “you really look like hell tonight. What’s wrong? Your hand’s shaking so badly that you’ve slopped your drink. Have a couple more and you’ll settle down. Come on. Why don’t you try to enjoy yourself? Let’s mingle and talk to people. There are Jerry and Bridget.”
Across the room from the Druses, Professor Gerald Gelb was talking earnestly with Assistant Professor Bridget Heiman. When Bobby and Mel edged into the territory staked out by this pair, Gelb, alternately stroking his beard and raking his fingers through his long hair, was saying, “You understand I don’t believe in confrontations, not at all. I’d rather talk to people in private, as it were. A conversation over lunch can do more than all the open meetings in the world. But I think it’s time that someone told Warren the way of the world—the way of our little departmental world, that is. He’s out of touch with reality.”
“So who’d you want to be chair of the department? Waldo Clemens and his goddamn pipe? Or how about Potty Tinker? All we’d ever get out of him is ‘Hrumph, hrumph.’”
“Now, Mel,” conciliated Jerry Gelb, “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Warren. Not a bit of it. I just think we should talk to him about the situation. That’s all. I’m on his side, of course. You know that.”
“ . . . but just wait until you see my article in Critical Inquiry. Alvin, my glass is empty. . . .”
The galaxies in Professor Adam Adam’s living room were rearranging themselves. The cluster of bodies around pulsar Kate Reese was diminishing, the center of gravity shifting toward the constellation formed by Mel, Bobby, Jerry, and Bridget.
Assistant Professor Merrill Woodsman and his companion, Mrs. Bertha Bankopf, joined the growing circle around Bobby and Mel.
“Mrs. Druse,” said Jerry Gelb, “I don’t think you know Merry Woodsman.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Mary,” said Bobby.
“The name is Merrill,” corrected Woodsman firmly, and he limp-wristedly shook hands.
“ . . . Warren? I want to talk to him. . . . some more falafel. . . .”
“And this is Bertha Bankopf,” said Merry, presenting a young woman who looked as though she had carefully planned to be the world’s most stylish schoolteacher: gray flannel suit, white blouse accented by a frilly red bow at the neck, sensible, though feminine, oxfords.
“So happy to meet you,” gushed Bertha. “Of course, I’ve known Mel ever since I came to the university, and I’ve wanted to meet his better half.”
“If we could drag you away for a minute, Bertha and I would like to talk to you.” Merry took Bobby’s arm and led her out of the living room and into the bedroom, Bertha following closely.
“Uh, this is a bit delicate,” explained Merry, “but I’m sure you’ll understand. “Word has been passed down from the top at the university that no one is supposed to approach you about . . . uh, you know . . . about funding. It’s being said that you’re President Newburn’s private property, his new Ophir.”
“And,” said Bertha, “we wouldn’t want the president or anyone in the department to know that we’re talking to you about this. . . .”
“About what?” asked Bobby.
“Bertha and I want to conduct a study, an important piece of work. You see, we believe that literature could be very powerful medicine for a sick society. In a nutshell, we want to give inner city delinquents and addicts intensive courses in literature—everything from Chaucer to Ashbery—to see if it will influence their behavior for the better. We need funds to set the project up, to hire teachers, to assemble and analyze our data.”
“For two hundred and fifty thousand, we could get under way,” Bertha interjected.
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