Beginner's Greek

by James Collins

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jonathan paused for a moment before continuing. “I’ve got to say, she’s, well, she’s kind of fantastic, actually.”

  “She is.”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “So what’s her name?”

  “Holly.”

  Holly.

  Peter reacted with a start. His heart began to pound and he flushed. Four years before he had sat next to a girl named Holly on a long airline flight and had fallen deeply in love with her; he had lost her phone number and had never seen her again, but he had thought about her hourly ever since. But what were the chances that Jonathan’s Holly and Peter’s Holly were the same person? He wanted to ask Jonathan more about her. But it was crazy. There were a million Hollys in the world.

  Jonathan’s apartment was already crowded when Peter arrived. How glossy everyone always looked at parties there, how loud and vibrant was the cacophonous talk. Peter got a drink and chatted with some people, and then he looked around for Jonathan. He found him easily, for he was sitting on the sofa in the living room. A young woman sat next to him, and she and Jonathan were holding hands. It was the young woman whom Peter had met on the plane. She looked almost exactly the same, except that her hair was shorter. The sight of her stunned Peter, knocking the wind out of him.

  He needed a moment to recover, but Jonathan had seen him and waved him over. The introduction. Exclamations. We’ve met before! You have? Yes, years ago on a plane. How amazing! Holly was excited and very friendly, but Peter felt nothing but despair, for she gave no indication that she had spent every waking moment since their parting thinking about him. She was wearing a rather low-cut silk blouse and extremely narrow black pants with a faint chalk stripe. She looked fantastic.

  Peter and Holly told Jonathan their story. They had bonded over Thomas Mann, of all things! Then their narrative petered out.

  “Well, so,” Jonathan asked, “you never saw each other after that?”

  Peter took Jonathan’s question to be a challenge. Of course, any halfway competent male who flew across the continent sitting next to a young woman like Holly would have managed to get her phone number. Peter felt compelled to stake his own claim to Holly, to show Jonathan that he had not failed in this respect, and to make sure Holly knew what had happened, whether she cared or not. True, in achieving these aims, he would make himself look idiotic, but that was not too high a price to pay.

  “Actually,” he said, “we were going to see each other again. Holly wrote her number on a piece of paper, and we were going to have dinner.” To identify the piece of paper would be to give Jonathan too intimate a detail, Peter thought. “But . . . uh . . . well . . .” He paused, turning red. “Well, I actually lost the piece of paper.”

  “You lost it!” said Holly. She put her hand on Peter’s arm. “You lost it! I always assumed that you just blew me off!”

  “Oh no!” Peter said. In his solipsism, it had never occurred to him that Holly might have been hurt. “I lost the number. I know, it was a fairly idiotic thing to do. I was at my hotel, and it was gone. I looked everywhere,” Peter said, “but somehow or other, the thing just disappeared.”

  “How kind of too bad,” Holly said. Her tone and expression reflected a touch of spontaneous warmth toward him that had thus far been lacking.

  “I sure thought so!” said Peter.

  “I bet you did!” said Jonathan.

  They all laughed a little.

  Jonathan had been observing the others closely. Now he smiled at both with affection. “What a close call for me!” he said. “If it had been different, then, well, who knows what might have happened? And maybe we would all be sitting here together, but it would all be . . . different.” His tone was mild, sweet, humorous, even a wee bit vulnerable. “I’m pretty lucky that Peter chose that moment to be fairly idiotic. It might be hard to believe, Holly, but that was actually out of character for him.”

  Holly laughed and squeezed Jonathan’s hand. No spoilsport, Peter laughed too. He and Holly exchanged a glance, and then some other guests approached, and the party’s momentum swept them all away. For the rest of the night, Peter sought out Holly, trying to have a private moment with her, but for some reason this opportunity was always denied him.

  One evening shortly after Peter had met Holly again, he received some further information about her attitude toward the Lost Phone Number. Holly was out and Peter was having a drink in Jonathan’s apartment before going to dinner. Waiting for a call from some other friends, Peter watched a hockey game and Jonathan corrected a proof.

  “Hey,” Jonathan said, without looking up from the page, “did you know that Holly really got a crush on you that time when you sat next to each other on the plane?”

  Trying to remain as cool as possible, Peter took a sip of his beer and continued to watch the Devils’ power play. “Really?” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Jonathan. He scrawled a couple of words in the margin and continued to work as he talked. “Yeah. We were talking about it, and that’s what she told me. So naturally it got me concerned and I said, ‘So what about now?’ She laughed. She said, ‘You’re jealous over somebody I sat next to on a plane years ago? Are you crazy?’ I guess it did sound pretty silly. Oh hell!” Jonathan drummed his pencil on the paper and then made an erasure. “Anyway, she told me not to worry. ‘You know how those things go,’ she said, ‘you meet somebody someplace with some kind of forced intimacy and you think there’s been some magic, and then two days later you’ve forgotten all about them.’ It’s interesting. That’s really true, don’t you think?” He whispered aloud a few words of his text and made a change. “Well, also she said that, you know, you’re such a nice guy that she bet you felt bad about not calling, but actually it was a relief that you didn’t. She had gotten so wrapped up in the baby, you can imagine, and there was the whole scene with her father and her sister, and then her mother coming. She didn’t know what she would have done if you had.” He crossed out a couple of words. “So anyway, phew. I wouldn’t want to have had to shoot you.” He teethed on his pencil, reclined in his chair, and held the proof up, frowning at it.

  This account had the unmistakable ring of truth, although Peter wished desperately that he could convince himself Jonathan was making it all up. But why would he bother? He had Holly. Also, Peter couldn’t remember a time when Jonathan had lied to him. Indeed, Jonathan had his own code of honor and rarely outright lied to any of his friends, not even to the women he was involved with; it was almost a principle, and it was part of the game, to juggle them without resorting to sheer mendacity.

  She laughed. Really nothing Jonathan had said had surprised Peter. Still, he felt heartsick. The Devils’ pusillanimous line had barely managed to get off a shot before the two sides evened up. Peter drank again from his beer and continued staring at the TV. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “we had a lot of fun talking on that flight. Holly’s great.”

  Peter saw very little of Jonathan and Holly over the following several weeks. She was getting a master’s degree in Classics at the university where Jonathan had his fellowship, and he virtually moved in with her as she finished. When they came to the city, Jonathan did not include Peter in their activities. Uncharacteristically, Jonathan rarely came to the city by himself, and he seemed to be devoting all his attention (within reason) to Holly alone. This time, it seemed to be serious. Holly had a thesis topic she was quite excited about (Horace, “authority”), but did she really want to be an academic? Jonathan was urging her to move to New York, and when Holly learned about a last-minute opening at an excellent girls’ school she applied and was hired. After a summer of travel, she and Jonathan established themselves in his apartment. Having seen Holly so rarely, Peter had not had much chance to return to the subject of their first meeting, and as time passed it felt more and more as if it would be awkward and strange to bring it up.

  The thing between Jonathan and Holly was serious. After living together for a while, they were married.
Peter and Holly had become quite good friends, but they never discussed their first meeting again. Peter had watched and waited — foolishly, he knew — and then he’d given up.

  Peter had eaten his appetizer without taking any notice of it; he could not have told anyone what it was. Holly was saying something to him, but he hadn’t answered.

  “Peter?”

  “Oh sorry. What was it you said?”

  “You seem to be a million miles away. Thinking about the big day?” Holly said this with the smile of a female friend who is indulgent of a man’s dread of his own wedding.

  “Oh, no, actually. But I should be. There’s a crisis about the cheese.”

  “Oh God!” Holly cried. “How horrible! I suppose Charlotte and her mother are treating it like the Algerian civil war.”

  “Basically, yeah. Torture, assassination, the whole bit.”

  “I guess I was lucky. My mother sat back and sort of vaguely watched everything happen. ‘That sounds lovely, dear’ was all she ever said. The only problem was that she easily could have forgotten the date and set off that day to buy a butterfly collection, or something else she had suddenly decided was a necessity.”

  “She certainly looked beautiful,” Peter said.

  “Well, she couldn’t help that.” Holly looked at Peter sympathetically. “I hope your nerves hold out for the next couple of weeks.”

  “Me, too.”

  Holly turned to Jonathan. “And as for you, you know your job, right? You do for Peter what he did for you: make sure he shows up.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Jonathan. “He’ll show up. Even if it’s at gunpoint.”

  The following morning Mac McClernand’s secretary called Peter to say that Mr. McClernand would like to see him “ay-sap.” After hanging up Peter stared at the phone. Maybe he should just resign right then and there. He could have a new job in a day! But . . . but . . . Beeche was where he wanted to work and he had come pretty far, and if he quit, Thropp would win. Peter had told his father about the situation, and he had laughed. “A boss who’s a son-of-a-bitch, a real son-of-a-bitch!” he had said. “Welcome to the club.” Peter’s father had begun his career working for an industrial pipe manufacturer, and he had risen fairly high in the company that had bought the company that had bought that one. He was canny and levelheaded about these things, and he advised Peter not to quit or to go at Thropp directly, but to figure out whose team he wanted to be on and do everything he could to convince that person that he was indispensable to him or her and that he or she had to steal him away from Thropp. Otherwise, he should sit tight. Some employers value loyalty, and this trial would pass. That was all very sound, but didn’t it reflect an old-fashioned corporate mentality that ill suited today’s buccaneering, fast-paced securities industry, where patience and loyalty lasted only as long as it took for the bonus check to clear? Actually, at Beeche patience and loyalty were often well rewarded, and the culture discouraged self-serving intrigue, although the firm still had its Thropps. It was a class operation, as people liked to say. So, okay, he’d overcome other challenges, it was just a matter of bearing down, enduring this one and learning as much from it as he could.

  Okay! All right! Let’s do it! With his confidence and optimism renewed by this self-administered pregame pep talk, Peter set off to find McClernand’s office. This was more difficult than he’d expected, even taking into account the size of the Beeche Building. He went up and down and up again in a couple of elevator banks until he finally reached the wing and floor that he thought were the right ones. Stepping out of the elevator, Peter found that there was no security desk or departmental receptionist, just a pair of glass doors at one end of a vestibule. He approached them and saw that the device that read identification cards had a yellowing, handwritten sign over it: out of order pleas call security. He noticed that one door was open a crack, and he tried it; it swung open easily — its lock and latch were broken. He walked along a corridor and in one office saw desks and chairs stacked up. In another, computer monitors lay strewn on the floor.

  Peter followed the office numbers until he found the right one. The door was open, and he peered inside and saw a woman with her head bent over her desk; he knocked, and the woman looked up, saying, “Oh! It’s you! We’ve been expecting you! Please come in!”

  Peter entered and the woman quickly rose to greet him. She was full-figured and in her fifties, with brassy red hair, black eyebrows, and one discolored front tooth. She made every utterance with great enthusiasm.

  “You’re Mr. Russell, aren’t you?!”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Sheila, Mr. McClernand’s secretary!”

  “How do you do, Sheila?”

  They shook hands.

  “Very nice to meet you! I’m so glad you’re here! Now, just have a seat, and I’ll tell Mr. McClernand!”

  Peter sat. He had noticed that she had been working on a crossword puzzle and now he saw that well-worn books of crosswords and brainteasers were piled on her desk.

  “Mr. McClernand?! Mr. Russell is here to see you!” A pause. “Yes, sir! I’ll tell him!” Sheila hung up the phone. “He’ll be with you in just a few minutes!” She smiled brightly at Peter, as if she had delivered the most exciting news. And then she returned to her crossword.

  Peter waited. The only sounds came from the occasional scratch of Sheila’s pencil and the white hum of the air handlers. Time passed. No one popped his head in the door to have a word with Mac. The phone did not ring, and no lights shone to indicate that any lines were engaged. Sheila’s pencil made a skittering noise, like a small reptile running across the sand. After what seemed like a long time, the door to the inner office did suddenly open, very loudly, and, preceded by a waft of “masculine” scent, there appeared Mac McClernand.

  “Well, well!” he said, smiling broadly and holding out his hand. “Peter Russell! Sorry to keep you waiting. Got hung up on a couple of things.” He cocked his head toward the ceiling with a smirk. “Sixty-eight. You know how it is.” Sixty-eight was a floor where some of the biggest big shots had their offices.

  Peter rose and shook McClernand’s hand.

  “How do you do?” he said.

  “Fine, fine. I’ll just be one more minute.” McClernand spoke sharply to Sheila. “Sheila, did we get that packet out?”

  Sheila had not been listening.

  “Sheila, did we get that packet out?”

  Sheila heard this time and looked up with an expression of shock and bewilderment. “The packet . . . ?” she said. “The pack — ? Oh! The packet! Yes, sir! It’s being messengered!”

  “Good,” McClernand said. “And you’ve moved my breakfast with Erlanger to Wednesday, right?”

  “Yes, sir! All taken care of!”

  “Okay! Well, Peter, please, come on in.”

  McClernand put his hand on Peter’s back and guided him through the door, then turned to Sheila. “Move my five o’clock back to five-thirty,” he said. “Oh — and hold my calls.”

  Mac McClernand was in his sixties. He had an egg-shaped body, and his pants, held up by suspenders, rode at the latitude of greatest circumference. Freckles covered his hands and face, and his flesh tone was taupe. His furzelike hair seemed to hover above his scalp, and Peter could not determine whether that was because of its natural buoyancy, or because it was a comb-over, or because it was fake.

  They had sat, and McClernand was leaning far back in his desk chair and looking at Peter so that his chin and jaw disappeared in folds of flesh. His hands were clasped, except for his index fingers, which were extended together; studying Peter, he tapped his mouth with their tips.

  “So. Peter,” he said finally. “I guess we’re going to do a little work together.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hear good things about you. You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Of course, they only send me the best.” McClernand laughed, bari
ng his grayish teeth. Presently his laugh turned into a phlegmy, wheezing, racking cough. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief and bent over, coughing so long and hard that his face turned red and his eyes teared.

  Peter half rose from his seat. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine, fine,” McClernand said in a stage whisper. After a moment or two he brought the eruptions under control, took a gulp from a glass of water, and wiped his brow and eyes.

  “Harrumm. Harrumrummrum. Damn allergies. So where were we? Oh yes. Yes, I’ve been told damn good things about you.”

  “I’m certainly glad to hear that.”

  McClernand smiled a bit devilishly.

  “But,” he said, “but . . . I guess maybe you took a knock with that new idea of yours.”

  “It was very preliminary.”

  Holding up his hand, McClernand knit his brow and pursed his lips and nodded. “Oh, I know, I know. It was very preliminary, just something to kick around. Of course.” He chuckled and shook his head. “But still, I guess they figured it wouldn’t do you any harm to buddy up with an old bastard who’s seen a thing or two in his time, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  As he looked at Peter, McClernand’s expression softened, becoming almost paternal. He nodded his head slowly. “You know,” he said, “you remind me of myself when I was just coming along.”

  Oh God! Peter almost blurted out. “Really?”

  “Yes, yes indeed,” McClernand said. He beamed at Peter. He made a mumbly-grumbly noise. Then he clapped his hands, rubbed them together, and said, “Okay, then. Let’s get to work.”

  He swiveled in his chair and lifted an object off a shelf. Then, holding it with care between his hands, he gently set it down on his desk. He adjusted it fussily so that it was parallel to the desk’s edge. Then he took his hands away slowly, as if it were carefully balanced. He had been mumbly-grumbling throughout this operation, but now, leaning back in his chair, he stopped and sighed. He gestured to the object with an open hand, smiling. “Peter,” he said, “what do you see in front of you?”