The Horned Man (9 page)

‘Aside from tousling your hair,' Dr Schrever asked after a pause, ‘was there some other way this person made you think of your stepfather?'

‘I guess I must have been wondering if he'd mistaken me for his son. Which is sort of the way I always felt about my stepfather. Unsure whether he thought of me as a son, unsure to what degree I
was
his son …'

‘Go on …'

For a long time now, I had been aware of the gentle pressure of Dr Schrever's professional interest, urging me to talk about my childhood. I had resisted for two reasons. First, I had no interest in being psychoanalysed: I was seeing her for professional reasons of my own, namely that I was intending to write a book about gender relations in the evolution of psychoanalytic practice. My sources would mainly be memoirs and case histories, but I had felt that some first-hand experience would also be of value, to give me a sense of the particular textures of the exchange that takes place in these rooms. For obvious reasons I hadn't mentioned this motive to Dr Schrever. Second, even though it was necessary for the purposes of my experiment to reveal certain things about myself to Dr Schrever, even quite intimate things, I felt that she, as an American, simply wouldn't be able to understand the context in which my childhood had occurred. Certain obvious things I could explain, but there would be countless nuances I wouldn't even know I needed to explain, so that in all likelihood she would draw a series of entirely wrong conclusions about me.

How, for example, would she know that for a widowed, single mother to get herself badly in debt in order to send her
only child away to boarding school at the age of eight, was neither an unnatural nor an unloving act, but, in the context of the niche of English society she aspired to occupy, the very opposite of those things? How could Dr Schrever understand (or if she did, take seriously) the codes of speech and behavior by which each caste of that overcrowded island policed its boundaries; how violently offensive it had been, for instance, for my mother to refer to a napkin as a
serviette
in the presence of my stepfather's old schoolfriends, or say
pleased to meet you
when they were introduced, or stress the wrong syllable of
controversy
? And if she couldn't understand these things, how would she understand the intrinsic tensions and faultlines of our household; the peculiar fraught atmosphere bred by the very nature of its inception: the cultured and epicurean company director, with an aristocratic wife and three children at the ancestral manor, becoming steadily intoxicated with the charms of his new secretary; guiltily decanting the choice vintage of his existence from its nobly cellared and patinated bottle, into the dubious, cut-price crystal of my mother's and mine?

It seemed a waste of time to broach the subject.

‘What are you feeling, Lawrence?' I heard Dr Schrever say.

‘I'm feeling that I … that I didn't adequately express how good I felt about my straightforwardness with the old man upstairs. There was something about the simple, man-to-man way I ended up talking to him that made me feel almost … American.'

‘What does that mean to you, to feel American?'

‘Released,' I said. As I explained my view of America, that everything in it, from its architecture to its patterns of speech, was the expression of the single, simple sensation of release, the buzzer sounded, bringing the session to an end.

I stood up from the couch and went out through the small room where the next patient was waiting. I was just leaving the building when I heard Dr Schrever's voice behind me.

‘Lawrence, would you mind just stepping back in here for a moment?'

I went back into her room. She closed the door.

‘You seem to have left something for me,' she said, pointing at the couch.

There on the crimson corduroy lay Mr Kurwen's glass eye. I had forgotten this misdemeanor. The eye must have been in my pocket ever since I had picked it up from Mr Kurwen's kitchen floor the night before.

Before I knew it – without even the usual warning – I began to turn the same color as Dr Schrever's couch. She looked at me quizzically.

‘I can explain –' I blustered, seeing her little notebook on the shelf by her chair.

‘Perhaps next time?'

She picked the glass ball from the couch with the tips of her fingers and handed it back to me.

Outside it was clear and chilly. Sunlight glinted on the new snow bordering the paths into the park. It must have been warm enough to melt the top layer of flakes, as there was a smooth metallic crust over the surface. I found myself wandering in through one of the small entrances. Up through the trees the sky was a fabulous dark fluorescent blue. I stared at it for several blissful seconds. Looking back down, I saw the woman I had mistaken for Dr Schrever. She was heading out of the park on a path that intersected with mine.

I looked hard, to make doubly sure it was her. Shortish dark hair, olive skin; that particular look of casual elegance … It was unmistakably her. She was wearing a long green coat with
astrakhan collar and cuffs, and ankle boots trimmed with black fur or wool.

As she reached our intersection, crossing it ahead of me, I had a sudden urge to catch up with her and accost her. I quickened my pace. She must have been aware of me out of the corner of her eye. She turned and paused, looking directly at me. There under the eaves of her dark hair were two golden earrings.
Aretes!
I almost said the word aloud as I remembered the woman Trumilcik had met in the photograph line at the INS building. For she had lived, had she not, up here? A block north of the Dakota Building … Smiling broadly, I walked on towards her. At that, with an abrupt tightening of her lips, she moved off; not running, but unmistakably hurrying away from me.

I stopped at once, realising what she had taken me for. I had only wanted to ask her if by any chance she happened to be a friend of Bogomil Trumilcik, and if so, to talk to her about him, but obviously she couldn't have known that.

Even so, I was dismayed to think that my appearance – smiling, in broad daylight, with other people about – could cause such an emphatic recoil.

I went on down to the lake, feeling extremely angry with myself. Leaving Mr Kurwen's eye like that on Dr Schrever's couch had made me look like a liar and a fool. So much for my ‘Americanness'! And now this little incident had made me look like a dirty old man in a park.

In a rather childish fit of pique, I took Mr Kurwen's eye from my pocket and hurled it into the half-frozen lake. Instead of landing in the water, it embedded itself in a floating island of ice, staring skyward.

Unknown to me at the time, this action was observed from the path above me, by the woman with the golden earrings.

By the time our committee met on Monday, I had made up my mind what to do about Elaine.

I went up to the meeting room, Room 243, a few minutes early, in the hope of finding a moment with her alone.

She was there, but not alone. Zena Sayeed, a Palestinian mathematician, was with her. Elaine looked at me and turned away without a word. I was prepared for something like this, and had in fact made a point of wearing the same shirt – the blue one with black buttons – as a signal, should we not have an opportunity to talk until later. She looked as if she hadn't slept for the past few nights. Her eyes were red-rimmed; her face looked bloated and shapeless. Steeling myself, I went and sat next to her. She continued to ignore me. A moment later Roger arrived in the room with the fifth member of the committee.

Room 243 was a plain, drab seminar room with a chalkboard, globe lamps full of scorched moths, and a long, oak-veneer table, one side of which the five of us now occupied in a row.

As usual I took the minutes, while Roger, seated in the center, explained to us the nature of the complaint that had been brought against Bruno Jackson.

A Junior, Kenji Makota, had been grumbling about a low
grade that Bruno had given him on a paper. He had told his adviser that it might have been higher if he had been ‘cute, with breasts'. The adviser had pressed the student to explain exactly what he meant. He had then persuaded him to put his perception of Bruno's grading practices into writing.

‘The point is,' Roger continued, ‘is that if a student thinks she or he is being unfairly treated because of an instructor's involvement with
another
student, then we're obligated to start harassment proceedings, even if that other student hasn't complained. Now, under the circumstances, and Elaine will correct me if I'm wrong, I don't think we're looking at a mandatory termination of contract here, which we would be if the other student
had
complained. But we ought to at least give the guy something to think about by bringing him here in front of us. My guess is the threat of a permanent stain on his academic record ought to be enough to stop him from continuing in this pattern of behavior. That way even if he denies any involvement with his students, which he probably will given our presumption-of-guilt policy, we'll have done our job of protecting the kids, without subjecting everyone to the upheaval of a full-blown investigation. Agreed?'

We all nodded, though as I did so I cleared my throat, realising that I had come to a decision about something that had been on my mind for several days.

‘Roger,' I said, ‘would you mind explaining the presumption-of-guilt policy?'

‘It's very simple. If an instructor is discovered to be having a relationship with a student, and there's a complaint, then the presumption is he's – or she is – guilty of sexual harassment. The onus is entirely on the instructor to prove there's no harassment involved.'

‘By “discovered” you mean …'

His blue eyes danced over my face for a moment. I felt the attention of my colleagues turn toward me, alert and curious.

‘Either there's an accusation from the victim along with testimony from one or more witness, and the committee deems it sound, or else –'

‘– What about if the harassment is observed by a credible witness?'

‘You mean if the harasser's caught
in flagrante
? Absolutely!'

‘This is a little difficult for me,' I said.

Even Elaine turned to me at this point, her reddened eyes (tear-scoured, I thought, as well as sleep-deprived) wide open. I made a point of addressing my remarks as much to her as to Roger.

‘I happened to see Bruno with one of his students late the other night, down at the train station.'

‘A female student?' Roger asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Was he harassing her?'

‘I would have to say that he was, yes.'

Zena Sayeed turned toward me.

‘What was he doing?' She was a heavy-eyed, world-weary woman.

‘He was trying to persuade her to go back to New York with him. He was kissing her.'

‘And she did not want to go with him?' Zena asked, with what I felt was an edge of private, ironic amusement.

‘I heard her say that she didn't. And I had a definite sense that she wasn't comfortable being kissed. I saw her pull away from him at one point.'

‘What was the outcome of all this?' Roger asked.

‘I don't know. My train came.'

‘Ah.'

‘How did you come to be observing them?' Zena said, ‘if I can ask.'

I explained how I had been in the waiting room, and had had no choice but to witness the scene.

‘Obviously I felt very awkward about the whole thing,' I added, ‘and to be honest, I'd made up my mind not to speak about it. One doesn't like being in the position of a tattle-tale. But I think that on balance not to say anything would have been the cowardly thing to do. Either we take our responsibility here seriously, or else we might as well pack up and go home.'

Roger nodded vigorously. ‘I agree with you a hundred per cent. This is courageous of you, Lawrence. The question is, what happens now? Elaine, suggestion?'

I hadn't known whether I would come out with all this until I actually began speaking, but I had certainly formed the opinion that it was the right thing to do. Despite the superficial associations with spying and informing, it seemed to me that to tell what I knew would be consistent with the straightforward, ‘plaindealing' approach to life I aspired to. And in fact I had found it pleasantly liberating to speak so openly. It gave me a feeling of robustness and courage – so much so that I felt bold enough to begin implementing, right there and then, my other big decision of the day; the one concerning Elaine.

As she paused for thought before answering Roger, I placed my hand on her thigh, under the table. This had an electrifying effect. She sat up with a jolt as if she'd been bitten, but then immediately disguised the action as a violent coughing spasm.

‘Excuse me,' she managed after a moment, patting her chest.

‘Can I get you a drink of water?' Roger asked.

‘No, no, I'm fine. Sorry.'

Far from trying to remove my hand, Elaine placed her own hand surreptitiously over it as soon as she had recovered herself sufficiently to do so.

‘To answer your question, Roger,' she said, ‘I think it would be appropriate to add what Lawrence has told us to the documentation concerning Bruno. As far as termination of contract, it probably would need to be supported by a complaint from the student in question. But in the meantime it adds to the pressure on this instructor to leave these kids alone.'

‘You think we should tell him we know about this involvement?'

Elaine looked at me. She spoke neutrally, but her tired eyes were shining again.

‘That would be up to Lawrence I guess.'

I squeezed her thigh tenderly. Her lip gave a discreet quiver.

‘He knows I saw him,' I said.

‘So then he may as well know you've told us,' Roger put in, ‘unless you strongly object, Lawrence?'