John Gardner - Stillness & Shadows

The man was flailing, trying to recover himself, pushing a small stack of papers away, picking up a pencil, setting it down again. “Crazy!” Craine whispered to himself, squinting in astonishment. It was a judgment he was increasingly forced to, these days. Everybody, everywhere, crazy.

“Now listen,” Craine said, “what’s going on here?” He raised both hands. “Take it easy, take it easy!”

Now the chairman of the Department of English was laughing, one hand over his face. He was gradually regaining control.

“I startled you, is that it?” Craine asked. He leaned forward and put both hands flat on the desk. He strained his wits, studying the blush. “Ira Katz has mentioned me, you say,” he said. “I see. So you’re friends with him. Good! He’s a good man, I’m glad to see he’s friends with the boss.” He snapped his fingers as the pieces fell together — the secretary’s alarm when he’d showed her the license, her eagerness to help, then the chairman’s stepping in. Did they know about Ira and the woman named April? No doubt they’d seen the paper, or heard a newscast, knew she was dead.

Professor Davies shook his head, smiling again, ghastly. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said.

Instantly Craine’s eyes hooded a little, all his wits on guard.

“I meant to sort of. … see what you had in mind,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to think …” He dropped it, embarrassed. “We’re all very fond of Ira Katz around here. We’re a close group, this English Department. That might surprise you. We’re one of the largest, most powerful departments on the campus, but even so …”

“Sounds like good leadership,” Craine said, smiling so that his teeth showed, testing.

The professor hurriedly waved it away. It was probably true, Craine mused, that Davies was good at what he did. Good-looking man, boyish for all his sixty-some years and snow-white hair. Big, easy smile, broad shoulders, eyes of a man who liked to work out in the open, as no doubt he usually did; maybe that was why he’d reacted so extremely when Craine had nailed him. Also maybe not.

Now the professor was steadily meeting Craine’s eyes, his expression troubled. “You’re his neighbor, more or less his friend,” he said, “so I guess I may as well come out with it.” The eyes moved away, gazing past Craine’s ear. “I was afraid we’d find the murder of that poor young woman would have something to do with Ira.” He picked up the pencil again and with both hands nervously played with it. “As you know, there’s been a great deal of trouble in his life — another casualty of the marriage wars, and in the middle of all that his mother’s death—” He glanced up, blushed again. “All right,” he said, “I guess you caught me out. I was never a good faker. It’s characteristic of people in my profession, you’ll find — English professors. A certain childlike quality in all of us, or so it seems to me — never properly grew up.” He gave a sharp classroom laugh, ironic, and abruptly pushed back his desk chair and swivelled to the left as if thinking of rising; but he changed his mind. He tapped on the desk top with the tip of the pencil in his right hand and continued, “I take it you weren’t personally acquainted with the girl?”

“Not really,” Craine said.

Now Professor Davies did rise, still playing with the pencil, and crossed to the window, where he stood looking out. He fell silent for a moment, and Craine resisted pushing him, merely glancing over the objects on Davies’ desk. A few blue exam booklets — so chairmen taught courses, he reflected, surprised — an anthology of American literature, a dictionary, two or three official-looking letters, meticulously stacked, ball-point pen, small appointment calendar still on yesterday’s date, October 13, every hour on it filled in up to 7 P.M., where someone had scrawled — no doubt Davies himself — club meeting . Odd, if his schedule was so busy, that he hadn’t turned the page, Craine mused. Odd that there was no one out there waiting to get in. No doubt some days were busier than others, he thought. He glanced at his watch, then checked the clock on the wall. They agreed, half past eleven. That too seemed odd, though he couldn’t think why.

“It’s a shame what Ira does at the computer center,” Professor Davies said. “I’m afraid he’s been working on concordances. You’ll say it’s a terrible waste of time for a man with a talent like Ira’s, and I guess I’d agree with you, but universities are peculiar places, not always enlightened. Tenure committees—” He gave a little shrug, glanced at Craine, then looked back out the window. “Ira can be difficult. I don’t say I blame him, I’m just telling you the facts. He refuses to write critical articles or work on a scholarly book — those are the kinds of things tenure committees like — not that such things are beyond his capabilities; he’s an excellent teacher, a really brilliant critic — at least that’s the report I get. I could show you his files. But he ‘prefers not to,’ as Bartleby would say.” He glanced at Craine. “Bartleby the Scrivener — story by Melville.”

Craine waited.

Professor Davies looked down. “Never mind. As I say, he won’t do what the committee wants, though he could if he would. With a little arm-twisting — on my part, mostly — he was persuaded to begin a computer concordance. That, it seems, doesn’t too much interfere with the flow of his poetic spirit.” He studied the pencil, which he held now by the point and the eraser, between his two index fingers. His smile was slightly rueful, perhaps apologetic, aware that he’d let a touch of irony creep in. “It’s turned out very strangely, I must say. An extremely self-destructive young man. But that’s not relevant just now.”

Craine waved his pipe, stopping him. “What do you mean, ‘strangely,’ ” he said.

Davies cleared his throat, sorry he’d brought it up. “Well you see,” he said, “the original idea— my idea, that is — was relatively simple. Do a concordance, a kind of word list or index with line numbers, and so on — of the work of some relatively important modern poet — Ashbery, Ammons, Anne Sexton, or whoever — bring it out through some respectable university press … It might be bullshit, granted, but it’s the kind of thing university committees understand. That’s what I thought he was doing all this time, but it seems I was mistaken.” He sighed, then again glanced at Craine and smiled. “He’s been doing — or trying to do — a concordance of all ‘serious’ American poetry published since January 1970.”

Craine thought about it. Hundreds of books and magazines? Thousands? Tentatively, he said, “That’s insane.”

Davies smiled, meeting his eyes. “You’re telling me!” He came back to the desk, put the pencil down, and laid his hand on the back of the desk chair, as if thinking of sitting down. “But they love him over at the computer center. Not just because of the programmer time, or the absolutely incredible budget for printout. They like the idea . Philosophically.”

Craine puffed at his pipe, trying to get it going, and waited for Davies to explain.

“You see, what they’re after — Ira Katz and his mad mathematical friends — is a picture of the whole American reality, that is, mental reality. If you assume we don’t live in the world but only in the world as we have words for it—”

Craine raised his pipe. “I see,” he said. A tingle went through his brain.

Davies nodded. “No doubt it’s a wonderful idea; I’m no philosopher. But I can tell you one thing: it will never get him tenure. Ten years — more like fifty — maybe by then he’d get something he could publish. Meanwhile, he’ll be long gone from here. Don’t think he doesn’t know it.”