J. Coetzee - Disgrace

`There is only one,' he says. 'I have no defence.'

Smoothly Hakim intervenes. 'Friends, this is not the time or place to go into substantial issues. What we should do' - he glances at the other two - 'is clarify procedure. I need barely say, David, the matter will be handled in the strictest confidence, I can assure you of that. Your name will be protected, Ms Isaacs's name will be protected too. A committee will be set up. Its function will be to determine whether there are grounds for disciplinary measures. You or your legal representative will have an opportunity to challenge its composition. Its hearings will be held in camera. In the meantime, until the committee has made its recommendation to the Rector and the Rector has acted, everything goes on as before. Ms Isaacs has officially withdrawn from the course she takes with you, and you will be expected to refrain from all contact with her. Is there anything I am omitting, Farodia, Elaine?'

Tight-lipped, Dr Rassool shakes her head.

‘It's always complicated, this harassment business, David, complicated as well as unfortunate, but we believe our procedures are good and fair, so we'll just take it step by step, play it by the book. My one suggestion is, acquaint yourself with the procedures and perhaps get legal advice.'

He is about to reply, but Hakim raises a warning hand. 'Sleep on it, David,' he says. He has had enough. 'Don't tell me what to do, I'm not a child.'

He leaves in a fury. But the building is locked and the doorkeeper has gone home. The back exit is locked too. Hakim has to let him out.

It is raining. 'Share my umbrella,' says Hakim; then, at his car,

`Speaking personally, David, I want to tell you you have all my sympathy. Really. These things can be hell.'

He has known Hakim for years, they used to play tennis together in his tennis-playing days, but he is in no mood now for male chumminess. He shrugs irritably, gets into his car.

The case is supposed to be confidential, but of course it is not, of course people talk. Why else, when he enters the commonroom, does a hush fall on the chatter, why does a younger colleague, with whom he has hitherto had perfectly cordial relations, put down her teacup and depart, looking straight through him as she passes? Why do only two students turn up for the first Baudelaire class?

The gossip-mill, he thinks, turning day and night, grinding reputations. The community of the righteous, holding their sessions in corners, over the telephone, behind closed doors. Gleeful whispers. Schadenfreude. First the sentence, then the trial.

In the corridors of the Communications Building he makes a point of walking with head held high. He speaks to the lawyer who handled his divorce. 'Let's get it clear first,' says the lawyer, 'how true are the allegations?'

`True enough. I was having an affair with the girl.'

`Serious?'

`Does seriousness make it better or worse? After a certain age, all affairs are serious. Like heart attacks.'

`Well, my advice would be, as a matter of strategy, get a woman to represent you.' He mentions two names. 'Aim for a private settlement. You give certain undertakings, perhaps take a spell of leave, in return for which the university persuades the girl, or her family, to drop the charges. Your best hope. Take a yellow card. Minimize the damage, wait for the scandal to blow over.'

`What kind of undertakings?'

`Sensitivity training. Community service. Counselling. Whatever you can negotiate.'

`Counselling? I need counselling?'

`Don't misunderstand me. I'm simply saying that one of the options offered to you might be counselling.'

`To fix me? To cure me? To cure me of inappropriate desires?' The lawyer shrugs. 'Whatever.'

On campus it is Rape Awareness Week. Women Against Rape, WAR, announces a twenty-four-hour vigil in solidarity with `recent victims'. A pamphlet is slipped under his door: 'WOMEN SPEAK OUT.'

Scrawled in pencil at the bottom is a message: 'YOUR DAYS ARE OVER, CASANOVA.'

He has dinner with his ex-wife Rosalind. They have been apart for eight years; slowly, warily, they are growing to be friends again, of a sort. War veterans. It reassures him that Rosalind still lives nearby: perhaps she feels the same way about him. Someone to count on when the worst arrives: the fall in the bathroom, the blood in the stool.

They speak of Lucy, sole issue of his first marriage, living now on a farm in the Eastern Cape. 'I may see her soon,' he says - 'I'm thinking of taking a trip.'

‘In term time?'

`Term is nearly over. Another two weeks to get through, that's all.'

`Has this anything to do with the problems you are having? I hear you are having problems.'

`Where did you hear that?'

`People talk, David. Everyone knows about this latest affair of yours, in the juiciest detail. It's in no one's interest to hush it up, no one's but your own. Am I allowed to tell you how stupid it looks?'

`No, you are not.'

‘I will anyway. Stupid, and ugly too. I don't know what you do about sex and I don't want to know, but this is not the way to go about it. You're what - fifty-two? Do you think a young girl finds any pleasure in going to bed with a man of that age? Do you think she finds it good to watch you in the middle of your...?

Do you ever think about that?'

He is silent.

`Don't expect sympathy from me, David, and don't expect sympathy from anyone else either. No sympathy, no mercy, not in this day and age. Everyone's hand will be against you, and why not? Really, how could you?'

The old tone has entered, the tone of the last years of their married life: passionate recrimination. Even Rosalind must be aware of that. Yet perhaps she has a point. Perhaps it is the right of the young to be protected from the sight of their elders in the throes of passion. That is what whores are for, after all: to put up with the ecstasies of the unlovely.

‘Anyway,' Rosalind goes on, 'you say you'll see Lucy.'

`Yes, I thought I'd drive up after the inquiry and spend some time with her.'

`The inquiry?'

`There is a committee of inquiry sitting next week.'

`That's very quick. And after you have seen Lucy?'

‘I don't know. I'm not sure I will be permitted to come back to the university. I'm not sure I will want to.'

Rosalind shakes her head. 'An inglorious end to your career, don't you think? I won't ask if what you got from this girl was worth the price. What are you going to do with your time? What about your pension?'

‘I'll come to some arrangement with them. They can't cut me off without a penny.'

`Can't they? Don't be so sure. How old is she - your inamorata?' `Twenty. Of age. Old enough to know her own mind.'

`The story is, she took sleeping-pills. Is that true?'

‘I know nothing about sleeping-pills. It sounds like a fabrication to me. Who told you about sleepingpills?'

She ignores the question. 'Was she in love with you? Did you jilt her?'

`No. Neither.'

`Then why this complaint?'

`Who knows? She didn't confide in me. There was a battle of some kind going on behind the scenes that I wasn't privy to. There was a jealous boyfriend. There were indignant parents. She must have crumpled in the end. I was taken completely by surprise.'

`You should have known, David. You are too old to be meddling with other people's children. You should have expected the worst. Anyway, it's all very demeaning. Really.'

`You haven't asked whether I love her. Aren't you supposed to ask that as well?'

`Very well. Are you in love with this young woman who is dragging your name through the mud?'

`She isn't responsible. Don't blame her.'

`Don't blame her! Whose side are you on? Of course I blame her! I blame you and I blame her. The whole thing is disgraceful from beginning to end. Disgraceful and vulgar too. And I'm not sorry for saying so.'