Turning to Taft, she adds, That said, let me thank Dr. Taft for such a memorable lecture. You certainly made quite an impression. She smiles, but with a certain restraint.
The audience applauds again, then slowly begins to filter through the exit.
Taft watches it do so, and I in turn watch him. This is one of the few times I have ever seen the man, recluse that he is. Now I finally understand why Paul finds him so magnetic. Even when you know he's making a game of you, it's almost impossible to take your eyes off him.
Slowly Taft begins to hulk across the stage. As the white screen mechanically retracts into a slot in the ceiling, the three slides become a whisper of gray over the blackboards beyond. I can barely make out the wild animals devouring the women's remains, the child floating off into the air.
You coming? Charlie asks, lingering behind Gil by the exit.
I hurry after them.
Chapter 11
You couldn't find Paul? Charlie asks once I've caught up.
He didn't want my help.
But when I mention what I overheard outside, Charlie looks at me as if I shouldn't have let him go. Someone stops beside us to greet Gil, and Charlie turns to me.
Did Paul go after Curry? he asks.
I shake my head. Bill Stein.
Are you guys coming to the reception? Gil calls out, sensing a quick getaway. We could use the turnout.
Sure, I say, and Gil seems pacified. His mind is elsewhere; we're returning to his element.
We'll have to avoid Jack Parlow and Kelly-they only want to talk about the ball, he says, returning to our sides. But it shouldn't be bad.
He leads us down the steps into the pale blue courtyard, where all the tracks Curry and Paul made in the snow have blown over. The tents are brimming with students, and almost immediately I remember how futile it is trying to avoid anyone with Gil around. We march through the snow to a canopy almost beneath the chapel, but he exerts an inescapable social gravity.
First to come is the blond girl from the door.
Tara, how are you? Gil says graciously when she arrives beneath the canvas roof. A lot more excitement than you were expecting, huh?
Charlie has no interest in her company. To avoid a scene, he concerns himself at the table, where the silver dispensers are warming fresh hot chocolate.
Tara, Gil says, you know Tom, don't you?
She finds a polite way of saying she doesn't.
Ah, well, Gil says lightly. Different classes.
It takes me a second to realize he's referring to sophomores and seniors.
Tom, this is Tara Pierson, a member of the 2001 section, he continues, seeing that Charlie is avoiding us. Tara, this is my good friend Tom Sullivan.
The introduction serves only to embarrass. No sooner has Gil finished speaking than Tara finds a moment when we can talk out of his sight and points at Charlie.
I'm so sorry about what I said to your friend back there, she begins. I had no idea who you guys were
And on, and on. Her point seems to be that we deserve better treatment than the other nobodies she's never met because Gil and I brush our teeth over the same sink. The longer she talks, the more I wonder how she wasn't laughed out of Ivy. There is a legend-true or not, I don't know that sophomores like Tara, who have nothing to recommend them but their looks, sometimes find their way into the membership thanks to a special process called third-floor bicker. They're invited up to the secretive third floor of the club and told that they won't be admitted without some special show of willingness. I can only guess at the exact nature of the deed, and Gil, of course, denies that anything like this process even exists. But I suppose that's the magic of a myth like third-floor bicker: the more unspoken it's left, the more unspeakable it becomes.
Tara must guess what I'm thinking, or maybe she just notices I'm not paying attention anymore, because she finally comes up with some excuse and minces off into the snow. Good riddance, I think, watching her slink over to another tent, hair flopping in the wind.
I spot Katie. She's standing by the outer edge of the tent on the opposite side, tired of talking. The cup of hot chocolate in her hand is still steaming, and her camera is strung around her neck like a charm. It takes me a second to figure out what she's looking at. A few months ago, I would've suspected the worst, searching for the elusive other man in her life, the one who found time for her when I spent nights with the Hypnerotomachia. Now I know better. It's just the chapel she's fixed in her sights. It looms like a cliff at the edge of a white sea, a photographer's dream.
There's a curious thing about attraction, something I'm only starting to learn. The first time I met Katie, I thought one look at her would stop traffic. Not everyone agreed with me (Charlie, preferring meatier women, liked Katie's determination more than her looks), but I was smitten. We dressed up for each other-our best clothes, our best manners, our best stories-until I came to the conclusion that it must be my two years of seniority and my friendship with the president of her eating club that lent me what small mystique I had, holding on to such a catch. In those days the idea of touching her hand or smelling her hair was enough to send me sweating to a cold shower. We were each other's trophies, and we spent our days on pedestals.
Since those early weeks I've taken her off the shelf. She's returned the favor. We argue because I keep my room too warm, and because she sleeps with her window open; she chides me for getting seconds of dessert-because someday, she says, even men pay for their petty transgressions. Gil jokes that I've been domesticated, humoring me with the notion that I used to be a wild thing. The fact is, I was made for husbandry. I turn up my thermostat when I'm not cold, and eat dessert when I'm not hungry, because in the shadow of every admonishment from Katie is the hint that she won't tolerate these things in the future, because there will be a future. The fantasies I used to have, powered by the electricity of potential between strangers, are weaker things now. I like her best the way she is in this courtyard.
Her eyes are tensed, the sign that a long day is drawing to a close. Her hair is down, and the gusts are playing in the loops of it by her shoulder. It wouldn't bother me just to keep watching from afar, soaking her in. But when I step forward, decreasing our distance, she sees me and gestures to join her.
What was all that about? she asks. Who was that in the lecture?
Richard Curry.
Curry? She takes my hand and places it in hers. Her bottom lip curls between her teeth. Is Paul okay?
I think so.
Silence creeps in for a moment as we watch the crowd. Men in canvas anoraks are offering their jackets to underdressed girlfriends. Tara, the blonde from the table, has witched a stranger out of his.
Katie motions back toward the auditorium. So what'd you think?
Of the lecture?
She nods, beginning to fix her hair in a bun.
A little gory. The ogre gets no compliments from me.
But more interesting than usual, she says, extending her cup of hot chocolate. Hold this?
She wraps the back of her hair into a knot and strikes it through with two long pins from her pocket. The easy dexterity of her hands, shaping something she can't see, reminds me of the way my mother used to fix my father's ties while standing behind him.
What's wrong? she says, reading my expression.
Nothing. Just thinking about Paul.
He's going to finish on time?
The thesis deadline. Even now, she keeps an eye on the Hypnerotomachia. Tomorrow night she can lay my old mistress to rest.
I hope.
Another silence follows, this one less welcome. Just as I try to think of something to change the subject-something about her birthday, about the gift that's waiting for her back at the room-bad luck strikes. It arrives in the form of Charlie. After twenty circuits around the refreshment table, he has finally decided to join us.