7
Once again I commend you on your
punctuality, Mr. Geist.”
This time my tea was waiting for me, but instead of
putting out the entire sugar bowl, she had left a single
cube—exactly what I’d used the day before—on the rim of my saucer.
We took our same seats, and she folded her hands in her lap.
“So,” she said. “What shall we talk about
today?”
I reached into my pocket. “I’ve taken the liberty
of coming up with a list of topics I thought might interest
you.”
She lowered her reading glasses, skimmed in
silence. “I see that you have a spiritual side to you. That must be
a severe handicap in an American philosophy department.”
“It can be.”
“Perhaps you would care to share with me the focus
of your studies. You must write a thesis, yes?”
“... that’s right.”
She looked at me over the page. “You are under no
obligation to discuss it with me. I merely intended to give you
free rein.”
I don’t like to trumpet my failures—who does?—and
had it been anyone else asking, I would have changed the subject.
It was, I think, the newness of our acquaintance that disarmed me.
“It’s on hold at the moment,” I said.
“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 title page from the German: An A
Priori Defense of Ontological Free Will. Below Alma’s name it
was noted that this document was in partial fulfillment of the
doctorate, Department of Philosophy, the University of Freiburg, 23
März 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, fleshing 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. Nobody
was home. Of course not; it was three o’clock on a Wednesday;
people had jobs. Standing on the sidewalk, shifting 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.”
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 part was
what kept me going, because it reassured 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, passed 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.
Assuming 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,
button-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 semen. One such behemoth,
coming out of the bathroom to find me waiting in my bathrobe,
shower caddy in hand, whispered, snickering,
“Damn, bro. Talk about a 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 penis? 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 passion 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 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?
I told her that I had come unprepared.
Ach, she said. 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 crashing 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?”
“There is a room in the back,” she said. “You may
have it, if you wish.”
I smiled. “That’s very kind of you to offer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Yes, but—and let me first say, thank you very,
very much—but I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because ... I mean, I can’t. That’s incredibly
kind of you. It really is. I appreciate it. But I can’t just move
in.”
“You certainly can.”
Back and forth we went for several minutes.
“Look, it’s very tempting.” For some reason, I was
doing my best to come up with objections. “I mean, I couldn’t
afford a fair market rent.”
“Then you may live here free of charge.”
“Absolutely n—”
She raised a finger. “Provided that you discharge
certain duties.”
“... such as?”
“Continue our conversations. I may ask you to carry
out the occasional small task. To move something heavy, for
instance. Should the need arise.”
“Ms. Spielmann—”
“Mr. Geist. Please. There’s no need to stand on
ceremony.”
I thought. “I don’t know. I mean—well. Look. What
about your health.”
“As I’ve told you, my condition is painful but not
dangerous. You may speak to my physician if you’d like; she will
tell you the same. She comes bimonthly. My health shall be her
concern, not yours.”
For all her assurances, I had a hard time believing
that she wouldn’t come to rely on me for more basic needs. I didn’t
want to become a maid. Then I wondered if I was being overly
cynical. Could I not see authentic generosity for what it
was?
“Naturally, you will still need pocket money. Let
us say this: in addition to room and board, the fee for your
services shall include a small stipend—say, two hundred dollars a
week?”
Considering the cost of housing, I’d be getting a
big raise, even without the cash. And I would be living in central
Cambridge, rather than two T stops out. But what if Alma changed
her mind, grew to dislike me? I’d find myself out on the street
again, without any job at all. I said this to her.
“You must learn to hold yourself in higher regard,
Mr. Geist.”
I still couldn’t bring myself to say yes. I kept
seeing flashes of her, nude and writhing—not a dream I wanted to
face ever again. I’m trained to be able to prove or disprove
anything, and I felt myself stretching to build a case against
her.
She said, “You can’t make a proper decision until
you’ve had the full tour.” She stood up. “Come.”