Alison Lurie - The Nowhere City

Katherine typed; “Bert” and “Charlie” recommenced their favorite conversation: the comparison of mechanical and electrical devices. Both of them, and also Dr. Einsam, were amazingly knowledgeable about all sorts of project equipment, from typewriters to high-speed computers. They followed the new models in calculators with the enthusiasm and detailed technical interest of sports-car buffs. They also followed the new models in sports cars; in cameras, boats, and hi-fi components—and, what’s more, in refrigerators, electric blenders, and washing-machines. Last year Dr. Einsam had become so interested in a de luxe Norge washer-dryer that he did a little study of its effects on the attitudes and perception psychology of the user. Dr. Smith was deeply loyal to his red Porsche, Dr. Haraki to his TR-3 and Dr. Einsam to his black Jaguar XK-E.

“Good afternoon; I’m late,” Dr. Einsam announced, as if this were a surprise, sliding in the door. “Sorry, sorry. Katherine, how are you?” Katherine, who had a sinus headache, said she was fine. “What’s new? How’s the space race?”

Dr. Einsam was not referring to international science, but to a purely local if equally intense competition for office and laboratory space in the new Social Sciences building now being erected on campus. The four sub-departments of Social Sciences (Clinical and Experimental Psychology, Anthropology, and Sociology) each wanted a large share of the available area, and so did every faculty member. The problem was, of course, in the hands of a committee, which had already drawn up a series of conflicting floor plans. The question for the Project on Perception and Delinquency was what sub-department to line up with—whether Soc. or Experimental Psych, was more powerful and would give them more and better space in return for the prestige and graduate fellowships that went with any large project. But in playing off the committee members against each other they might end up with no space at all.

“I talked to Jekyll today,” Dr. Smith said. “He was a little withdrawn, but I think he’d like to have us up on the third floor with the other Psych. labs, on the south side.”

“Jekyll is a good guy,” Dr. Haraki remarked. “He projects hostility sometimes, but basically he’s a good guy.”

“The way I brought it up was,” Dr. Smith continued, “I dropped in after lunch, just casually ... Katherine had heard the story before, and stopped listening, but Dr. Einsam sat silent, attentive. He looked lean and dark and foreign and secretive. Unlike Dr. Smith and Dr. Haraki, who were always telling each other about their wives and children, he never said anything about his private life. According to the girls in the Social Sciences office, he was actually married to, though separated from, a beautiful Hollywood starlet.

Obviously he thought very well of his own appearance, too, sitting there in his very English tweed jacket and those ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses, smiling and stroking his pointed beard as if it were a pet dog. Really, Dr. Smith and Dr. Haraki had much more pleasant faces. The trouble with them was that they were both overweight: Dr. Smith bulkily fleshy, and Dr. Haraki round and soft, like a Japanese boy doll. As Dr. Einsam occasionally told them, they ate too much.

“Okay,” he said finally, as if he had been waiting for them. “Let’s get to work.”

Katherine brought her sharpened pencil into juxtaposition with a clean page of her stenographic pad, and the meeting began.

The hands of the clock had moved round to four by the time it was over. Dr. Smith and Dr. Haraki had left the project office, and Dr. Einsam sat reading a summary of several articles on juvenile delinquency among immigrant groups which he had dictated to Katherine two days before. He frowned as he tossed the pages over, and pinched his dark beard, as if the dog had misbehaved.

“Look, Katherine. You’ve got this all wrong. It should be ‘Nisei’ here. Not ‘Isei.’ And this word here is ‘Sanisei,’ not ‘Sansi.’” He flapped the report at Katherine, beckoning her to come and see.

Katherine moved her chair a minimum distance. “I can change it,” she said, uncomfortably aware of being at fault. These unprofessional errors were the result of her aversion to Dr. Einsam. Had she been typing the report for anyone else, she would have taken the trouble to ask them about any word she didn’t understand, or looked it up in the dictionary. “I’m sorry, Dr. Einsam,” she added stiffly.

“Iz.”

She did not repeat either name. “The trouble is, those terms are rather confusing.”

“No, it’s easy. Look.” Dr. Einsam turned the paper over and wrote on the back in his spiky European scrawl: Isei, Nisei, Sanisei. “Now. The Isei are those Japanese-Americans who were born abroad, and emigrated to this country. Like me. I would be an Isei if I were Japanese. Nisei: those are their children; second-generation Americans. Charlie Haraki is a Nisei; his parents both came here from Japan before he was born. The Sanisei are the third generation; for example Bert. His parents were born here, but his grandparents came from Europe. Now you understand.” He turned his head to look at Katherine, so near that she could see the separate shaved hairs growing out at the edge of his beard.

“I think so, yes,” she said, moving her chair slightly away along the floor.

“Good. Okay, which would you be?”

“None of them. I mean, I’m afraid I don’t qualify,” Katherine said, rather superciliously. “My parents and grandparents were all born in America. My great-grandparents too. Our family’s been here quite a long time.”

“Is that so? A real Daughter of the American Revolution.” A current of hostility passed between the two citizens of the United States.

“Come back here,” Dr. Einsam ordered. “Let’s go over this.” He waited for Katherine to move her chair towards the desk. She did not do so, but merely sat on the extreme edge of it and leaned forward. “You can’t see from there.”

“I can see perfectly well, thank you,” Katherine replied chillily.

“Come on,” he insisted. “Don’t be so defensive. I’m not going to rape you.” Bending towards Katherine, he took hold of the near leg of her chair and dragged it across the floor towards him. “There. Now, look here. ‘The Isei group ... Katherine followed his pen along the page; afraid to cause a further scene by moving her chair again, but insulted and furious.

“So okay,” Dr. Einsam said finally. He shoved the pages along the table towards Katherine. “Can you type that up now?”

Katherine hesitated before she answered. Five pages, and since Dr. Einsam had written on all of them with his ballpoint pen, she would have to do the whole thing over. “I suppose so,” she said, resting her headache on her hand.

“If you can’t do it, say so. I’d like to have this before tomorrow, but it actually doesn’t matter.” Tomorrow was Saturday; he had no reason to want anything then. “There’s nothing at stake.” Katherine looked at Dr. Einsam; she did not agree. She did not like being in the wrong, and badly wanted to put him back there where he belonged.

“Oh, I can do it,” she said. “I can take a later bus home.”

“I tell you what. You type this for me, and I’ll drive you home. That way you won’t have to worry about the bus.”

“But I don’t live anywhere near the campus. I have to go to Mar Vista.”

“So? You type it. Okay?”

“All right.”

The descending sun had just reached the tops of the trees; in the speckled golden light the little colored stucco houses looked more unreal than ever.

“Here you are.” Dr. Einsam pulled up sharply in front of Katherine’s walk. “Not bad.” She did not know whether he meant the house or their breakneck drive to it in his open car; in either case, she disagreed. She took her hands down from her head, where she had been futilely clutching her hair against the whipping wind, and tried to catch her breath. Dr. Einsam was the most dangerous motor-vehicle operator she had ever ridden with. She had managed, just barely, not to protest or cry out at the perilous way he drove, several times endangering both himself and others.