The Nightside of the Country
Page 2
Did X just get away with it? Was there only one woman? How much did The Institution know? These questions start cutting away at your edges. Then you realise it is never too late to write about what happened. It affected you and your students. What have you got to lose? You email a couple of ex-colleagues. You hear nothing back. You are in contact with ex-students, but when you ask, no-one wants to go on the record. X is a powerful man in the literary world. No-one wants to cross him. You email the male colleague again – The Professor – but he gives only vague information, even though you know he knew the complainant. In trying to find out what happened, you seem to keep hitting obstacles, placed by men, and some women, all of whom you once thought you could trust.
You have occasional work with The Agency. You assess manuscripts and mentor new writers. They pair you with a writer who is, by chance, an ex-student of yours. You’re delighted because you know her and admire her work. This is the same student who, years before, told you about what happened with X at The Institution. She is now on the final draft of a novel. At your first meeting, she says, off-hand, that she hopes for a quote from you and a quote from X on the cover, when this book is eventually published. This is her hope. X? you ask, taken aback. And you think you must’ve misheard. X?, you ask again. Yes, she says. You sit up. This must be synchronicity, Jung would have a field day: here you’ve been thinking about X and now his name erupts in conversation; molten and dangerous. You’re still in touch with him? Yes, she says, casually, looking away. And he’s very ill, she turns back to tell you this with a concerned look on her face. She’s very worried for him because he has a tumour. It might be cancer. And all you can think is: Hope we get to him first. This is a fortnight after the revelations about W and the men are still falling and here your ex-student wants to put a quote from X, a man once accused of sexual misconduct, on the cover of her forthcoming book.
You try to stall, searching for an appropriate response. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, you stammer this out, trying to be careful…in this climate…with all that’s happening…
She looks at you as if you’re crazy but she knows exactly what you mean, what you’re referring to.
It was only one woman, she shoots back, as she did several years before.
Isn’t one enough? you counter, a little too brusque.
By the look on her face she’s not happy and you look across the table at each other and a chasm opens up. You decide to step back from the chasm.
Of course, it’s your novel, you say. Your life. And of course, it’s your decision.
That night, at home, you decide to act on your intuition about X. You get online and within minutes find a tranche of articles about him, recently republished. In 1993, a journalist for the Boston Phoenix led a five-month investigation into X. Back then, X was the founder of a Theatre company in Massachusetts and ten women made allegations of sexual misconduct against him. It is grim reading. X laughed off the allegations and nothing happened. You wait a week before you forward this link to your ex-student, your current mentee. You feel upset for her but also you think she needs to know. X has been important to her writing career, more important than you’d realised. X has supported her and vali-dated her. He has been her male mentor. You have been her female mentor. As you press send, you resist the urge to add: There’s always more than one woman.
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4
Unfortunately, you don’t stop there. You decide to leave an anonymous post under the original articles from the Boston Phoenix. You say that something similar happened at The Institution where you once worked, when X was a visiting writer. Within an hour of posting, the New York Times contacts you for information. It was the New York Times which broke the story on W and they now have a Gender Editor. They are closing in on X, she writes. They’ve been conducting their own investigation over several months. What they’ve uncovered is very serious, involving young girls: allegations of rape and assault. You give her everything you remember about X and what occurred at The Institution. After this email exchange, it’s like another shot of adrenaline. As if you’ve become a forensic scientist or a detective. You have a high-wire energy and focus. You want justice. You want X to get what’s coming for him. You want all these men to get what’s coming for them. Burning underneath all this, perhaps, maybe, of course, is the fact that your own attacker escaped justice. The sting of it still.
Every day you scan the internet for X’s name. You are on the case. You dream of him falling from a great height. You start writing about what happened at The Institution, to distract yourself, to comfort yourself, to fool yourself that you’re doing something positive with this energy. You are not sleeping. You’ve been triggered and you want to pull the trigger. Some call it post-traumatic stress, you don’t care what it’s called. You’re not able to work on your novel. You drag yourself through the days. Instead of writing, you continue to scour the internet for information about X, about W and all the rest, keeping track of the number of Felled Men, their actions and their undoing, their claims to victimhood and it is, quite frankly, exhausting. It is also strangely exhilarating. If you knew how to do a spreadsheet, you would do a spreadsheet; it is hard to keep track. Your ex-student, the woman X mentored, the woman you are now mentoring, never gets back to you. She has no comment on the allegations against X in the articles from 1993. The silence from her is like a low sad hum at the back of your days; something that you hope will resolve itself one day soon, one way or the other; a melancholy white noise.
A month later, on the 30th of November 2017, the New York Times finally publishes a long article about X. It details the allegations from 1993 when the ten women came forward at the Theatre in Massachusetts and their claims against him were dismissed. The Director said at the time: The women were tightly wound, if you know what I mean. No, Mr Director – you challenge him in your mind, as you read this again – what the hell do you mean? Can you spell it out for us? Do you mean that these women refused X? Perhaps refused you also? And that, perhaps, you penalised them for their refusal? The Director makes your blood boil. Two nannies who worked for the X family also came forward in 1993 and their allegations against him were also dismissed. But there is more. There are now two rape charges against X. One of the rape allegations comes from an ex-girlfriend of his son, a famous musician.
On the day the story about X breaks in the New York Times, his son, the musician, makes this statement:
I believe all the allegations against my father are true and I stand by the women that made them.
The New York Times article does not mention what happened at The Institution. It only deals with X’s work in the theatre. You’re disappointed, but it will take time, you know that. After all, X held many workshops across France and America, not only in your part of the world. And yet, in this new period, you also feel emboldened. Hell, you even feel reckless. You’ve finished your own short essay about X and your partner cautions you to be careful, but you have no desire to be careful. Days without sleep, the violent dreams; you’re walking a tightrope with a flamethrower in hand. You believe that people will have your back; there is a safety net under the rope; the time is right to play with fire.
You contact the Gender Editor at the New York Times to say that you’ve written about X at The Institution and should you publish this essay? You don’t want to jeopardise their investigations. She quickly replies: Yes, she says. Go ahead! It is late Friday afternoon, the 1 December 2017. You feel chilled when the article goes live. Your hands shake and your breath comes shallow. You wait for a reaction. It is your second essay in a month which deals with a predator. Again, you feel vulnerable and exposed. Only after the article is out there do you stop to wonder about consequences. You wonder if The Institution will come after you. Or X himself. Details of W’s use of ex-Mossad agents to track and silence women have now been published. And after all, X, like W, is a millionaire and a powerful man. But this is different, you think. You no longer work at The Institutio
n. You have nothing to fear
Surely, there is a net under your feet; a soft place to land, surely, you have nothing to lose?
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5
If you weren’t triggered by the daily onslaught of detail about W and other predators: men in bathrobes; the grooming of young women; men jerking into pot plants; W’s use of spies to stalk his accusers; harassment; gaslighting; rape; more men and more assault; if you weren’t triggered by all of this – along with many women, all over the globe – you are definitely going into freefall now.
Two days after your essay about X and what happened at The Institution, The Man from HR is on the phone. He gives you his full name and long job title, sounding authoritative. From the start, he addresses you only by your first name, as if he knows you. At first, his tone is polite and neutral. Then it changes.
We need to talk, he says.
Talk? You’re not sure why you need speak with this man, but know it can’t be good.
Let me be quite clear, he pauses for effect. This thing you’ve written is wrong. All wrong.
Wrong?
Yes, he repeats. Wrong. It’s actionable.
But it happened, you say, sounding naïve, even to yourself.
He ignores this. You’ve caused a lot of grief, he says. A lot of grief – to me and to people in my department. To The Institution. A lot of grief. And you’ve made it more difficult for women to come forward.
You’re stunned by this. So now you’re the problem? You say: I think you’ll find it was X that made it more difficult.
Ha! He dismisses your argument and gets right to the point: There was no written complaint about X. Nothing on the record. All of this is hearsay.
You go silent for a while, considering: That’s not what my sources tell me.
Your sources. Ha! He scoffs again, Your sources are incorrect. And you’ve done irreparable damage to The Institution.
You repeat: It’s not me that did the damage.
This is actionable, he says again. His voice is hard.
What does that even mean, actionable? You’re shaking as you say this. You’re glad you’re sitting down. You throw him a challenge: Why are you threatening me?
He gives an almost-laugh, The Man from HR. There is no threat, he says, slowly, over-enunciating, although his voice now changes tone, drops a register, sounds very threatening indeed. Then he lightens up: I thought this was two people having a reasonable conversation, he says. I thought you were a reasonable person…
I am being reasonable.
The Man from HR, his voice goes tight, you’re not playing his game. This is rattling him. This is something he didn’t expect.
Let me clarify, he says: Actionable means we will take you to court. We will not hesitate to take action against you. We’ll see you in court.
You don’t respond immediately. You take a deep breath, your hand grips the phone. You say: I don’t want to be taken to court.
Very good. Well, then. You can hear a smile in his voice, you can hear him thinking: Game over.
You say: What is it you want from me? What is it you want me to do?
Your partner has a worried look. He passes you a note: Get it in writing.
The Man from HR repeats in a monotone: You’ve brought us into disrepute. You’ve brought shame to me and my department. To The Institution. You’ve made it more difficult for other women to come forward. Don’t you want to help women? His voice turns cajoling, a tone often used with kittens and small children. Why make it more difficult? There was no formal complaint, he emphasises. None of this is on the record. Do you hear me? No formal complaint…
That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, you say. And there were no channels for a formal complaint…
This is hearsay, spits The Man from HR.
I worked there for a decade…
A decade, he sighs. So. OK. Tell me. Just tell me. Who you’re in contact with, and his voice drops as he says this, a confidential tone. And this will really help us to help women…you want to help women, don’t you…?
I’m not going to tell you my contacts.
For god’s sake! Then he stops himself, gathers himself… OK. OK…In any case, they’re mistaken, he says, your sources, his voice wound tight. Then he softens again. So. Tell me – when, exactly, did you find out about all this? About X?
You pause, considering. It was after the fact, you say. Some months after it happened.
So, The Man from HR pauses, his voice turns again, turns slippery, as he launches an attack: So. Let’s see now. You knew about X and then you allowed your students to work with him? You knew what he’d done, but your students worked with him again?
Jesus, you think. He’s trying to pin the whole thing on me.
Your voice turns red: I know what you’re doing, you say. I know what you’re trying to do. But, hey, I didn’t employ him. One minute he was at The Institution, then he was gone, I found out about the allegations and then, the next year, strangely enough, he was back…
Something occurs to The Man from HR and he interrupts: Umm…Technically, as you know, he wasn’t, umm… technically employed by The Institution again. The Man from HR sounds smooth, not employed as such, as you well know… and in any case, he was only with us on a short contract…
But he was employed by The Institution, you push back. Whatever the contract. And then he was employed again by the local Theatre – and The Institution’s name was on the new project. A collaboration. It’s still on your website, for Christ’s sake. All of this information is still there—
Well…uh…but…we warned the Theatre about him…
You give a short laugh. Did you? Did you really? [you should’ve said: And did you put that in writing?] You sense that The Man from HR is temporarily off-balance. You sense that this may be a good time to press forward: OK. And what’re you doing about this now?
Now?…you mean, now…as in, at this moment?
Yes…
Now? he says again, uncertainly. What do you mean, now?
For the first time, The Man from HR sounds much less certain. You imagine that for the first time in this conversation, he is starting to sweat.
I mean. Have you contacted all the students X mentored? All the students he came into contact with?
Well, I…The Man from HR whistles through his teeth.
Have you set up a hotline for students and staff? Have you put clear measures in place for reporting? Is there an independent body to look into allegations? Do you have trained people to deal with cases of harassment and assault…?
Ahh. Uhhh. The Man from HR is temporarily lost for words. Then he clears his throat, tries to recover himself. Well, now… That would be very difficult…all the students? You mean contact all of them? He sounds almost plaintive.
How difficult can it be? You can’t keep the sarcasm out of your voice: You’re HR. You’re The Institution, for god’s sake!
He doesn’t reply. You can hear his breathing.
And have you set up a hotline? You press your sudden advantage. Have you assured all the students he mentored that they have your support…?
There’s another long silence. You can hear him calculating how to get out of this one.
So. He clears his throat. How many students do you think there are? He tries to sound authoritative again. Then modifies his tone, starts to wheedle. How many, exactly, are we talking about here? How many are there, exactly? This would really help women, help us to help them, if you could give us a ball-park figure…
Lots, you say.
Lots? He repeats, unsure. And how many are you in contact with?
Quite a few, you say, enjoying his discomfort. But, also, you pause for effect. There’s something else you should realise…X worked with schoolchildren.
The Man from HR groans. Schoolchildren?
Yes, you say. It’s on your own website.
Jesus, you think. If only The Institution had vetted X and dealt with his behaviour back then, if only th
ey’d spent as much time on that as they’ve spent on threatening you with litigation, the world would be a better place.
Yep. Schoolkids. You apply more pressure. How hard can it be to contact everyone? You’re HR, for god’s sake… Where’s the support for students? You repeat: Have you set up a hotline? Have you got trained counsellors on staff? Policies in place? An independent body to investigate claims? Has anything actually changed?
But you know for a fact that nothing has actually changed. The Institution is in damage-limitation mode and you are the damage which needs to be limited. This is the only change.
The Man from HR switches tack. Actually…that’s a good idea, he muses. That is a good idea. To contact the students…Then he turns again: But – tell me. How many students? How many are likely to come forward?
What do you mean, to come forward?
To the authorities.
What do you mean, the authorities? You decide to stall, to slow it down a little.
The police, for example…he gets this out, exasperated.
The police? This hasn’t occurred to you. I have no idea, you say. That’s a question for The Institution. That’s a question only you can answer. And you decide to plough on: It’s not just about the women who come forward. This affects everyone who came into contact with X. Everyone in his orbit. Those he mentored ‘positively’ and those he didn’t. His behaviour hurts everyone. It’s a knock-on effect. No-one comes out of this feeling good. Even the people he didn’t abuse, but the people he mentored, feel betrayed.