Color of Blood(23)

***

Professor Wells found it difficult to sit still, and Dennis smiled in amusement.

“Well, it was unusual to have someone from outside the community join the society, but it certainly wasn’t unprecedented,” the professor said, emphasizing particular words by pronouncing them slowly and flicking his boney right hand. “You see, poetry is such a specialized and refined art form that it appeals to a very small group these days.”

“How did he relate to the other members of the society?” Judy asked.

“Rather well, actually.”

“Did he write his own poetry?” she asked.

“Oh my, yes, he did. We encourage that, of course.”

“What did you think of his poetry?” Dennis asked.

“It was fine and, well, very American,” he said. “Free verse—unstructured mostly—but charming, I suppose, in its own way.”

“Did he prefer a particular poet, or type of poetry?” Judy asked.

“My word, yes!” he said, clasping his hands together as if he were washing them rapidly in cold water. “He adored the war poets.”

Dennis looked at Judy for some guidance, but she returned a blank stare.

“War poets?” she asked. “I’m afraid Mr. Cunningham and I are not familiar with the war poets.”

“The war poets: Wilfred Owen? Siegfried Sassoon? Rupert Brooke? That lot?”

“I’m afraid not.” She looked at Dennis for confirmation.

Professor Wells launched into an impassioned description of the British poets of World War I and their literary legacy. It went on for at least fifteen minutes until Judy deftly brought him out of his lecture.

“Did Mr. Jansen have any particular friends that he made in the society?” Judy asked.

“Well, no particular friends, I would say, or at least none that I can think of.”

They chatted for another thirty minutes, Judy and Dennis taking turns questioning the professor.

Dennis reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Professor, can you tell me whether you recognize this poem?” He handed it to the professor.

Professor Wells studied it for several seconds and then read it out loud:



Not Kimberly

Nor the way of the lake

But a Savory treat!

For all Europium



“I don’t recognize it,” he said, passing it back to Dennis.

“I found it in Mr. Jansen’s office and assumed he wrote it,” Dennis said.

“Well, there are only four lines, and not particularly good ones at that,” the professor said. “Is this the entire poem?”

“I’m afraid that’s all I have.” Dennis sighed and stood up.

Judy followed suit, thanking Professor Wells for his time.

Dennis was in the hallway before he stopped abruptly and pushed his head back into the professor’s office.

“Excuse me, Professor. Who was his favorite poet? His favorite war poet?”

“Oh, that would be Owen—Wilfred Owen. Absolutely. Jansen loved his poetry: could recite ‘Insensibility’ from memory.”

“Insensibility?”

“One of Owen’s poems,” the professor said. “A remarkable poem, really. He suggests that losing your humanity is worse than losing your life.”

When they had settled into the car, Dennis blurted out: “Hey, Judy, do you mind if we don’t go back to the hotel right away? Do you want to grab a drink? Or take a walk?”

Looking at her watch, she tried to hide her surprise. “Well, let me think. I suppose we could have a drink. Do you have somewhere in mind?”

“No, not really,” Dennis said. “Actually, is the ocean far from here?”

“Just down Stirling Highway. Not far. Actually, I know a place. A bit touristy, but should be nice on a day like this.”





Chapter 11


Judy nursed her sauvignon blanc, taking small sips while concentrating on Dennis, who continued to behave differently than she had seen before. The Ugly American had been mysteriously replaced by the Uncertain American.

She judged, given his disclosed struggles with his boss, that Dennis was indeed in the midst of some kind of crisis. She found his vulnerability compelling. She almost—not quite, but almost—felt sorry for him.

They went to a restaurant called Indiana, an ornate concrete building nestled into the sandy slope above Cottesloe Beach, north of Fremantle. Dennis and Judy sat in chairs behind huge windows overlooking the beach. Surfers knifed through the water below them. A stone breakwater to the left ran 150 yards into the ocean perpendicular to the beach.

“May I ask where you got the poem?” she asked. “You hadn’t mentioned it before.”

“I found it behind a filing cabinet in Garder’s office. I’m not sure it’s even his without a handwriting analysis, but I thought I’d try it on the professor.”

“The professor was very idiosyncratic, wasn’t he?” Judy said. “It’s good to see that people can be so passionate about their favorite subjects.”

“Did you notice that when he got excited, he’d almost hop off his seat?” Dennis said, mocking the professor by lifting himself off his seat and gesturing with his hands.