Diablo Mesa(104)

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to knock first, then enter. One forgets.” She raised two knuckles, touched them to the door. “There!”

She came forward, shook hands with Tappan, nodded at Digby, and turned to Weingrau. “Hello, Marcelle. May I sit down?” This question was asked while she was already seating herself in the last empty chair.

“Please,” said Weingrau.

“And now,” said Tappan, “would you care to discuss the particulars, or should I?”

“It would be best coming from you, don’t you think?” Nora told Tappan. “After all, it’s your money.”

“No, it’s not. It’s now, in a way, yours.” The entrepreneur turned to Weingrau. “As you know, the endowed chair comes with excellent compensation, but even more important, it also includes a large sum to support research—spent at the sole discretion of the chair’s occupant.”

Digby had never dropped a tab of LSD, or smoked a crack pipe, or even blazed up a joint. But it was clear he must have ingested something hallucinogenic, because this simply could not be happening. He glanced toward Weingrau, but her own speechlessness did little to restore his composure.

Now Tappan was looking back at the president. “In other words, it’s hers to spend. Care to tell them how much, Nora?”

“A hundred million.”

This only prolonged the strangled silence.

“Dollars?” Weingrau finally asked.

The absurdity of this question took hold in the gathering silence. “I suppose we could make it pennies. If you’d rather.”

A beat. Nora looked like she might laugh but quickly controlled herself.

“We’re most grateful for your support,” Weingrau said in a robotic voice.

Tappan added, “The sum isn’t just for the chair. I understand from my meeting with the Executive Committee that the Institute is in some financial difficulties—a junk bond fund almost in default, an unwise land speculation, REITs that have declined in value. At the request of the Executive Committee, Nora and I have directed thirty million of our donation as unrestricted funds to shore up the general endowment. The capital improvement project, stalled for lack of funds, also needs financing. How much is that? I’ve forgotten.”

“Eight and a half million,” Digby heard himself say.

“Well, let’s say ten. For the sake of round numbers.” Tappan turned from him back to Weingrau. “And Nora thought—well, we both thought—that another ten million could be put toward increasing the salaries and research budgets of the academic staff. Again, round numbers.” He paused a moment. “And the rest, fifty million, would endow the Tappan Chair. How does that sound?”

Weingrau and Digby both nodded weakly.

“Think about it,” Tappan continued. “With the endowment saved, the capital improvement project back on track, the staff motivated, and Nora in the Tappan Chair, well…you could say the Institute will be transformed.”

There was a pause of at least a minute while Tappan let this hang.

“You could indeed.” Dr. Weingrau at last found her voice. “I expect you’ll be asking for my resignation.”

“Not at all!” Tappan said. “You’re welcome to stay on as president. You know, it takes a certain je ne sais quoi to scrape funds together, tickle wealthy benefactors into opening their checkbooks—things like that. You’re admirably suited to the presidency. Are you amenable to that? Retaining your position, I mean?”

After a moment, Weingrau said slowly: “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Tappan turned toward Digby. “There is one other matter—a slight reorganization of the hierarchy. It would involve a promotion for you.”

Digby nodded obsequiously.

“My people did a cost-benefit analysis of the organization and suggested a new position be created: director of institutional development. Reporting directly to Dr. Weingrau. You’ll be able to put your not-inconsiderable social skills to work getting the right word out—to the right people—about the Institute and its funding needs.”

Digby thought quickly. The offer almost felt like being thrown a life preserver. With the endowment safe, and the capital improvement project back on track…The title sounded important, and he might never have to get his hands dirty again on a dig, or slap mosquitoes, or sleep in a tent.

He nodded vigorously.

“Nora, as occupant of the Tappan Chair, will assume leadership of the archaeological division in its entirety—as executive director. She will report directly to the board.” Tappan looked around. “Any questions? Thoughts?”

There were none. Weingrau struggled to speak. “Again, Mr. Tappan, we’re so very grateful for your generosity.”

“Excellent!” Tappan cried. “In that case, I don’t want to take up more of your valuable time. It’s twelve thirty. Do you know, spending money always makes me hungry. With both of you at the helm, the Institute will be in great hands going forward.”

“Thank you.”

“And I know Nora must be excited about taking over as chief archaeologist—and figuring out what fabulous expeditions and projects might come next, given an unlimited budget and complete control.”

“I confess I am, at that,” Nora said.