Professor Hines eyed her from behind his rimless glasses, and although his dislike of her was apparent, she could also tell she had said something correct. “I see you did a bit of extra legwork looking up the reference. Commendable.”
But Robert wasn’t done yet, so neither was Cady. She was sick of Hines underestimating her, even if this time she deserved it. She added, “Yeah it was interesting, because the allusion to this idea of immortality as everlasting death is repeated in the last stanza of this first section, beginning with line sixty, when Eliot writes ‘Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, etc.”
“Ah, but you’re mistaken.” Hines brightened. “Line sixty refers to Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal, the flowers of evil, written in the 1850s. It’s a completely different text.”
“A different text with the same idea. Fleurs du Mal is the collection, the specific poem is Les Sept Vieillards, or The Seven Old Men,” Cady translated from Robert with confidence. “Eliot quotes only the first line, but the rest of the poem describes Paris as a city ‘stuffed with dreams, where ghosts by day accost the passer-by.’ Then there’s a frightening procession of seven wretched old men, and Baudelaire says, ‘for all their imminent decrepitude, these seven monsters had eternal life!’ Like the Sybil who asked for immortality but not eternal youth, it’s another example where eternal life appears as the walking dead.”
Professor Hines’s mouth remained set in a patronizing smile, but his eyes relayed panic.
Tell him to look it up, if he doesn’t believe me.
“Yes, well, that’s a good observation.” Hines smacked his lips as if his mouth was dry.
Thank you, Cady thought to Robert.
Pas de problème.
Professor Hines continued, “Moving on, the poem begins, ‘April is the cruellest month.’ What do you make of this as an opening? Yes, Lindsay.”
Lindsay was a tall, pretty girl with a high ponytail and a Harvard volleyball sweatshirt. “I’m a psychology concentrator, and I was just reading that statistically, the most suicides per month occur during April.”
March 26, Cady remembered, that was when Eric did it.
Hines said, “Interesting, I would’ve guessed closer to final exam period.” Everyone but Cady laughed. He then asked, “Is there a hypothesis as to why?”
“Some think the seasonal change alters serotonin or hormones. I don’t think they know for sure,” Lindsay answered.
“I imagine Eliot would have been an interesting psychological case, don’t you?”
“Definitely.” Lindsay held the floor. “His thoughts are so scattered, the way he jumps around from past to present, referencing different poets, and the narrator constantly channels all these different characters, different languages, different voices. Seems a little schizo to me.”
“What seems spontaneous, or schizo, as you call it, Lindsay, is actually brilliantly devised, revised, and contributing to all sorts of shades of meaning. A genius masquerading as a madman, as opposed to the other way around.” Hines turned out to the class, but his eyes homed in on Cady. “Anyone have some ideas on a close reading on the first stanza? Cadence, you’ve displayed your diligence looking up references, but let me put you on the spot. Why don’t you get us started with your own interpretation of the first ten or so lines. Now remember, there are no wrong answers—for the most part.” The class laughed.
Cady began reading the poem for the first time:
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers …
Robert was quiet; Cady would have to answer this one on her own. She began slowly, “I think it’s saying April is cruel because you want new things to be free from the past, but they aren’t. They can’t be. The dead are part of the spring.”
A boy named Geoff raised his hand, waving with obnoxious exuberance. Hines motioned to him. Geoff said, “I disagree. There’s no finality to death here. His verbs, ‘breeding,’ ‘mixing,’ ‘stirring,’ all gerunds, create a sense of constant motion, like the life cycle. The roots were only ‘dull,’ and they are revived by the rain. If life springs from death, then the death is false. Life is perpetual.”
Hines nodded approvingly at Geoff, then turned to Cady. “What say you?”
“I guess I read that the opposite way,” Cady said. “The life is false. It’s just death reanimated. Life may spring from death, but it’s tainted. There’s no escape from the remains of the dead. See, next he says, ‘Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow.’ We want to cover up the past, white it out, erase it. But the spring reminds you it’s only a temporary fix. Death was lying underneath all along, waiting to rise up again. I think these lines express that sometimes when you think you want to die you really just want things to be new again.”
“And Cadence provides the Tim Burton reading of Eliot,” Hines cut in. “Well argued, both of you. I like healthy debate. Let’s talk about structure …”
Cady had contributed without making a complete ass of herself, so she counted today a victory and gave herself permission to zone out for the rest of class. She was practically asleep with her eyes open. By the time class was dismissed, she’d been daydreaming about her upcoming nap for so long, she could almost feel her downy comforter puffed around her shoulders.
She was gathering her things to leave when Hines called to her, beckoning her with a finger as if she were a small child. “Yes?” Cady said, doing her best to look awake.
“You were unusually talkative today.”
“I tried my best.”
“You’ve studied ‘The Waste Land’ before, I presume.”
“No, this is the first time, so it’s really interesting.” Cady smiled, hoping a bit of forced enthusiasm could hide her exhaustion.
“Are you a Baudelaire scholar?”
Cady hesitated. “No.”
Professor Hines lifted his eyebrows. “So you’re new to both poets, yet, from reading the words ‘Unreal City,’ you were able not only to recognize the allusion, but to recite lines of Baudelaire’s Les Sept Vieillards from memory.”
Cady was silent, and so was her mind. Where was Robert now? She improvised. “I’m in a French History & Lit class this semester, and we’re reading Baudelaire. So when I was reading ‘The Waste Land,’ it jogged my memory, and I cross-checked it to prepare for class.”
“But what you brought up today came entirely from your own head?”
“Yes.”
“Why do I feel that you’re lying to me?”
Because I am, she thought. “I’m not.” Robert, Robert, Robert.
“Because if you read about that connection somewhere, it’s perfectly fine to bring it up in discussion, but it’s important to cite sources. Harvard has a zero tolerance policy on plagiarism.”
Cady nodded. She could feel the sweat at the back of her neck.
“Okay. Just so we’re clear.” Professor Hines shuffled the papers in front of him on the table for a moment before looking back up at her. “You’re free to go.”
“Thank you.” Cady hoisted her bag to her shoulder and headed for the door.
“Oh, and one more question,” Hines said, stopping her in her tracks. “What’s your favorite poem in Fleurs du Mal? Other than Les Sept Vieillards.”
Robert. “Um.” Robert, what’s another title? Robert!
Oh, sorry, I was reading. Baudelaire really is fantastic. My favorite? Gosh, it’s hard to choose …
“Let me think …” Just name one. Name one. “It’s so hard to choose.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Professor Hines said, with the beginning of a smile on his lips
.
… The Sapphic ones are highly exciting, but inappropriate for you to read. They were censored in the original publication, considered pornographic. I suppose they are pornographic—
—Dammit, Robert, I need a title!
Got it—
“La Fin de la Journée. Day’s End,” Cady said it as soon as Robert brought it to her mind.
“Ah,” breathed Hines, deflating. The cat’s paw lifted from the mouse’s tail. “I look forward to reading your paper.”
As soon as she hit the hallway, Cady yanked her sweater off over her head. Her T-shirt was tamped to her back with nervous sweat. She bent to drink from an old bronze drinking fountain, ignoring its concerning verdigris, but the cold, metallic water only let her thoughts come in clearer: Hines was on to her. He knew she was incapable of that analysis. She was a terrible liar and always had been. Still, she hadn’t lied, exactly. The thoughts had “come from her head,” as he said. If he’d asked from her brain, well …
Oh, shoot! You should’ve said “To a Red-Haired Beggar Girl” for your favorite, you know, because of your hair. That would’ve been easy.
Cady wiped her mouth. The halls were mostly empty now; she had little to distract her from Robert’s rambling. She headed for the stairs.
How do you know so much about poetry? I thought you were a science guy.
Can a man be defined by any one thing? I officially concentrate in chemistry, though if I weren’t graduating a year early, I’d have properly switched to physics. But I indulge my broad interests—poetry, literature, language rank high among them. I seem to excel by the greatest margin in the sciences, and approbation has its charms, so I’ve committed myself to the more menial but more pressing business of the criteria of Bernoulli, Lexis, and Poisson, maybe make a name for myself someday.
So, you’re good at everything.
Not true. Women. I haven’t been on a date in some time. Possibly ever.
Really?
Don’t say it like that, I’ve had opportunity, if not from les jeunes filles New Yorkaises back home. But I’ve come, lugubriously, to the conclusion that the two women at Wellesley and the dozen or so here that even pretend to pursue me are a sorry lot.
A dozen?
Well I don’t count them.
Right, because you don’t have a head for numbers.
Ha. Ha. Don’t we think we’re clever?
Cady smiled, and a guy coming up the stairs mistook it and winked in return. She blushed, reminded that she was talking to a ghost, like a madwoman. Not that she wished to stop the conversation. —You can’t be that bad with women, you get along all right with me.
Because I have no romantic interest in you.
She snorted. —Okay, so you’re not good with women.
It’s not that you aren’t attractive! My heart belongs to another.
Who?
Whom.
Just tell me.
This woman, this angel, whose carrel in Widener is across from mine. I gaze at her when I’m supposed to be studying thermodynamics. We’ve never spoken, but I’ve written a few poems about her, though. In my fantasies, I call her Mademoiselle Spinoza, after her thesis topic.
How do you know she’s writing on Spinoza if you’ve never spoken to her?
I’ve looked through her books when she’s not there, even read a few pages of her work. She’s a brilliant writer. Her spelling could use a little help, but I find that minute weakness quite charming.
Oh my God, Robert. You’re a creeper. Stop snooping and go talk to her.
I could never do that. Talking to her would ruin it.
How? You don’t think she could live up to your grand expectations?
Hardly. I fear I wouldn’t live up to hers.
Cady didn’t have any sharp answer to that. It wasn’t the first time he surprised her that way. Robert was a genius, and he knew it, but his academic bravado didn’t seem to extend beyond the classroom. For all his knowledge, sometimes he sounded so young. He reminded her of Eric that way.—Robert, why do like talking to me? Why do you think we’re friends?
I think I perceived in your distress a certain similarity to that which I’ve suffered.
Because of your baby brother?
Not that, just the old malady. Melancholia, loneliness, a rather conflicted relationship to our own identity.
Cady paused at the bottom of the stairs. She had thought her only problems were grief and regret over Eric, that everything was fine before he died, and yet, she couldn’t say Robert was wrong.—I think you should talk to the girl. You wouldn’t let her down.
Perhaps. But isn’t the promise the best part anyway? That’s what’s so exciting about this place—it’s crackling with potential energy. Every student carries the best prospects in his pocket, fuel for every hope and dream, and we’ve no knowledge of how it could all go wrong. That’s why this university is so glorious and so terrifying.
Cady pushed against the big double doors of Sever and winced in the bright sunlight of a crisp Cambridge afternoon.
It’s where fate is born, sealed, and yet unknown.
33
Outside, Cady started down the steps of Sever Hall with Robert’s words echoing in her mind. She knew too well that he was mistaken—that Harvard wasn’t a safe cocoon of potential, not everyone was blissfully ignorant. The prospect of future suffering could descend sooner than he thought, as it had to Eric. But what about to her? Was she in denial about what lay in her own future? Hearing voices no longer seemed strange to her. She had accepted that there were ghosts, voices from another dimension, that they talked to her, that she talked to them. Her mental state was teetering on a precipice, and it was up to her not to fall.
Cady yelped when something grabbed her arm.
“I’m sorry!” Nikos said through his laughter. “If you saw the look on your face. You looked absolutely terrified.”
Cady went to smack him but he caught her hand and pulled her nearer to him. Sweeping his other arm round her shoulders, he tucked in close to her. “Am I so frightening?” he asked.
“No.” Cady let herself lean into him. She could use some comfort, and Nikos smelled good. “You’re not frightening, you’re sweet. Thank you again for the Chinese food last night. I’d had the worst day, and it was just what I needed to power through an all-nighter.”
“Chinese really is the cuisine for working late, isn’t it? I learned that from American television. I don’t think a detective has ever solved a case without it.” Cady laughed, and Nikos brushed his palm over her hair. “But you must be knackered. Have you eaten today?”
“No, but I am knackered. I might just go to my room and sleep until Collegium rehearsal later tonight.” And pore over those decoded numbers in Eric’s notebook; this time, she didn’t want to show Nikos.
“Nonsense. Apparently you don’t eat if I don’t feed you, and I’m not about to let you waste away, plus, I’m hungry. Dining halls are closed, so let me take you out. Hm?”
Nikos was impossible to refuse when he tilted his brows up in that puppyish way, she gave in.
“But mind you, this is the last time I’m buying you a meal without its being a proper date.”
They walked down the red brick sidewalks to Daedalus, an upscale pub-restaurant on Mount Auburn Street across from Quincy House. Inside, Daedalus was warm and inviting, with dark wood, red leather booths, and the enticing aroma of French fries. They were seated on the sunny second floor, and at four o’clock, they were the only ones there, save for a couple of guys at the bar watching ESPN on the TV. After a few minutes with the menus, Nikos asked her what she was getting, and when she told him the Portobello burger, he frowned. “A fungus sandwich?”
“Are you going to give me a hard time every time I order something vegetarian?”
“No. But I warn you, I’m going to order a ste
ak sandwich, bloody rare. It may still answer to its name.”
Cady chuckled. “Get whatever you want.”
“All right, I just don’t want to overwhelm you with my carnivorous virility.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
The waitress arrived; she was a swivelly girl with a flirty smile and dyed red hair. Cady could always spot the fakes.
Nikos didn’t appear to share Cady’s skepticism. He lit up when she appeared. “Noelle! How are things?”
Of course he knows her name, Cady thought.
After some chitchat where ‘Noelle’ pointedly pretended Cady didn’t exist, Nikos ordered for them both, adding, “And two Stellas, please.”
“You got it, babe.” The waitress smiled and left.
“Babe?” Cady leveled her gaze at Nikos. “And I didn’t ask for a beer.”
“And she didn’t ask for ID. Sometimes it’s better not to ask. We’re celebrating your paper completion.”
“Ugh, it’s like I already blocked it out, it’s so bad. I seriously think I was sleepwalking when I wrote it. Sleep-typing.”
“It’s done, which is the best thing a paper can be. So, tell me, you said you had a long day yesterday, what happened?”
Cady rubbed her hands over her face; there was no makeup to mess up anyway. “Oh my God. Where do I start?”
The waitress dropped off the beers with a coy glance at Nikos, but this time he didn’t pay her any attention. “Why don’t we start at the foam and work our way down?”
“You were right about Lee. She was the one who hacked Eric.” She left out the part about her father. “And that’s not all, she was stalking him too, well, she’s stalking Prokop.”
Nikos coughed on his beer. “Wait, what?”
Cady recounted what she saw on the camera and Lee’s alleged sexual harassment case.
“My God,” Nikos said when she was finished. “Did she say anything about me?”
Ghosts of Harvard Page 26
