Vladimir(51)

“You say he preyed on young women who were adrift, then you say they have agency. You say you would have never done it, but everyone involved should be forgiven.”

My insides quivering, I managed a smile. “You’re good at debate. You remind me of my daughter.”

“I actually don’t have the time or resources to care about this,” she said, and she lifted her hands, palms facing down, closed her eyes, and lowered them with an exhale, as though to press against the earth. “I just want to live in a world where I can pretend that stuff like this doesn’t exist. I have more important things to think about.”

She rose, holding her backpack by the loop at the top. “Thanks for the rec letters again,” she said. “I’m not mad at you, I just—don’t care.”

And she left the office.

I sat, looking out the window, feeling sickened, worried that I had lost the admiration of Edwina forever. I understood something I hadn’t fully admitted before, which was how cleaving the act of choosing could be. John’s history was not necessarily disruptive and painful to me, or even to the girls he engaged with. His affairs were painful because they created an atmosphere in which some women were chosen and others weren’t. It was mostly through stories and lore—but it nevertheless turned all the female students of the English Department into candidates, to be selected, dismissed, or ignored.

But that had been the case throughout all my education, I thought, and we females had all shrugged and monitored our behavior, believing we were the ones personally responsible for either inviting in or keeping our male intellectual stewards at bay, or being deemed worthy or unworthy of that kind of attention. Moreover, didn’t any kind of choice, romantic or not, create a discriminatory environment? We discriminated when we bestowed honors, when we gave prizes and awards at the end of the year, of which Edwina had received several. The act of choosing was embedded in academia, it was meant to be a place in which a student could rise, could distinguish themselves. We had to select some students over the others and those selections caused more pain, at least in my opinion, than the amorous fixations of an over-the-hill professor.

I didn’t fully finish my thought, because Vladimir said, “Knock knock,” and walked in. He was a delight to regard—a black V-neck T-shirt, black jeans, distressed leather blazer, neck chain, high boots. Again, he was so fashionable it was almost arch, like he was impersonating a member of the Italian intelligentsia in a late Antonioni film.

“Don’t you look nice,” I said, rising to greet him.

“I dressed up for you,” he said. “Plus I just got this blazer and I couldn’t wait to wear it.”

“It’s stunning,” I said, and he popped his collar, squinted his eyes, and pursed his lips in a male model pose, then shook it off, embarrassed.

“We match,” he said, recovering. I was wearing an ensemble I had considered for weeks, a long-sleeved jumpsuit that was modest but had what I thought were youthful lines. It was black as well, and I wore it with taupe platform slides I prayed I would not twist my ankle in.

“Ready?” I beamed my whitened teeth and threw my work bag over my shoulder, stumbling a bit as its weight hit me on my upper back.

We made our way out of the building to the parking lot. John’s car was parked beside mine. I imagined him in his hearing, crumpling a half-drunk plastic bottle of water, the label shredded, silent and red-faced as his colleagues conferred on the end of his career.

Once we were in the car, Vladimir asked where I was taking him. I acted intent on adjusting the settings on the dashboard and spoke in what I hoped was an offhand way so I could gauge his response.

“I was thinking we’d go a little farther afield,” I said. “I know a little farm place by a brook, it has a screened-in glass terrace, with a fire, it’s lovely.” I was jangling with nerves, I heard myself as I spoke, my voice false and tight.

“Amazing,” he said. “For once in my life I’m completely free this afternoon. Well, till five.”

“We’ll see about that,” I said, started the car, and pulled out. He laughed, then after a moment cautiously protested that he did in fact need to be back by five. He and Cynthia switched off in the evenings after a five o’clock dinner with Phee.

“What does ‘switching off’ mean?” Now that I was driving and could keep my eyes on the road my self-consciousness began to fade and I felt more at ease.

“She goes and works at my office. She’s trying to power through the end of her book. She’s up against it—the publishing company is pressuring to take back the advance if she doesn’t get the draft in soon.”

So that was what he thought she was doing. “So you’re home at five, and then she goes out for the night to work? What if you wanted to see a movie or a friend?”

He shrugged. “It’s temporary. She needs to get it done more than I need a social life. We’ll get a payment on delivery of the draft. We’re drowning in debt. Sorry, I shouldn’t mention that.”

“Why not?” We were on the road out of town now, and wide vistas of farm scenery spread out all around us.

“Nobody wants to hear about money troubles.”

“Who doesn’t want to hear about money troubles?” I said. “Money is real life.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.” And I was pleased to detect an acrid note to his voice, directed, I imagined, at his wife’s financial irresponsibility.