“Would you like me to show you around?” Peter Lorre leered. “I’ve heard the tour so many times, I can easily give it myself.”
Before Bruno could protest, the guard launched into his explanation. “It takes 70 days to make a mummy. First you remove the internal organs. Except the heart,” he gestured at Bruno’s chest, “… and the brain.” He touched Bruno’s forehead. “Then you put the body in a bed of natron, which is a kind of salt that’s only found in Egypt. Finally, you anoint the body with oil and spices.”
“Sounds like making lox,” Bruno joked. But the guard ignored him.
“The priests would pray and place golden amulets on the body. Then they’d begin wrapping the mummy in linen bandages.”
“Shmattes,” interrupted Bruno. “I’m expert in ancient Semitic languages and the technical term is shmatte.”
Peter Lorre ignored him. “When that was done, they’d place him, or her, in a series of coffins. Why did they do all of this? Because the ancient Egyptians believed that a person was made up of four different elements. Each of these needed a place to reside after death. The Akh goes up to live with the gods. The Ka is the person’s vital energy; that’s what all this stuff is for, because the Ka needs to keep eating and drinking in the afterlife.” Moving close to Bruno’s face, Peter Lorre opened his eyes as wide as they could go. “I guess that’s the scary part.” He giggled. “Running into a hungry Ka at night. The Ba is a human-headed bird that goes flying around. And the Ren, of course, is the name that needs to be preserved and repeated.”
Bruno went white. Hearing about the hungry Ka and the flying Ba had struck him with a new idea. “The name needs to be preserved and repeated.” He smacked his fist into his open palm. “Of course. I’m such a shmegegge.”
He ran out with the guard following him, yelling, “Hey wait, you haven’t seen the mistake carved into the Pharaoh’s throne. It’s the world’s oldest typo.”
Bruno ran all the way to the station. He caught the train back to Jersey, just as the sun’s rays turned bright orange in the polluted sky.
Chapter 20
The orange glow also highlighted Alison’s hair mousse, making her look exotic beyond her years. Nate Littlejohn invited her into his living room and offered her a single-malt scotch. His apartment was ultra-modern, a bit museum-like with scientific apparati, phrenological heads, straitjackets, stuffed baboons and so forth displayed like art. The walls were painted in dark, masculine colors. Typical bachelor pad, thought Alison.
Littlejohn hadn’t changed since their meeting earlier in the afternoon and Alison’s splendor took him by surprise. “You look lovely tonight. I’m glad you decided to come. Here we can talk without artificial student-teacher roles getting in the way.”
Alison smiled. She was determined to get what she wanted, and if Littlejohn was more comfortable talking in his apartment, so be it. “Thank you, Professor Littlejohn,” she said. “I really need your help.”
“Please, call me Nate,” Littlejohn insisted, adding, “It sounds like you’ve done something that goes beyond the scope of the assignment?”
“Maybe I did.” Alison feigned innocence for a moment, to get his guard down. Then she let him have it: “To tell the truth, though, I don’t see what difference it makes, now that we’ve dropped our artificial student-teacher roles.”
Littlejohn took a deep breath and started over. He decided to take the high road this time. “Alison, do you remember how Emerson went to visit Thoreau in prison? Emerson says to Thoreau, ‘Why are you here?’ And Thoreau answers, ‘Why aren’t you?’”
“Sure. Civil Disobedience. Thoreau’s saying it’s a responsibility. That’s exactly my point.”
“But Thoreau’s in jail.”
“So?”
“You said yourself, you’re concerned about legal implications—that’s why you want to talk to me.”
“Yeah.”
“But you have to realize, if you talk to me … about something illegal … that will definitely have implications for me … and my job. And I still don’t have any idea what this is all about.”
“I figured as the Deviant professor, you must be willing to take some risks. Aren’t you a risk-taker, Nate?”
Littlejohn had to admit he liked this brazen tone and he responded in kind. “I guess I prefer Emerson to Thoreau. He spoke his mind, but he still had a comfortable place to live, a steady income and he didn’t have to do any jail time. My philosophy is to corrupt from within.”
That was all the encouragement she needed. “I was reading about women in the Third World; they grow most of the food on the planet, did you know that?”
“OK. I’m with you.”
“Traditionally, they grew almost 200 varieties of plants. For thousands of years. Then these giant corporations come along and force them to just grow corn or something stupid like that. They patent crops and make people pay for their own seeds. They’re stealing the world’s biodiversity and starving people to death. I get so angry about it, I could scream.”
Littlejohn nodded in encouragement.
“So I wanted to do something about it. Something deviant, like you talked about in class.”
Littlejohn frowned but Alison ignored it.
“So my … friend and I, we … er … borrowed this truck and drove out to this … biotech … this awful company in my hometown, just across the river in Jersey that performs terrible genetic experiments. We wanted to sneak in and do something like liberate the lab rats and mice or at least throw rocks through the greenhouse windows.”
“That’s very daring,” said Littlejohn. “But I don’t remember reading anything about that in the paper. Usually they try to blow up these protests like they’re a big deal and call them eco-terrorism.”
“Well, you didn’t read about it because it never happened.”
“Ah.”
“Like I told you, we ran into something we didn’t expect.”
“Yes. And …” He was getting impatient.
Alison sensed this was the moment of truth. She had to show him the goods or the deal was off. She moved closer and said in the most sincere voice she could manage, “I really need your help, Nate. Because what I witnessed there could make a big difference. It could bring down the company—definitely. But if we handle it right, we might be able to stop the entire industry in its tracks.”
“Sounds unbelievable,” Littlejohn said.
Alison reacted to his obvious lack of enthusiasm. “You aren’t taking me seriously.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Littlejohn faced her squarely and took a step closer. “You’re making some large claims, but you haven’t told me your basis for making them.”
“This is important, Nate. I need to know if I can trust you.” She looked him squarely in the eye.
“Alison, you can trust me.” Littlejohn reached out and began kneading the muscles in her neck and shoulders. “I can see you’re stressed. And I’m worried it may be affecting your judgment.”
“Don’t patronize me!” She wriggled free of his grasp. “What if I told you this was about murder, Nate? Would that be enough to earn your respect? Or would you sneer that I’m just another hysterical freshman?” She was pounding his shoulders as hard as she could, simultaneously, with both hands. “Because that’s what they do over there at NewGarden Biosciences, Nate. They kill people. The question is, are you going to help me stop them?”
Littlejohn’s mind was racing at top speed. This couldn’t be happening: One of his students, involved in a murder while working to fulfill a course requirement. It’d be laughable if it weren’t so horrible. It was time to take control of the situation. He caught both her hands so she would stop pounding his chest. “Alison, this is serious. If they really are killing people, why don’t you report it to the police?”
Alison’s frustration was uncontrollable. “This is supposed to be fucking deviant behavior! No matter how you cut it, calling the cops is not a revolutionary act … and …” she
was starting to lose her composure, “… and I’m involved. It wouldn’t be safe. I’m afraid of what might happen to me.” She burst into bitter tears again, clearly suffering.
Littlejohn released her wrists and slid his hands up to her shoulders. “You did the right thing coming here, Alison,” he said in his most soothing manner. “I can tell what you need most of all is to relax. Maybe a backrub would help you calm down.”
Alison went numb. She had suspected it might come to this. But, one way or another, she still needed Littlejohn’s help—even if it was just an introduction to Nathalie Porthous. She also thought of Thoreau …
The backrub was perfunctory at best, and Alison was soon naked except for the fawn-colored camisole. Littlejohn was only partially undressed as well. He discarded his khakis and outlandishly patterned boxer shorts. But his oxford shirt was pulled up partway, where it acted effectively as a straitjacket. Alison worked away on top of him, her breasts floating a few tantalizing inches from his mouth. She pressed on his shoulders like a wrestler while she ground down with all her weight and strength against his hips.
Just at the moment of climax, Alison pulled away.
“You little bitch!” Littlejohn snarled. “I’ll be sure to send you my cleaning bill.” Then he noticed the angry flush mounting from Alison’s chest to her face, and he attempted a more tactful retreat. “You know, Alison, this is as deviant an act as anything my other students have ever performed. Why don’t you write about it for your paper and forget about those other things?”
The callousness of the remark reignited Alison’s fury. “Other things!” She grabbed his discarded boxers and tore them in half. “Maybe I should take you to the cleaners, you filthy …”
—“Alison, that just came out horribly wrong. I believe you. I really do.”
She tried to hit him with all her strength. “Liar. Hypocrite. Asshole.”
—“Alison, calm down. I’m on your side. I really am.”
“I won’t calm down. I won’t calm down. I won’t calm down,” she raved in time with each attempt to beat him around the face and chest. “This isn’t deviant. This is pathetic. It’s routine. It’s mainstream. I’m not going to write about this …” She gestured toward Littlejohn and the bed.
Finally Littlejohn capitulated. “OK, Alison. There’s a journalist I know. I’ll call her and see what I can do. Alison, please, you’ve got to trust me.”
Alison stopped trying to beat him, though she still eyed him warily. She gathered up the careless pile of clothing from the bed and flounced toward the door, slamming it with every ounce of melodrama she possessed.
Chapter 21
After Alison left, Littlejohn was surprised to notice that he kept thinking about the Sixers celebrating after the last time Philly won the NBA championship—back in ’83. Une belle souvenir. Four straight against the Lakers. Julius Erving, Maurice Cheeks, Moses Malone, and Andrew Toney shaking bottles of cheap champagne and pouring the foam all over each other. That was the year he got tenure. A good time. One of his favorite memories. That, and taking over the Dean’s office when he was an undergraduate at Columbia. Those were the days, my friend.
The memory gave him a hankering for real champagne. First he needed a shower: Six minutes under the hot water revived him. He dried himself, then padded into the kitchen, wearing a freshly laundered royal blue satin robe. Littlejohn always kept a bottle of Bollinger on ice and he opened it with flair. A practiced twist, a barely audible pop, nothing wasted. He sipped as he walked around his apartment.
Feeling clean and rejuvenated, Littlejohn got a jolt when he looked at his bed—the tangle of soiled sheets. This wouldn’t do. He stripped the bed and plunged the sheets in the laundry hamper. Then he reconsidered and moved them to the trash.
Years of experience had taught him not to worry. But Alison did seem a bit worked up when she left. Was she a troublemaker? Probably. But so what? Plainly what had happened between them had been consensual. And after all, he was the professor of deviant behavior, what should people expect?
By now he’d nearly finished the bottle of Bollinger and was feeling quite “numinous.” He put on some jazz, early Ornette Coleman and late Eric Dolphy, and, deeply contented, fell asleep.
Next morning, Littlejohn wasn’t feeling nearly as chipper. He had a raging hangover and nothing seemed right. Littlejohn dropped his robe to the floor and waddled toward the bathroom. The combination of a hot shower and strong coffee should’ve done the trick. But it didn’t.
They met in a coffee shop in Nathalie Porthous’ neighborhood, just off Rittenhouse Square. An oasis, between the bustle of Center City and the intellectual frenzy on campus. Nathalie was already seated with Paul Conway, the litigation expert in the law school. He’d forged his reputation in the ’60s and was still regarded as a keen wit and a feared legal opponent.
When Littlejohn entered, Nathalie held the floor. He could tell right away she was in good form. She had already launched into one of her famous rants about the sad state of intellectual life on campus. “Have you noticed how things have changed since we were students? We had a real sense of commitment, but also a sense of playfulness. Openness to discovery has been replaced with a kind of grim rectitude. I feel like students are putting notches in their belt for their different countercultural accomplishments: Be the first to OD on the latest designer drug. Get arrested at a protest. Smuggle Cuban cigars back from Paris. If I hear one more kid say they wish they had more black friends, or gay friends, I swear I’m gonna puke.”
“I’ve noticed the same thing,” said Conway. “But it’s more like collecting merit badges. Give blood and live in a shantytown. Throw a brick through a store window. See the right bands in person—for the boys; sleep with the band members—for the girls …”
Littlejohn saw his opening and interrupted him. “I can never figure out the attraction of musicians when these women have the option of sleeping with their professors, which makes a lot more sense.”
“You mean like that little grade grubber I saw in your office yesterday?” asked Porthous. She knew Conway and Littlejohn liked to test her sensibilities, and she relished the opportunity to respond in kind. “You should have seen the serious expression on Nate’s face yesterday. I knew she was getting him excited.”
Conway laughed. “Undergraduate pussy. It’s our one professional perk.”
Porthous glared. It never took Conway long to find her limit. “I’ve made my life’s work studying how stupid and immature men can be.” She looked right at Conway and shook her head in disgust. “Yet you guys always find a way to plumb new depths. You never grow up, do you?”
Conway was not about to be cowed so easily. He high-fived Littlejohn, laughing, “Nate Littlejohn: the Professor of Perversity.”
Littlejohn high-fived the lawyer in return. “And Paul Conway? He’s the Counsel of the Corrupt.”
“The Dean of Depravity!”
“The Advocate of the Devil himself! But wait, we’re forgetting about Nathalie.” Both men stood and bowed in her direction.
“Our gracious queen …”
“Whom we honor and obey …”
“The ultimate arbiter …”
“Of the destiny of our tribe: homo academicus …”
“Femina aeterna cacademicus, materfamilias nostras. We grovel at your feet.”
“Virilis perditoris maximama …”
“Enough!” shouted Porthous, playing along with the gag by raising both hands in a regal gesture. “I accept your obeisance and I command you to shut the fuck up.”
When they all finally stopped laughing, she continued. “I was serious about what I was saying before. These students today, it’s like I don’t trust them. Sure, they say all the right stuff. But somehow the right spirit isn’t there. I feel like, after all our hard work, they’ll graduate and then just go out and get high-paying jobs and turn into their parents.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Littlejohn. “You know Alison, the student who
came to see me, the one Nathalie called a tramp? Like you, I had her pegged as a grade grubber at first. But, after talking to her for a while, I think she may be doing something interesting.”
“You really did get your ashes hauled, didn’t you?” Porthous scoffed.
“What’s so interesting about her?” Conway pretended to pout. “And why didn’t you introduce me to her right away?”
Littlejohn ignored him. “Alison came to me because she really went over the top on her assignment for Deviant Behavior. She said she sneaked onto the grounds of a corporation over in Jersey that she was targeting for a deviant exercise. She wanted to destroy the greenhouses or let the lab animals go free.”
“An eco-feminist,” the lawyer commented. “That’s good. They’ll do or say anything.”
“You’re a bad boy, Conway!” Porthous laughed.
“Paul. Nathalie. This is serious. She said she had information about something going on over there that could get the company in trouble and, possibly, could be used to derail the biotech industry.”
“A modest accomplishment,” commented Porthous. “You know undergraduates. They always think the whole world’s going to change, just because they show up on the scene. Just the other day, this kid comes up to me and says, ‘My paper on the Minoan Phallosocracy is going to revolutionize gender theory in the ancient world.’ I said to her, ‘Did you ever try to get a grant all the time knowing all the men on the board are thinking I wouldn’t give this black bitch a dime—unless of course I get to fuck her?’ I said, ‘Until you’ve had that experience, don’t talk to me about revolutionizing anything. You got to pay your dues, sister.’”
“Way to go, Nathalie. Did you make her cry?”
“No.” Porthous seemed surprised. “She thanked me. The women in my classes are tough.”
“Nate, did she tell you exactly what she had on this corporation?” Conway asked.
“She said that they were killing people and it was up to her to stop them.”
The Violet Crow Page 8
