The Executor Part 4

"I see."

"I'm taking some time to rethink. I mean, I'll get back to it soon."

"Of course ... May I ask what it concerned, formerly?"

"Everything," I said, "and therefore nothing."

She smiled.

"It started out all right," I said. "It's just that it's gotten a little overgrown."

"How much so?"

"In its current incarnation, it runs about eight hundred pages. I know," I said, "it's a disaster."

"There is nothing wrong with writing a long book, provided one has much to say."

"Right. But I don't." I paused. "It's actually a form of writer's block."

She nodded faintly. "And your professors? Have they given you no guidance?"

"I can't blame anyone else. It's my fault for letting it get to this point."

"Take heart. You are a bright young man."

"Tell that to my advisor. Or as she likes to call herself, my 'so-called advisor."'

"This seems to me no point of pride. If one is an advisor, one ought to advise."

"She wasn't my advisor originally. The man I used to work with was actually very good to me."

She raised an eyebrow.

"He had a stroke," I said.

"Oh," she said. "Pity."

"Yes, well, I think I gave it to him. Anyway, with Linda, it's never been a happy marriage. She used to try to convince me that I'd be better off in another department."

"Which one?"

"I don't think it matters, as long as it's not hers."

"How perfectly awful."

"I'm sure from her perspective it was totally justified. But no, she wasn't very nice about it. She's not a very nice person."

"She sounds dreadful."

"No argument here."

"I should very much like to break her leg."

"That seems redundant, considering that she's paraplegic."

"Ah," she said. "In that case, I ought better to break her arm instead."

I smiled.

"You did have a topic, once upon a time."

I nodded. "Free will."

She cried delightedly, clapped her hands. "Mr. Geist. I must ask you to wait."

She slipped down the darkened hallway leading toward the back of the house, returning shortly with a slim leatherbound book.

"My own modest efforts," she said, handing it to me.

I rendered the t.i.tle page from the German: An A Priori Defense of Ontological Free Will. An A Priori Defense of Ontological Free Will. Below Alma's name it was noted that this doc.u.ment was in partial fulfillment of the doctorate, Department of Philosophy, the University of Freiburg, 23 Marz 1955. Below Alma's name it was noted that this doc.u.ment was in partial fulfillment of the doctorate, Department of Philosophy, the University of Freiburg, 23 Marz 1955.

"Alas, it was never submitted. Except for a few bibliographical notes, however, it is complete."

Even had I possessed the skill to translate it on the spot, I would have felt out of order doing so. "It looks fascinating."

"Bah. You flatter an old lady."

"I'd love to read it."

"Well, perhaps one day you shall get your wish." She smiled and held out her hand. I gave the book back to her, and she set it down on the sofa beside her.

"May I ask why it was never submitted?"

"You may ask," she said. "However, I shall not answer."

"My apologies."

"That is unnecessary, Mr. Geist. Let it suffice for me to remark that you are not the first student to have difficulties with an advisor. Now. Let us talk about free will."

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, my knocks went unanswered. I tried to look through the front window, but the curtains were still drawn. I worried. Had I offended her with my nosiness? She hadn't specified the nature of her "condition," and my imagination immediately fixed on calamity: she was lying helpless on the living-room floor, her heart exploded, her hand stretched toward the door, feet scrabbling against the bare wood. The image made my own heart squeeze. I began to pound and call her name, then hurried around to the driveway, where four wooden steps led up to a side door. Through its small window I could make out the darkened interior of a service porch. All other windows within reach were shuttered. I pounded some more, then walked down the driveway toward the garage and backyard. Snow had softened the hedges, fles.h.i.+ng out the bare bones of a quince tree. I climbed onto the back porch, which was outfitted with a pair of rattan chairs, and knocked there.

Nothing.

I wondered if I ought to call 911. Then I remembered that I didn't have a working phone. I returned to the street and went up and down the block, ringing doorbells. n.o.body was home. Of course not; it was three o'clock on a Wednesday; people had jobs. Standing on the sidewalk, s.h.i.+fting to keep warm, I reasoned with myself. The house was wide and deep and high, and if she was upstairs, napping, buried under blankets, she might not have heard me. To rouse the neighbors-to call for an ambulance-to batter down the front door-only to have Alma emerge in her nightgown ... Surely I was overreacting. Aside from which, who did I think I was? I'd known her for two days.

I walked the mile back to the Science Center pay phones and dug out her number. The voice that came on the line was so weak that at first I thought I'd misdialed.

"I apologize," she said. "I am not quite myself today."

"Do you need a doctor?"

"No, no. Please. I am fine."

She didn't sound fine. But-again-I hardly knew her, and I didn't want to badger her. I asked if there was anything I could do.

"No, thank you. I must rest."

"Should I come tomorrow?"

"Please do. Thank you, Mr. Geist. You are too kind."

[image]

SHE WAS WAITING in the doorway the next day when I arrived. "I must apologize again. I ought to have warned you that such a thing could happen. Unfortunately, my attacks are impossible to predict."

I kicked the snow from my shoes. "As long as you're okay."

"Yes, thank you. Although painful, they are not dangerous."

I nodded. I wanted to ask what the problem was, but it seemed overly familiar. Whatever had happened, she appeared to have recovered fully. I followed her into the living room and took my appointed seat.

"Naturally, I shall pay you for your time."

I scoffed. "I was here five, ten minutes, at most."

"That isn't valuable to you?"

"It's no big deal."

"Well, regardless, I have devised a system that ought to spare you future worry. If I am feeling well, I shall turn on the porch light at a quarter to three. If I am unwell, then the light will be off, as it normally is. At a glance you shall know."

"That's clever."

"Yes, I thought so." She smiled. "Let it not be said that I am not resourceful. Now, let us proceed to more important matters."

LOOKING BACK, I can appreciate how quickly we fell into a routine. I would come over every day at three o'clock. Finding the light on (as I did most of the time), I would knock and be admitted to the living room, where my tea would be waiting, prepared in exactly the right way. For two hours we would talk without pause, at which point she would utter her closing phrase: "For today let us table the debate." The for today for today part was what kept me going, because it rea.s.sured me that the conversation hadn't ended, would continue tomorrow-and possibly forever. part was what kept me going, because it rea.s.sured me that the conversation hadn't ended, would continue tomorrow-and possibly forever.

I could have made better money tutoring. Plenty of people I knew charged two hundred dollars an hour tutoring the SAT. I didn't care. I might not get rich talking to Alma Spielmann, but to me it was the perfect job: straightforward, bracing, dignified. As I rode the elevator up to Drew's apartment, pa.s.sed through his revolting kitchen, and sat on the pitted sofabed, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I would soon be able to afford my own room. a.s.suming Alma kept me on. I had to hope she did, as the alternatives were unthinkable.

A THOUSAND DOLLARS doesn't go terribly far in Cambridge. I could have found my own place in Roxbury or Southie, but I was reluctant to move across the river. Too far from Harvard-geographically and symbolically-and whatever I saved on rent, I'd lose in time spent getting to and from Alma's. In a moment of weakness I flirted with asking Yasmina to take me back. I had a job now, sort of, which would impress her. Sitting at Drew's desk, I went so far as to dial the first three numbers of her cell. That made me think about my own useless cell, which in turn revived my anger and pride. I put down the phone and went back to the computer to search the listings.

The apartment in Davis Square had looked decent enough, the Tufts seniors who occupied it a pleasant bonus. Their names were Jessica, Dorothy, and Kelly. All three were Asian-American and under five-foot-two. I expected them to slam the door in my face when they saw me, but they seemed unfazed, giggling to one another as they showed me the empty room. Its walls were off-white, thin enough to put my fist through. It looked out on the loading dock of the neighborhood CVS. There were foam ceiling tiles but no overhead light. One of the girls offered me her spare halogen. I asked when I could move in. They appeared relieved. With the rent coming due, they were happy to have found a replacement for their last roommate. They neglected to mention why he'd left, and in my haste, I neglected to ask.

Soon enough I got my comeuppance. Jessica, Dorothy, and Kelly looked benign, and for the most part they were. Two (I forget which) were pre-med, and one was studying to become an actuary. They kept the bathroom cleaner than I had the right to expect. They asked courteous questions about my work, responding with girlish squeals when I described Alma. On the phone, they spoke to their parents in Korean or Vietnamese. Elfin, blithe, b.u.t.ton-cute, they might have been summer camp counselors, save for the transformation that took place at dusk, when all three turned into braying nymphomaniacs.

I'm big. But the men they brought home were positively grotesque. They looked like Belgian Blue cattle. If I ran into one in the hallway I'd have to press myself up against the wall to allow him by. They doused themselves in Gold Bond; they urinated all over the toilet seat; they paraded around shamelessly in ratty boxer-briefs flecked with dried s.e.m.e.n. One such behemoth, coming out of the bathroom to find me waiting in my bathrobe, shower caddy in hand, whispered, snickering, "d.a.m.n, bro. Talk about a screamer screamer."

"Excuse me," I said.

In daylight, the girls seemed so wholesome. What did they say during those conversations in Vietnamese and Korean? Dearest mother and father, I wish you to know that I crave a limitless supply of linebacker p.e.n.i.s? Dearest mother and father, I wish you to know that I crave a limitless supply of linebacker p.e.n.i.s? Already I'd paid a full month's rent, making it impossible for me to move out without either returning to Drew's or asking Alma for an advance-options foreclosed by both etiquette and common sense. Already I'd paid a full month's rent, making it impossible for me to move out without either returning to Drew's or asking Alma for an advance-options foreclosed by both etiquette and common sense.

So instead I lay in my newly rented room, on my newly purchased air mattress, gripping my newly purchased cotton jersey sheets, stomach roiling as I listened to the ear-splitting animal pa.s.sion of my newly acquired roommates. What sleep I did get was unsatisfying, punctuated as it was by episodes of heart-stopping wakefulness when Jessica or Dorothy or Kelly found her joy. I tried earplugs, but the sensation unnerved me; it was like trying to fall asleep while drowning. Worse, once knowledge of what was happening a mere ten feet away had taken root in my brain, I started hearing their moans all the time, even when I knew the apartment to be unoccupied. Nightly the wail of bedsprings started up, and I prayed to the half-head on my windowsill for reprieve. What would Friedrich do?

Alma asked if I was ill.

"I don't wish to pry," she said.

No doubt ill ill was her polite way of saying that I looked like road-kill. I hadn't had a decent night's sleep in three weeks. I was exhausted, my concentration slipping. And that morning I felt acutely uncomfortable in her presence, owing to a nightmare still steaming at the back of my mind. was her polite way of saying that I looked like road-kill. I hadn't had a decent night's sleep in three weeks. I was exhausted, my concentration slipping. And that morning I felt acutely uncomfortable in her presence, owing to a nightmare still steaming at the back of my mind.

It took place in the main reading room at Widener. Across from me sat a smiling Alma. What shall we talk about today, Mr. Geist? What shall we talk about today, Mr. Geist?

I told her that I had come unprepared.

Ach, she said. In that case, let us table the debate. In that case, let us table the debate.

She took off her clothes and we began to make love.

The strangest part was that while her face looked the same, her body was that of a young woman. More precisely, I should say that she, her dream-presence, seemed to drift back and forth between old age and youth: skin going slack, then tight; strength surging and receding. Her perfume, which normally I thought of as matronly, now carried a raw, musky undertone. She began to moan, softly at first, then growing louder and louder, and making things shake, and bringing books cras.h.i.+ng down from the shelves, and chairs rattling, and the entire room spinning, picking up momentum, bulging at the walls, spinning, spinning like a centrifuge until in one mind-cleaving instant it broke apart, flinging wood and paper and flesh off into the infinite emptiness, which echoed with her screams.

Now, sitting with the real Alma, I struggled to suppress that image.

I said only that my new roommates weren't ideal, and that I was looking for another apartment. She nodded, and that seemed to end the matter.

A week later, however, she asked how my search was coming. I told her there was a shortage of vacancies. "Maybe I'll have better luck when the semester ends."

"That seems a long time to live in discomfort."

"I don't really have a choice."

"One always has a choice," she said. "If I may? Allow me to propose a solution."

"I'm all ears."

"Live here."

"Beg pardon?"