Chapter 9
Davian
Between the Fronts
Beth’s Story
Carlos Rafael Rivera
The last time I had seen Arnold pacing back and forth in front of the large window of the faculty lounge, his face as white as chalk, as if he had encountered the restless ghosts of those Soviet soldiers he had undoubtedly shot down without hesitation during World War II, a major investor had withdrawn his rebellious son from Maplecrest Law School and stopped the money transfers that had accounted for thirty percent of all donations.
This had resulted in chair cuts and delayed renovations for a full five years.
Even though I tried to avoid the presence of this stubborn criminal as much as possible and was more than fed up with him unleashing his cunning son on the students as a professor of business law – who, it should be noted, seemed to have made it his life's mission to make my life a living hell – I had wanted to ask him if there were any problems in the administration.
But then Joseph had shown up and invited me to his office for a whiskey.
Something was already whispering to me from the empty corridors and dusty corners of this double-edged place that a new war was brewing. One in which I would once again find myself caught between the fronts.
The only question was whether it would be a conservative versus liberal war or a Joseph Richter versus Troy Fitzek war.
The first was commonplace here, and the second was the result of Arnold training Joseph and wanting to leave him this place, while his son, who was still trying to prove to Daddy that he was the better choice for his inheritance, was left empty-handed.
My resentment toward Troy was strong, but on rare occasions, pity for this wasted man crept into my judgment.
I would never know what it felt like to be ignored by my father, because shortly after my birth, my parents had left me on the doorstep of a homeless shelter.
The man to whom I owed almost everything turned to me and handed me the half-full whiskey glass.
Joseph's hand was shaky, as always, and even though he didn't let me bring up the subject, I knew he had a serious drinking problem. Not even Tony talked to me about it, but the tension whenever Joseph drank and the three of us were in a room was impossible to ignore.
“Davian.”
He took a big gulp and turned away from me, walking over to the window, and I tried to ignore the fact that every day he reminded me a little more of Arnold.
Displeased with myself, I pushed the thought aside. Without Joseph, my life would have been miserable. He liked clinging to the security of the conservative elite like his mentor, but I was sure, just like Tony, that all it took was enough time to convince him that times had changed.
“We have a problem.” He looked at me, and one could tell that something was eating away at him. “It seems that Troy has serious hopes of inheriting his old man’s faculty after all.”
And there it was again. The frustration whenever Troy was mentioned. There wasn’t a single workday when this man didn’t become a problem.
“That's not going to happen. Arnold trusts you.”
I took a sip, as I always did. The truth was, I limited myself to two sips at each meeting because I had made myself promise, for my daughter's sake, that drinking would never become a habit.
“He hasn't built any kind of bond with his son, and that's not going to change this year,” I continued, determined to avoid Troy this week because the summer break without him hadn't been long enough.
“Besides, you know that when Arnold makes a decision, it's final. Don't let Troy get under your skin.”
My mentor was still staring at me as if he were lost in tormenting thoughts. Finally, he turned away again, took another big gulp, and looked out at the campus. The trembling in his fingers had lessened, but even a blind man would have been able to sense his inner turmoil.
“Tell me, do you think Anthony would turn against you if I were to leave this chair to you instead of him?”
The subject tasted bitter on my tongue. I didn’t want to disappoint Joseph; had already made countless compromises for him and this secure lifestyle. But Arnold’s expectation that Joseph would one day make me his successor didn’t make it any easier.
Although I probably had the greatest influence on Joseph, he was as subservient to his mentor as I was to him.
“Good thing I don’t aspire to ever take over this chair,” I said anyway, because my loyalty to Anthony was comparable to that I owed his father. “No doubt your son would be the better choice.”
Perhaps it was also the hope hiding within me that quietly begged to be allowed to take out my typewriter again and write, someday, when no one cared anymore what I did.
I bit my tongue, trying not to smile like a fool, and let the guilt toward Joseph settle in. Guilt over breaking my promise for the second time. The promise never to write again.
Idea 25
Gibran Alcocer, Andrea Vanzo
One week. Seven nights. That was all it had taken for me to hammer away at my typewriter like a tortured poet, as if it were a matter of life and death, only to end up with thirteen pages in my briefcase, which I carried around with me in case I ever ran into her again.
Every night, after Lara had gone to bed, I had sat by the fireplace in my study and stared at the black typewriter case until I hadn't been able to stand it any longer.
What I had written was terrible. I was out of practice, and after the first three nights, my perfectionism had gotten the better of me and I had almost burned the pages.
But what would I have left then if I saw her again?
Something told me that she wouldn't judge me, but instead teach me what I could do better.
Yet I didn't even want to get back to writing.
What have you done to me, Quill?
I shouldn't have opened the typewriter case. But what did I have to lose if no one found out? As long as I didn't publish anything...
My worries were pathetic. The thought that actually kept me awake at night and drove me crazy during the day was that every second I couldn't hold this woman's hand, it was beyond my control whether she would continue to search for hope or make an irrevocable decision.
I had wanted to give her a thousand reasons, to list all the things in this world that I had learned to be grateful for, but when she had asked me for just one reason, I had known immediately how close she had been to the edge.
Beth’s Story
Carlos Rafael Rivera
I took my second sip and placed the whiskey glass on Joseph's sandstone fireplace, because drifting off here into my troubled mind, where the chaos behind all the laboriously locked doors was threatening to burst out, was not a good idea.
The disappointment in Joseph's eyes did not leave me cold. He had doubts about leaving this place to his son, but not because Anthony was the epitome of disorganization. The problem was a different one.
“You have potential,” he insisted, and I realized that he would never change his mind either. “You still value order and structure.”
The problem was that Joseph thought that.
And that fact was my fault, because I let him influence me a lot, allowed him to silence the rebellious parts of me, and said yes and amen to everything he asked of me.
I was like a stray dog that had been fed once and whose loyalty could now be enjoyed unconditionally.
“Anthony would turn this place into a zoo,” he laughed dryly. “Radical change can quickly ruin something good. The decay of hard work.”
The feeling of being a prisoner of the expectations around me hit me out of nowhere, like it did after every summer break.
“Anyway.” He hastily emptied his whiskey glass and pushed it back onto the round mahogany side table next to the empty glass carafe. “I'm putting my trust in you and in your ability to find a student this year who will beat Fitzek's candidate in every debate.”
My jaw clenched, exhausted from all the power battles in this place. Battles over things that meant nothing to me.
“The names Richter and Rydell are meant to stand for untouchable success.”
Borgov I
Carlos Rafael Rivera
I took a big sip from the paper cup of coffee with milk that Monica had pressed into my hand a minute ago after appearing out of nowhere.
Hustling, as always, and dressed in a dark brown pencil skirt, one of her white blazers, and the gold necklace with the tiny angel wing pendant that Dilara had given her for her birthday more than a year ago.
Her shoulder-length gray-blonde hair showed traces of a curling iron, and as always, she radiated elegance.
Sometimes I wondered what I would do without her. She was a former friend of Joseph's who had been helping me out for the past eighteen years, ever since my ex-wife had left me with our daughter.
She had been the one who had taken my daughter to school, cooked her dinner after school, and read her bedtime stories in the evenings while I had been sitting in the university library during exam periods, doing everything in my power to make Joseph proud and provide for Lara financially.
All this while she herself had been working as a lawyer.
Whenever chaos had threatened to overwhelm me, she had simply appeared in my life unasked and, over the years, had become something of a grandmother to Dilara, whom my little girl would otherwise never have had.
“I ran into Dilara,” she announced, smiling proudly before taking a sip of her latte while shouldering the black shoulder bag on the other side as we strolled through the small park behind the philosophy department. “God, she looks so grown up in those neat clothes.”