Mudwoman (14 page)

For the Black River Road had collapsed into the riverbed like a toothless mouth and desperately/recklessly she’d turned onto the narrow unpaved detour-road though knowing—with a part of her mind absolutely knowing—that if she didn’t turn back immediately she would be late for the event that evening in Ithaca; she would be late, very late, for the occasion when M. R. Neukirchen was to be elevated above a banquet room of onlookers.

Readied. You must be readied.

And where is the Angel of the Lord, to save you?

Taking a turn—a tight turn—carelessly and recklessly and half-sobbing beforehand as if knowing what would happen—knowing what would not-happen: her speech, the applause—suddenly she found herself in the skidding and then overturned Toyota in the ditch beside the detour-road tangled and part-strangled in the safety belt too dazed now to sob or cry aloud for help she saw her life flash before her swift and airy and of no more consequence than a trout-fly cast upon a glittering but shallow stream.

Waking then hours later—was this
waking
?—chill sunshine and a taste of brackish blood in her mouth and blood-mucus crusting her nose and a stranger’s face—a stranger’s staring eyes—
H’lo! Hey! Ma’am—you alive?

T
hat was how it was: what had happened.

What had happened, that M.R. knew.

Life flashing before her. Rewinding
,
and the trout-fly another time cast out onto the glittering stream.

I
t was a season in M.R.’s life before she’d lost faith in herself as a woman.

Yet still in this new place—so unlike Cambridge, she ached with homesickness—through the first year, and through the second year, and into the third year of her exile—M.R. often saw, or imagined she saw, her lover at a distance crossing a street, or on a staircase, or amid a clutch of students on a campus walkway. Her first reaction was something like panic—
He’s here! But why didn’t he tell me. . . .
When M.R. stopped dead in her tracks as if she’d been shot—causing companions to regard her with surprise—she would recover, she would laugh in embarrassment, rebuke herself
No. This is madness.

There were several University colleagues—middle-aged, grizzle-haired, thick-necked and barrel-chested and moving with a swaggering sort of gait to compensate for painful knees, hips, spines—M.R. learned to recognize and avoid. She did not tell Andre of such sightings: he’d have laughed at her. He had little patience for weakness in others, as in himself.

Nor did she tell him about Oliver Kroll. She’d reasoned that the friendship between Kroll and her—if “friendship” was the correct term—wasn’t significant enough to warrant mentioning. And for the brief while she’d fantasized that she might come to feel deeply for Kroll, or to feel something at all like emotion, she hadn’t wanted to confide in Andre who would have been annoyed, hurt—or worse, amused.

If you love another man more than you love me—that can’t be helped. And maybe it is a good idea, darling—you must know.

She could not risk it! She had not once said anything to Andre Litovik that had not rebounded back upon her in a way to confound her. For her (secret) lover was the only individual in her (adult) life whose reactions she could not predict.

It was at a public lecture—“The Politicized Republic”—that M.R. became aware of Kroll seated in front of her, across an aisle; he seemed to be impatient with the speaker, shaking his head, irritably shifting his shoulders, sighing audibly; for it was true that the speaker had a slow grave platitudinous manner, that tested one’s resilience; by his remarks during the question period following the lecture, M.R. gathered that her disgruntled colleague was a “libertarian”—an “economic libertarian”—who didn’t think much of the speaker’s “quasi-Utilitarian welfare-state” politics.

This was Oliver Kroll: Professor of Politics. M.R. knew the name—knew that Kroll was a friend, if not a protégé, of the more renowned—more notorious—G. Leddy Heidemann who’d been a consultant for the last several Republican administrations, a “personal friend” of Ronald Reagan as he would be one day a “personal friend” of Vice President Cheney. Kroll, whose field was political theory, was said to be associated with the Cato Institute which was rumored to be funded by the CIA—(only a rumor! M.R. hoped to keep an open mind). Kroll had a blade-sharp face, a spade-shaped dark beard, a permanent crease between his eyebrows and a head that looked stylishly shaved, and not (merely) bald. Unlike M.R.’s lover who looked as if he’d dressed hurriedly in the dark, with a contempt for the very act of dressing, as for the ritual of grooming, Kroll looked like a man who took time selecting his clothes, with a predilection for sweater-vests, sharp-creased trousers, camel’s-hair sport coats and silk neckties. His face was clean-shaven above the spade-shaped beard and the spade-shaped beard was meticulously trimmed.

At the reception following the lecture Kroll made his way to M.R. and introduced himself in a manner that suggested an oddly engaging sort of intimacy—as if they’d met before, and there was some sort of rapport between them. M.R. was intimidated by Kroll’s severe—savage—critique of the lecturer, whom he accused of “willful ignorance” in the matter of global economics; she was impressed with the passion with which Kroll spoke, as if the issue that seemed so abstract to her, as to others in the audience, was personally meaningful to him. She was yet more impressed that Kroll seemed to be familiar with her work, at least several articles she’d recently published in philosophical journals and essay-reviews in the
New York Review
on such subjects as Spinoza, John Stuart Mill, Mary Wollstonecraft’s
A Vindication of the Rights of Women,
Shelley’s
Frankenstein
.

In the
Journal of Philosophical Inquiry
M. R. Neukirchen had published an article provocatively titled “ ‘I Have Lost My Soul’: Possible Ontological Meanings” and this Oliver Kroll singled out for particular admiration.

“We think alike—to a degree. I mean—our mode of inquiry.”

Kroll gazed at M.R. with unexpected warmth. His eyes were dark, rather small—he had a habit of squinting. Except for the crease between his eyebrows, the severe blade-face relaxed just slightly.

“Of course, I’m not a philosopher—‘M.R.’ I’m not trained in ‘theory of mind.’ But I appreciated the subtlety of your argument. You seem to me quite right—there is no ‘I’ in consciousness—only just consciousness. And so—no ‘I’ can possess a ‘soul’—even if there were a ‘soul.’ ” Kroll frowned thoughtfully. He did seem to be pressing close to M.R. and in the exigency of the moment she felt confused, off balance—it wasn’t that often that a man looked at her in such a way. “The entire concept of ‘soul’—that’s another category of, what d’you call it—‘ontological being.’ ”

“ ‘Ontological actuality.’ ”

So solemnly M.R. spoke, both she and Kroll laughed.

Of course, these terms were ridiculous—M.R. understood. She was trained in a certain Anglo-subspecies of contemporary philosophy which meant that she’d acquired a particular, highly specialized vocabulary—like learning a language to which virtually no one else had access. Professors in other fields, including more traditional fields of philosophy, could not know what M.R. meant—the very concept “meant” was believed to be ambiguous.

“I don’t always write in an analytical mode,” M.R. said. “That was really just for the
Journal of Philosophical Inquiry
.”

Almost, she had to force herself to recall what she’d said. For each of her essays she had cultivated a voice distinct and appropriate to the subject of the piece, as to the publication and its (presumed) audience. Like an actor who expresses herself exclusively through scripts—in the “voices” of others—M.R. had no “voice” of her own—or so she believed.

It was philosophical truth M.R. pursued, not an expression of self—“truth” elusive as a butterfly blown and tattered in the wind.

Kroll was saying, in that self-critical tone that suggests a childlike pleasure in the very flaws of the self, that everything he wrote was recognizably
his.
He could not vary his writing style, no more than he could vary his speaking style. He could not vary his fundamental, unshakable, and to him self-evident
beliefs.
Of course, as an intellectual, as a professor of political theory who might lecture on the Enlightenment and the anti-Enlightenment within the space of a few hours, or on such disparate figures as Plato and Machiavelli, Descartes and Hobbes, Malthus and Hume and Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill—“Even the Nazi apologist Heidegger”—he was trained to present differing points of view but he could hardly take these viewpoints seriously; especially among his colleagues and contemporaries he couldn’t but think that people whose opinions differed from his own were being dishonest, hypocritical: “What they
say
is for
saying’s
sake. What they
do
is for their own sake.” Kroll had been involved in the Libertarian Party, for instance, in the 1980s, but he’d soon dropped out. He hated it that in recent decades libertarianism had become fragmented, contentious, anarchic—his was a specific sort of economic-philosophical libertarianism, in opposition to “conservatism.”

Kroll uttered the word
conservatism
with such disdain, M.R. had to smile. She asked what was libertarianism—for very likely, in Kroll’s specific terms, she had no idea.

“ ‘Libertarianism’—‘liberty.’ It’s the belief that the highest value is ‘liberty’—the most that the state should do for its citizens is to assure their liberty. All the rest is—detritus.”

Kroll spoke passionately. M.R. had the idea that he’d said these words, biting, succinct, provoking, many times.

She had the idea that Kroll expected her to react, to protest.
Oh but what of—the poor, the ill, the disenfranchised . . . What of taxes for education, highways, water purification, health care . . .

Kroll was standing close, as M.R. tried unobtrusively to step back.

A faint scent as of something sulfurous and mint-y lifted from the man’s heated skin. M.R. saw others in the room glancing at Kroll, and at her. She understood that Oliver Kroll had a certain reputation at the University—he was combative, contentious, admired but not well liked. In any faculty gathering there are sharp glittery swords, kitchen knives, a preponderance of bread knives—dull, dutiful, inclined to envy. Kroll was one of the sharp glittery swords you could cut your fingers on, if you came too near.

Except, strangely and unexpectedly, Kroll seemed to like M. R. Neukirchen. He seemed to like her very much. He was saying, “ ‘M.R.’—what I find fascinating in your work—the work of yours I’ve read—is that no one would know, or guess, that you are a woman. Your perspective is—wholly objective.”

M.R. said that that was her intention, her hope—“That’s why I use just initials—‘M.R.’ ”

Had she explained this to anyone else, except Andre? Or—had Andre been the one to suggest it, somewhat playfully?

She said, “I don’t see what sex—gender—has to do with writing, or teaching.”

“Of course! Of course not. You’re absolutely right.”

Kroll spoke adamantly, like one conferring a blessing. M.R. felt how such words would dazzle students who would both fear and adore him.

“Ideally, we might all wear masks. Those large masks Greek actors used. We might walk on stilts—to give ourselves height.”

M.R. laughed. He was teasing her, was he—it was good for M.R. to be teased, who took herself too seriously.

When you are alone, you take yourself
too seriously
. That is the terrible risk of
alone.

“And what does ‘M.R.’ stand for?”

Reluctantly M.R. told Kroll: “ ‘Meredith Ruth.’ ”

“ ‘Meredith Ruth’—Neukirchen.” Kroll pronounced the names carefully. “And what were you called as a girl?”

“I was called—‘Meredith.’ ”

“Not ‘Merry’?”

“Yes, in fact—my mother called me ‘Merry.’ Some of my high school friends—‘Merry.’ ” M.R. spoke slowly. Until this moment, she had not remembered “Merry.”

“ ‘Merry’! That would be a sort of burden, I suppose. ‘Merry’—unless it was mistaken for ‘Mary’—yes?”

M.R. could not think of a reply. Was any of this true? Or did it simply seem plausible as truth?

She was finding it difficult to breathe. This man—she’d forgotten his name, for the moment—seemed to be sucking away her breath.

She could not bear another intrusion in her life. Another change in her life.

She’d begun to perspire, Kroll’s attention felt hot to her like a light shining into her face, onto her exposed skin. Her armpits itched, miserably.

Go away. Let me go. Leave me alone please.

Yet it flattered M.R., that the glaring expression Kroll had turned upon the lecturer only a short while ago seemed to have vanished. Like a belligerent dog that has ceased barking, Kroll seemed transformed, even charming.

To his students, charismatic. Perhaps. The force of one who believes passionately in something and with yet more passion can denounce other points of view.

If Kroll sensed M.R.’s discomfort, he gave no sign. It was like an aggressive male to not-see, or to ignore, discomfort in another. M.R. was reminded of how Andre too frequently questioned her—almost, interrogated her. It was Andre Litovik’s professorial style—the Socratic method. Yet it was Andre’s intimate style as well for he insisted that his close questioning of M.R. was a sign of respect—most people, Andre hadn’t the slightest interest in questioning—but M.R. found such attention exhausting; she couldn’t but think that there was an air of mockery in it. How much more productive, the Quaker method of silence—silence among individuals—until one is moved to speak; but Andre wouldn’t have had the patience for it.

Against the grain of her temperament, M.R. had become something of a public speaker. Unexpectedly in her early twenties she’d discovered that she was a natural teacher—she felt an ease at the front of a classroom not unlike the ease of slipping into a warm bath. Yet more comfortable she felt at the front of a lecture hall, or on a stage, with space between herself and an audience. When scrutiny is abstract, anonymous!