His voice grew louder, and I could soon understand every word. Stopping several feet from the doorway, I leaned against the wall. From the volume of laughter, I approximated the class size at thirty or forty students. Orson spoke again, his voice directly across from me on the other side of the wall. Though I wanted to run, to hide in a closet or a bathroom stall far from that voice, I remained to listen, trusting he’d have no reason to step into the hall.
"I want you to put your pens and pencils down," he said, and the sound of writing implements falling onto wood engulfed the room. "To understand history, you have to see it. It’s more than words on a page. It happened. You can’t ever forget that. Put your head on your desk," he said. "Everybody. Go on. Now close your eyes." His footsteps approached the door. He flipped a switch, the room went black, and the footsteps trailed away.
"Megalomania," he said. "Somebody tell me what it means."
A male voice sounded in the dark. "Delusions of omnipotence."
"Good," Orson said. "It’s a mental disorder, so keep that in mind, too."
The professor kept silent for half a minute, and the room was still. When he spoke again, his voice had a controlled, musical resonance.
"The year is A.D. thirty-nine," he began. "You’re a Roman senator, and you and your wife have been invited to watch the gladiatorial games with the young emperor, Gaius Caligula.
"During the lunch interlude, as humiliores are executed ad bestias before a rejoicing crowd, Caligula stands up, takes your wife by the hand, and leaves with her, escorted by his guards.
"You know exactly what’s happening, and it’s apparent to the other senators, because the same thing has happened to their wives. But you do nothing. You just sit on the stone steps, under the blue, spring sky, watching the lions chase their prey.
"An hour later, Gaius returns with your wife. When she sits down beside you, you notice a purple bruise on her face. She’s rattled, her clothes are torn, and she refuses to look at you. There are six other senators who’ve been invited along with you, and suddenly you hear Caligula speak to them.
" ‘Her breasts are quite small,’ he says, loudly enough for everyone around to hear. ‘She’s a sexual bore. I’d rather watch the lions feed than fuck her…again.’
"He laughs and pats you on the back, and everyone laughs with him. No one contradicts Gaius. No one challenges the emperor. It’s pure sycophancy, and you sit there, boiling, wishing you’d never come. But to speak one word against Caligula would be your family’s certain death. It’s best just to keep silent and pray you never receive another invitation."
Orson’s footsteps approached the doorway. I stepped back, but he’d only come for the lights. The room filled with the sound of students shifting in their seats and reopening notebooks.
"Next Tuesday," he said, "we’ll talk about Caligula. I notice some of your classmates aren’t with us today, and that may or may not have something to do with the snowstorm in the mountains last night." The class laughed. It was obvious by now that his students adored him.
"There will be a quiz on Caligula next Tuesday. Know the basics. When was he born? When did he become emperor? When and how did he die? Read chapter twenty-one in your text, and you shouldn’t have a problem. I think you’ll find him to be one of the most complex, intriguing, yet misunderstood rulers in Roman history." He paused. "Have a nice weekend."
I heard notebooks closing and backpacks zipping. Then the class seemed to rise all at once and dash for the door. Orson would be coming, too.
Across the hall, a door was ajar. I pushed my way through the students and slipped unseen into a dark, empty classroom. Then, peering through the cracked door, I waited for him to emerge.
22
ORSON descended the steps and started down the walkway. I waited inside the foyer of Howard Hall, watching him through the window beside the door. Dressed in a beige wool suit, a red bow tie, and green suspenders, he carried a tan briefcase and wore gold wire-framed glasses. When he was beyond the gazebo, I opened the door and followed him as he strode quickly across campus and disappeared into Gerard Hall.
As I approached his building, the light snow continued. The temperature had dropped as the day progressed, and the sky, only partly overcast this morning, was now completely masked by low gray clouds, which grazed the mountain peaks.
Gerard Hall was one of the smaller buildings on campus — two stories and narrow. Its name was incised into the stone pediment above the door. I felt exposed standing out in front of Orson’s building in the cold. His office was on the second floor, but he could be anywhere inside, and while from a distance I felt safe, I knew that in proximity, my brother would instantly know my eyes.
I sat on the steps for five minutes, until I’d worked up the nerve to go inside. But as I stood to reach for the door handle footsteps pounded on a hardwood floor, and looking through the window, I saw a figure appear from the hallway. I turned away and leaned against the black railing just as the door opened.
I smelled her perfume before I saw her. An older woman, still beautiful, cascaded down the steps in high heels and a black overcoat. Her blond hair, streaked with silver, jounced as she walked away on a path leading to the town. I peeked again through the tall, slim window by the door, then, seeing only the empty foyer, pulled the handle and stepped inside.
Without voices, or fingers on keyboards, the fluorescent lights hummed deafeningly overhead as they shone hard light upon the dusty floor. According to a glass-encased magnetic message board, this was the office building of the history department, and the last names of professors and their respective office numbers were displayed in white lettering behind the glass. Looking down the hallway, I saw there were stairwells at both ends. Arbitrarily, I turned left and started walking to the stairs, passing four unmarked doors and a janitor’s closet.
Jazz music poured softly from the second floor. I stopped at the top of the stairwell and looked into the hallway. All the fluorescent lights were out save one, which flickered sporadically at the other end. The only constant light emanated from two open and opposing doorways, where voices rose in conversation above a moaning trumpet.
In the shadows, I walked toward the first office along the corridor. It was closed, and a brass nameplate affixed to the door read STCHYKENSKI 206. Across the hall, someone typed inside of 207, where light and classical music escaped in slivers beneath the door.
On the right side, fifteen feet down the hall, Orson’s door stood wide open, the wonder of Miles Davis’s "Blue in Green" lingering in the doorway. I inched forward until I could see into Orson’s empty office, and hear the conversation in the room across from his.
"I’m not sure yet," Orson was saying.
"David, there’s no rush. We just need to make the decision before Christmas. I think the deadline’s the twenty-first of December."
"That’s plenty of time," Orson said. "I just want to finish a thorough reading of his publications. I like what I’ve seen so far, but I want to be sure, Jack."
"We all do," Jack said, "and right now what I’m hearing from the others is that Dr. Harris would fit in nicely. Those of us who’ve read his work think he’s more than qualified."