Chimpanzee (15 page)

“Very well.”

He frowns. “
Do
you have a relationship with Miss Johnson?”

“I may,” I say. “Who is she?”

I look into the amphitheater, plumbing depth and attendance from on high, with these officers.

The officer shows me a photograph of Zoe. It is a candid shot: she is descending the stoop in front of an apartment building—somewhere downtown, judging by the ashlars and stringcourses in the architecture. She is not looking at the photographer. There are handwritten numbers along the bottom.

I think about the woman on the chimping network.

“This person attends my class,” I say. “On occasion.”

I see David in the crosswalk across the street, coming late to class. When he sees the officers, he paints them with his best hatred gaze and reverses his direction.

“Where can we find her?”

I wonder if he means
we
in the sense of law enforcement collectively, or if he is actualizing semantic cooperation. A game to determine who I am and what I will do.

I turn away and stare again into the amphitheater. “She doesn't seem to be here today.”

He wants me to ask him if there's a problem. If Zoe's in some kind of trouble. Play along.

But I couldn't care less. Zoe is interesting because she is interesting, not because I feel attached. One must keep distances between oneself and one's students. One should, anyway.

He hands me his business card. I put it in my pocket without looking at it.

“If you see her again,” he says, “let her know that we'd like to ask her a few questions.”

“Will there be anything else, officer?”

“Yes. Class is canceled. City ordinance.”

“Which ordinance is that?”

“If you are caught fomenting civic discord in public again, you will be detained.”

“It's a
rhetoric
class.”

The quiet one produces a copy of
The Mountainist
. The first officer opens it to the page containing my original advertisement for the class. He points to the chimpanzee image I used.

“Are you associated with any groups that identify with this imagery, Mr. Cade?”

“It's just an advertisement,” I say. “Chimpanzees seem to be the thing these days. I thought it would attract people to my class.”

“This group has become an organization of interest,” he says. “I recommend that you don't reference their imagery again.”

He hands the circular back to his partner. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Cade.”

“That's it,” I say.

I can't figure out if I'm angry or not. It was bound to happen, and sooner or later, I wouldn't even be capable of teaching it anymore anyway. I don't know how I was going to end it.

Most of them just stand up and go. Move along.

I never cared when students dropped my class. It made my job easier.

“What do we do now?” one says. One of the retirees.

“I don't know,” I say. “Teach each other. Keep it up.”

“Good luck, Dr. Cade.”

“Thanks,” I say. They're being emotional. Standing there in a little group. Staring at me for some parting experience. Something to cap it all off while the classmates they smiled at and chatted with and waved to in happy coincidences in the bread line, exchanging quips about missed classes and their plans for the weekend. While those classmates become inert humanshapes around them. Irrelevant to experience.

I watch the dispersal.

“Et cetera,” I say.

Sireen says. She's talking into her phone, in her palm, where her mother's face tries to remain steady upon the screen. Her tremors are only getting worse. The video image brings them into Sireen's life every few weeks, when they talk. They never speak of it—the disease. But I see Sireen's efforts, from time to time, on her computer. The files and sites and browsing odysseys that take her into her mother's world, where she tries to understand dying. And I can tell when she's talking to her cousin. The doctor in Beirut. Who answers idiot questions and dispenses reassurance and yes he'll talk to his colleagues at the hospital. Only the best. Everything we can do.

Sireen says.

I only met her mother once, at our wedding. It was in the middle of a semester because the venue was cheaper then. We paid for it with our student loan disbursement. Her mother stayed with us that weekend. I had a paper to write.

Sireen waves at me. I stop in the middle of the living room. Just stand there.

Sireen says.

                    
It was in the                        . Little cups of Turkish coffee that I'd fucked up, but Huda, her mother, was too nice                        . She smiled almost as much as Sireen did, who was out at                                .

                    
It's okay, Ben,
, she said. You'll do everything. Write your paper. What is it about?