‘You missed a party at my place yesterday,’ he said with an air of cheerful or fake annoyance. ‘It was my fault: I forgot to tell you ahead of time. We knocked at your door, but we didn’t find you in.’
‘I went out to run some errands and didn’t get back till late,’ Mario apologized. Suddenly he thought that wasn’t what he’d meant to say and tried to add something. He couldn’t because Berkowickz beat him to it.
‘See you later,’ he said. And to Mario he added, ‘Let’s see if we can get together for a bit of a chat one of these days.’
Perhaps for no precise reason, Mario thought: Just like a nightmare.
They went into the office. Scanlan sat behind his desk, Mario in one of the leather chairs lined up in front of it. Gently stroking his goatee, Scanlan made some innocuous, perhaps friendly, comments with a cloying smile. Mario got distracted for a moment looking at a poster tacked up on the back wall: it announced a retrospective of the work of Botero. He heard Scanlan clearing his throat.
‘I’m just going to take up a moment of your time: I prefer to inform you personally of the situation,’ he declared. The cloying smile had disappeared. After a brief pause, he continued in an official tone, ‘Next week the departmental committee is meeting. I intend to set out your case there to see whether all together we can find a solution, not for this semester, of course, but maybe for the next or for next year. I can’t promise you I’ll manage it, but of course we’re going to make an effort. For my part, I’m already working on it.’ He paused, cleared his throat again and leaned back in his chair. ‘On the other hand, and this is closely linked to what I’ve just said, I suppose you’re as aware, if not more so, as the rest of the staff, of the effort I’ve been putting into raising the level of this department since I took charge of it. I don’t think I’m talking nonsense if I imagine that everyone is committed to the same goal: it is most definitively to convert the department into a centre of excellence, and that cannot but benefit us all. But, of course, applying for budget increases to enable us to contract new professors is not enough, we also have to be much more demanding of those who are already here, starting with ourselves. And, as I’m ready to see that all these good intentions translate into practical measures, I’m going to put to the committee a new project of departmental regulation. If I’m not mistaken, there should be nothing standing in the way of its approval. The idea behind this new regulation, in substance, is that we fulfil more rigorously what up till now hasn’t been worth the paper it’s written on; that is: the contract of a professor who has not demonstrated the level of intellectual and professional competence the department considers adequate will not be renewed. I know such measures can seem threatening; in reality they’re only intended as a stimulus to everyone. Now then, Mario,’ Scanlan went on, clearly making an effort to adopt a less impersonal or more urgent tone, ‘your contract, if I’m not mistaken, expires in June. I imagine that the committee will meet in the spring. Which leaves you six months, more than enough time to prepare something or finish polishing something up that you’ve been working on all this time: three years is a long time not to have published anything at all. And I must insist this is not a threat, Mario, I’m just stating facts; take it rather as advice from a friend who appreciates you. Work, Mario, get something prepared, anything, and send if off to some journal or present it at some conference, and that’ll be that. Either way, write something, and quickly: I have to tell you that otherwise it’ll not be easy for me to stand up for you to the committee.’
XVI
Branstyne came to pick him up at seven. They took Lincoln Avenue, turned left on University and carried on towards the suburbs north of the city. They barely spoke during the drive. They parked in front of Branstyne’s house, a single-storey building, with white walls, big windows, a smooth green roof, crowned with two chimneys (one very small and metal, the other larger, rectangular and made of stone), above which swayed a willow. A gravel path across the garden led to the garage, whose silhouette stood out against a dense mass of vegetation.
They went into the dining room. From the kitchen they could hear the clinking of glasses, cutlery and saucepans, as well as a delicate smell of pasta. Tina soon appeared wrapped in a brown apron, her hair dishevelled, her smile radiant. Mario thought she looked lovely. They kissed hello.
‘Dinner will be ready in a minute,’ said Tina. Looking at Mario with shining eyes she added, ‘It’s going to be absolutely delicious.’ And she went back into the kitchen.
‘We’ve got time for a drink,’ said Branstyne. ‘What would you like?’
‘A dry Martini,’ answered Mario.
Branstyne prepared two dry Martinis with ice. He handed one to Mario and sat in an armchair, facing him.
‘So, how’s the situation, then?’ he asked as if picking up a recently interrupted conversation where they had left off.
‘What situation?’
‘Your position in the department.’
Mario was annoyed by Branstyne’s brusqueness, by the way he’d almost rushed to raise the issue, as if he’d only been invited to dinner to talk about it. What for? he wondered, in confusion.
‘Bad,’ Mario admitted, suddenly feeling like talking. ‘How would you expect it to be? In reality things couldn’t be any worse since Berkowickz arrived.’ And as he said this he was also thinking it for the first time.
‘What’s Berkowickz got to do with it?’
‘He’s practically fired me,’ said Mario as if to himself, without intending to answer Branstyne’s question.
‘Berkowickz fired you?’
‘No,’ said Mario, returning to the conversation. ‘Scanlan. I spoke to him this morning: now I know that in June they won’t renew my contract.’
‘That can’t be,’ Branstyne declared with conviction. ‘Those kinds of things are decided by the committee, and the committee can’t rescind a contract just like that. They’d have to wait at least until Christmas.’
‘Whether at Christmas or in the spring, it doesn’t matter,’ said Mario. ‘The main thing is the decision’s been made. Scanlan dominates the committee, and it’ll do what Scanlan wants. Today he told me I’m a mediocrity, that I don’t publish enough, basically, that I don’t measure up. He called me in to humiliate me, Branstyne, and also to cover his back, to be able to fire me with impunity, almost with a clear conscience . . . What gets me is that he’s such a cynic’
‘It’s his job.’
‘To be a cynic?’
‘To make the department function according to regulations.’
‘And for that he has to fire me?’
‘For that he has to make sure those regulations are respected.’
‘Now you’re starting to sound like him.’
There was a silence.
‘Everything’ll work out,’ said Branstyne at last, in a conciliatory tone.
‘Don’t be an idiot, Branstyne,’ said Mario, no longer repressing the fury pounding in his temples. ‘Nothing’s going to work out here because there’s nothing to work out. At this point I’ll be happy just to make it to June without them cutting my salary again.’
Tina came into the dining room, made herself a Martini and went to sit on an arm of the chair where Branstyne had fallen silent. Since the silence persisted, Tina asked, ‘What were you talking about?’
‘A mutual friend,’ answered Mario. ‘Daniel Berkowickz. Since he arrived here the whole world’s been smiling on me. First it was my ankle, and from then on it hasn’t stopped. I used to be paid a salary; now I get a third of a salary. I used to think I had a secure job; now I know I won’t last long in it. I used to have an office; now I’ve got a sort of stable that can only be called an office so as not to offend the Chinaman and the nutcase I share it with.’ He paused. He looked at his Martini, the pieces of ice floating in the liquid. He added, ‘I also used to have a girlfriend.’
‘But it was just as if you didn’t,’ said Tina softly. ‘You never paid her any attention.’
>
Mario didn’t say anything; he kept his gaze fixed on his glass, swirling it gently to move the ice around. Branstyne, sunk ever deeper into his armchair, seemed unwilling to emerge from the silence in which he’d enclosed himself. Tina drank a sip of her Martini without taking her eyes off Mario. She asked, ‘What’s happened with Ginger?’
‘I suppose she got fed up,’ said Mario. ‘The truth is she didn’t give me much explanation.’
‘And don’t tell me you’ve decided to fall in love with her now.’
‘I probably already was before,’ Mario ventured, raising his eyes and looking at Tina with a malicious or ironic expression that she didn’t understand. ‘Only I didn’t know it.’
Tina stood up from the arm of the chair and went to sit down on the sofa, beside Mario’s armchair.
‘Look, Mario,’ she began in possibly an admonishing tone. ‘Forgive me for being direct, but someone has to be with you. What you’re saying is fine for someone under twenty years of age. After that it’s pathetic, if not worse. Only adolescents and idiots insist on wanting what they don’t have and not wanting what they have. Only adolescents and idiots are incapable of appreciating something until they’ve lost it.’ She stopped for a moment; then she went on. ‘You know perfectly well you made Ginger suffer terribly. What she’s done is only sensible: I confess in her place I would have done the same thing myself, except much sooner.’
‘You seem to think people are conspiring against you or something,’ Branstyne intervened in support of Tina, sitting up a little in his armchair and crossing his legs. ‘It’s ridiculous. Tina’s right: only a teenager thinks things like that. As for Berkowickz, I’ll tell you one thing: he does appreciate you. As for the rest (and I’m telling you this because I appreciate you as well), you should follow his example, but not just from the academic point of view: Berkowickz is a lively, energetic, enterprising guy who knows how to see the good side of things and get the best out of them. I’m being sincere: I’m delighted that he’s here, it’s as if a breath of fresh air has come into the department. And as for Scanlan, you already know my opinion: he’s only trying to do the job he’s taken on to the best of his abilities. Scanlan’s the boss and he has the right to raise the level of the department; everyone would be harmed if he didn’t. That’s the way things are, Mario,’ Branstyne concluded emphatically, ‘and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
Mario contained the urge to leave. He gulped down the last of his Martini. For a moment he thought he was appearing before a tribunal that couldn’t or didn’t want to tell him what he was accused of. He thought: Just like a nightmare.
‘In any case,’ Branstyne continued, perhaps made impatient by Mario’s silence, ‘I don’t think the situation’s all that serious, at least not yet. What you have to do is buckle down, Mario, get to work. Tell me: how long’s it been since you published something? A year, two, three?’
‘Three years,’ said Mario. ‘Three years and two months, to be precise.’
‘Three years,’ Branstyne repeated, shrugging his shoulders and looking at Tina. He turned back to Mario. ‘Frankly, I don’t understand how you can complain about Scanlan. What you should do instead is get something together and try to publish it somewhere.’
‘I don’t have anything ready,’ Mario admitted.
‘The Association Conference isn’t till January,’ said Branstyne. ‘You’ve still got four months: more than enough time. And whoever gives a paper at the Association Conference can speak anywhere else. It’s just a question of goodwill, Mario, of making a gesture. I’m sure that if you do Scanlan will find a solution; the only thing he’s asking is that you give him a reason to look for one.’
Tina stood up and went to the kitchen. After a moment she returned and sat back down on the sofa.
‘Mario,’ said Tina to break the silence. ‘We’re all trying to help you.’
Mario talked very little during dinner; he barely ate, he was a bundle of nerves and his throat felt restricted. Branstyne regarded him with a mixture of compassion and affection. Tina kept the conversation going: she talked about mutual friends, Italy, a grant the biology department had given her, their vacation.
At the end of the meal Mario complimented Tina on her fettuccini. He also promised to come back again another day.
Branstyne dropped him off in front of his house at ten.
‘I can’t pick you up tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a morning class and I’ve got a few things to do around the house: you know how it is, having a family is like running a small business.’
Mario nodded. He said, ‘Don’t worry. The bus stops right there.’
He opened the door to get out, then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around: Branstyne was saying goodbye in a way that said, ‘Come on, we’re all trying to help you.’ Mario held back a violent urge to punch him in the face.
When Branstyne’s car turned the corner, Mario lit a cigarette and walked down West Oregon with faltering steps, leaning on the crutch. It was hot, humid and clammy; the bulbs of the street lights, filthy with mosquito corpses, spread a weak, yellowish light over the pavement. He got to Race, turned left and headed towards Lincoln Square. He went into the Embassy.
It was a small bar, dark and narrow, the walls and floors covered in wood. On the right a succession of wooden tables traversed the room, bathed in the light from the lamps that hung above each one. The bar stretched along the left with metal and wood stools that grew out of the floor like mushrooms. Behind the bar a mirror reproduced the smoky atmosphere of the bar, almost deserted at this hour. A young couple were talking at one of the tables near the door, several husky-looking men were throwing darts at a board, another two men were drinking at the bar, alone.
Mario leaned the crutch against the bar, sat on a stool and ordered a whisky. When it arrived he lit a cigarette. At twelve-thirty, after three whiskies and half a pack of Marlboros, he noticed there was no one else left in the bar, except the bartender. He paid and left.
When he got back to his building he saw a light on in Berkowickz’s apartment. He went carefully up the stairs, making sure they didn’t creak. He paused on the landing, listened closely, held his breath: he heard music, and voices he didn’t recognise.
When he got into bed he realized he was drunk.
XVII
The next day he woke up with a dry mouth, his temples pierced by a slight stab of pain. He swallowed two aspirins with a glass of orange juice, shaved, showered with his left foot wrapped in a plastic bag and had just a cup of coffee for breakfast.
He left the apartment. As he was turning the key he heard the door of the apartment opposite open. He turned around: astonished, without understanding at first, he faced Berkowickz and Ginger. They smiled. They said good morning, exclaimed over the encounter with a disproportionate effusion that at first struck Mario as malevolent, later as simply unthinking. Flustered, he stammered something. Berkowickz kept talking as the three of them went down the stairs. They stopped on the porch.
‘Are you going to the department?’ asked Ginger. Her mouth had frozen into a perfect smile. ‘If you want we could give you a lift.’
Mario looked at her with incredulous eyes, almost agonising behind the lenses of his glasses. Ginger didn’t register, or didn’t want to register, Mario’s look, and might have repeated the offer, because he replied, ‘No need.’ Then he lied. ‘Branstyne’s going to pass by to pick me up in a minute.’
Berkowickz took advantage of the silence Mario’s answer had opened up to lament amiably that, despite being neighbours, they still hadn’t found a moment for a quiet chat. ‘I have an idea,’ he said, passing a possessive arm along Ginger’s neck and resting it on her left shoulder. ‘Why don’t you come by my apartment this evening and we’ll have a drink together?’
Mario clumsily looked for an excuse to turn down the invitation. He didn’t have time to find one.
‘OK,’ said Berkowickz, undoubtedly thinking that by saying n
othing Mario was consenting. ‘Come by whenever you like: I’ll be home all evening.’
‘See you later, Mario,’ said Ginger, still smiling. ‘We’ll see you at the office.’
He watched them walk hand in hand to Berkowickz’s car. Trying not to think about what he’d just seen, he noticed it had rained overnight: the air was clean and smelled of damp earth, the nine o’clock sun, encrusted in a pure cloudless sky, twinkled on the lawn. Berkowickz and Ginger turned back to wave to him, their hands reaching out of the car windows, as they drove down West Oregon.
Mario took the bus, went into Lincoln Hall, gave his lecture, crossed the Quad, got to the department, picked up his mail, said hello to Joyce, to Wojcik, to Hyun, talked for a while with Olalde, caught the bus again, had lunch and then a nap. None of these activities, however, managed to stimulate his brain enough to stop ruminating over his meeting with Ginger and Berkowickz, nor the engagement, for that very evening, he had with the latter. The first event was easy enough to interpret: since it was now irreversible, he tried to forget it (he couldn’t: Ginger’s smile floated on the lips of the red-headed student, on Joyce’s, on Wojcik’s and Hyun’s, on Olalde’s). Not so the second: in a confusing way he sensed that Berkowickz, perhaps unconsciously, was offering him an opportunity he shouldn’t waste. An opportunity for what? he wondered.
The Tenant and The Motive Page 6
