Ethan Canin - A Doubter's Almanac

Then, as he stood there trying to shake the feeling, he suddenly understood the obvious: that they hated him, too, just as savagely. Faces emerged from the book-cluttered background. Small-time tyrants and shameless throne coveters. Second-rate strivers: every single one of them. And all of them out to destroy him. The conviction gathered strength. Out of his mouth came “Vile looks won’t stop me.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re all nothing. A fancy fucking table of nothing.”

Someone laughed aloud. Then the room went silent. The windows shot another flicker of color.

“Let’s try to ignore that,” said Hay. “Please, everyone.”

“It’s exactly what I was talking about,” said a voice.

“Look, Andret,” Hay said, “I’ll keep it specific. What are you working on now? Can you tell the committee?”

Andret turned his eyes to the carpet again. The premonition receded. He blinked. “Abendroth’s last conjecture. You know what I’m working on, Knudson.”

“I’m asking for the sake of the committee. There was some question about it. And how far are you from a solution?”

“That’s an ignorant question.”

“He’s right,” someone said.

“I mean, in your rough estimation.” Hay chuckled as though he were enjoying the exchange. He opened his hands. “Milo — what we discussed right here, a couple of days ago. How far are you from a proof?”

Andret looked up again. The room remained the room. But now there were adjustments in the faces. Nods. Turnings. The details less decipherable. He began to think that perhaps he was standing before friend and not foe. It was possible that he’d misjudged. Enrico Petti, a geometer, appeared to be the one who’d laughed, then spoken up in his defense. Riney Burtsfield shot his gaze around angrily, but his malice was obviously directed at Hay. Raul Shortkopf, one of the department’s minor despots, tapped his nanoid fingers clumsily as he performed a compulsive computation. Hay himself continued to smile.

“Roughly,” Hay said again. “Tell us what you think roughly, Professor Andret.”

“A year,” he responded. Then, “Maybe two.”

Someone whistled.

“Thank you,” Hay said. “That’s the information we needed. We appreciate your time.”

A hand on his elbow. He was being guided out. At the threshold, it released him. In the hallway, hidden from the others, he covered his eyes. When he uncovered them, the world was again unremarkable. The dark floor. The overpinned corkboard. He took a step. The pearled window of the mail room. He realized that Hay was still there behind him. When he turned, his chairman leaned forward from the doorway and whispered, “I’ll let you know what happens, Milo.”

Words came from inside the room. Someone said, “The biggest pig eats the best apples.”

Andret looked Hay straight in the eye. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of you,” he said. “None of it matters to me one goddamn bit.”

Hay appeared startled. But then his expression changed. “That’s where we differ, Milo,” he said. “To me, it does matter. It matters quite a lot.” And he wearily pulled shut the door.

—

“I DON’T KNOW,” she replied, the line echoing. “It’s a long way.”

“It would mean a lot.”

A pause. Classical music playing in the background. He pictured the narrow bed.

“We’d get separate rooms, right?”

“Yes, of course. Separate rooms.”

“I mean, if I agreed to come.”

“Yes, if you did. I’m being considered for a promotion, you know.”

“Yes, I heard. That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Well—” she said, “—I still don’t know.”

“Separate rows on the plane.”

A small laugh.

“Helena.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Will you? I’ll agree to whatever you want. Really . And it goes without saying that I’ll pay for everything.”

“I’ll be back in time for work on Monday?”

“You can stay as long as you like. I’ll pay for a couple of more days out there if you want. I mean for you, alone. You could make it a vacation. I’ll talk to Knudson. All I ask is for you to come to the service, that’s it. Do you have people in California?”

“I don’t know. I might.”

“Please, Helena,” he said. “ Please . There’s nobody else I can ask.”

BERKELEY. THE VERY same place as on the day he’d left. Nearly six entire years, disappeared into a perfect, metaphysical maw. The same shouting street huckster in the same red bandanna. The same black-lipped dog leaping for a Frisbee. On Telegraph, a line of hippies against a storefront, their tire-tread sandals stretched across the concrete. Helena took his elbow, and they stepped around the legs. She was wearing a pleated skirt. “Is this where we’re planning to spend our time?” she said.

He led her up Bancroft. A few hours remained before the service. On College, a cab. At his old corner he paid the driver to wait, and they walked up the ramshackle block. At last he stopped and looked down into the familiar windows. Behind the two dark panes, he could make out the edge of a thinly tassled rug. Suddenly he saw Cle Wells step from the shower in his T-shirt.

“What?” said Helena.

“Oh, God.”

“Is this it? Is this where you lived?” She leaned sideways to look up at the building.

“It’s all different.”

He led her back to the cab. This time they got out in Rockridge. The coffee shops, the sandwich places, all of it entirely the same. The same chai tea special taped to the window of the Lime Rose. The same pale-skinned counter boy who used to serve them their Turkish coffee.

Why was he still thinking about her?

He needed a drink.

At a corner market, while Helena used the bathroom, he downed a mini. Then he took her arm and they headed up Claremont toward the hills. The houses were larger here, blue gums and eucalyptuses arching the roofs. Lemon trees in the well-kept yards, the lemons hanging like earrings. And towering above them all were the stately sycamores, holding out their marble boughs. “Hans Borland used to live up here,” he said. “In one of these mansions with a view of the bay.”

“What was he like?”

“I don’t actually know. I could never really figure. I couldn’t decide whether he was my friend or my enemy.”

“He was your friend,” she said. “He championed you.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

Her step quickened. She might have been blushing. Andret caught up. The street rose more steeply now, and they ascended in silence, her heels picking a path. The pleated skirt swishing. She wasn’t as pretty as Olga or as welcoming as Annabelle, but there was something else about her. Her arms swung steadily.

Near the summit, a stone terrace opened onto a view. They sat across from each other on a crumbling wall. “Tell me about you, ” he said.

She blushed again. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Come on, tell me. What do you like to do?”

“The usual things.”

“Like what?”

“Like garden. I take care of the roses behind my building. I guess I paint a little, too.”

“What kind of painting?”

“Landscapes, mostly. Not very good ones. Really, most of what I do is help my middle sister with her kids. I work hard in the department, though. I enjoy working hard at everything. The garden, too.” She seemed to be more comfortable with him now and even smiled. “I take care of twenty-five roses and a rare kind of peony.”

“Do you like it?”

She looked up at him. “I like working hard, if that’s what you mean. I love being an ant.”