15
It’s already past seven when I get home that evening. I have less than an hour to come up with a good excuse to go out on a weeknight and skip dinner with my parents.
“How were your classes today?” my mother asks, in an effort to make conversation.
“Is your Mr. Abrams still as eloquent as ever?” my father adds.
I think he’s a little fixated on my professor.
Just like he is with any man who might be more charismatic than him.
Edward Lancaster doesn’t exactly like competition, but the truth is, he thrives on it.
He only enjoys a challenge when it lets him prove—mainly to himself—that he’s still the best. He passed this flaw on to Basile, but not to either of his daughters.
It’s strange that we didn’t notice sooner the damage the patriarchy has done to both sexes: men have spent decades trapped in ego battles, while women have been reduced to mere trophies.
In the end, everyone loses. But between Clémentine, Lily, and me, I’d like to think this next generation will break the cycle.
In the meantime though, it gives me an idea.
“Yes, Mr. Abrams is definitely still as impressive as ever. I really admire him,” I reply, laying it on thick. “Actually, he was looking for an assistant in class today, and I volunteered.”
I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do with this lie, but at least it proves that I’m focused on my studies, just like they asked me to be. And it might be a good cover for when I want to go out.
“Very good initiative, honey!” my father congratulates me. “Rubbing shoulders with the best is how you’ll climb the ladder and achieve your ambitions.”
“I’ve never heard of a professor having an assistant!” Basile, whom I hadn’t even seen enter the living room, shows up just in time to make things harder for me.
“Who are you? The dean? It’s true, you do dress like him… But do you really know everything that goes on in every major?”
“No, so please enlighten us. What does an assistant do?”
“You should quit marketing and become a detective, Basile,” I say to buy time. “You’ve definitely got a bright future in interrogation. Do you want to hit me with a phone book like they do in those old cop movies?”
“Nobody is going to hit anybody,” my mother says. “But why don’t you tell us all about it, Alma?”
Time to improvise…
“Well, it starts tonight. I have to go to his place to do some filing, sort tapes, and watch film clips that he wants to show us tomorrow.”
“Well, that sure sounds like you’re on your way to becoming a director! Are you going to do his laundry, too?”
“Like you know anything about laundry. You can’t even iron a shirt! You do realize there’s no such thing as a female housekeeping gene, right? Georgia hates it; she’s just paid to clean up after you with a smile!”
“Alright, Simone de Beauvoir, relax. I get it—you want to work instead of doing chores too. Anyway, it’s still not very clear how being his assistant is going to help you break into cinema.”
“Well, at some point I’ll be able to go with him to events, but I have to start with the menial tasks and prove to him I can be useful. Help him prepare classes, take notes when he has ideas, do everything he doesn’t have time to do.”
I feel less and less convincing and more and more furious the more I try to justify myself.
“Artists always have help behind the scenes. And there’s always someone taking care of the lives of brilliant men,” my mother says, smiling at her husband.
“Well, even if all you are is his personal assistant, being in the man’s good graces can only help your career,” my father adds, ignoring his wife.
“Are you serious?” Lily sighs. “It’s like you’re stuck in the Middle Ages or something.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be the brilliant woman one day, and there’ll be a man at your service to help you start the revolution,” I assure my little sister, hugging her tightly.
Basile rolls his eyes and huffs, but doesn’t say anything.
My mother takes advantage of this apparent truce. “Well, when will you be off, Alma? Do you have time for dinner beforehand? Georgia says it’s almost ready.”
“No, Mom, I’ve got to be there at eight, so I need to go get ready.”
“I’ll drive you, sis. I know where Abrams lives on campus.”
“Why are you suddenly so helpful? There’s no need… bro.”
“Yes, there is. I’d rather be there to remind him he doesn’t get to do whatever he wants.”
“As if Mr. Abrams would be intimidated by you and your perfectly pressed, navy-blue polo shirt!”
“Oh, you are both so tiring. That’s it, it’s settled then. Basile will drive you. End of discussion,” my father concludes, before turning back to what he was doing.
My brother is gloating—I can see it in his smug expression, in the way his lips curl into a smirk. He thinks he’s cornered me.
I only have a few minutes to find a way out of this.
Either I tell Basile the whole truth once we’re in the car, crying my eyes out and hoping he agrees to play along—which will never happen—or I tell my parents that Abrams cancelled and let Vadim know I can’t come.
Which will ruin all my life plans for at least the next fifty years.
Last option: I sketch out my half-baked plan to my professor and pray that he’ll cover for me, in the name of either our special relationship or his devotion to the sacred principle of freedom.
Either way, I’m backed into a corner. This is the last card I have left to play.
With a superhuman effort, I build up the courage to call him and invite myself over to his place, risking the greatest humiliation of my entire life.
I dial the number Abrams scribbled for me on a small piece of paper.
Locked in my room, I listen as the phone rings for what seems like an eternity.
Then, finally, a gravelly voice answers, and I try to speak very softly.
“Good evening, Mr. Abrams, it’s Alma Lancaster. I’m sorry to bother you, but you told me I could call you anytime.”
“Yes, no problem,” he grunts, clearing his throat. “How can I help you, Alma?”
“This might seem weird to you, but… I won’t bother you for long. I wouldn’t do this if I had a choice. Anyway, I apologize in advance, but I need a small favor.”
“God almighty, get to the point, would you?”
“I’d like to come over to your place. Right now.”
“Hmm… You do realize I could get into trouble for that. May I ask why?”
“I’d rather explain it to you in person than on the phone.”
“Very well, I’ll see you soon then.”
“Ah, and my brother will be with me. I’d prefer if he didn’t stay around.”
“All this is very intriguing, Alma.”
Less than thirty minutes later, I enter Leonard Abrams’s smoky den.
Having clearly understood me implicitly, he sends Basile packing without ceremony, slamming the door in my scowling brother’s face.
My professor stubs out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and peers at me over his thin metal glasses.
I’d never noticed before that his eyes are blue.
He looks a bit like Sean Penn with his solemn, perpetually worried face, eyebrows that nearly meet and crease his forehead, and thin lips curved downward as if everything leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
As if life itself disgusts him. He has the hollow cheeks of a man who lives mostly on tobacco and coffee.
A hint of rough stubble, not yet three days old, but clearly not cultivated for effect.
Mr. Abrams obviously couldn’t care less about being attractive.
I’m not even sure he knows he is. He isn’t very tall or particularly burly, but he takes up an enormous amount of space simply by being there, without moving or speaking.
His presence fills the room. But I feel no discomfort, not a single trace of inappropriate attraction, no hint of anything improper between us. I simply make myself as small as possible, perched on the edge of the old, ocher leather armchair he indicated.
He sits in silence, waiting for answers, and I’ve run out of fabrications. All that’s left is for me to tell him the truth. And risk making a complete fool of myself.
“I pretended I had to see you as an excuse to go out tonight. I have a date at eight o’clock.”
“You’re late then.”
“I know. He’ll survive.”
“So, is it Vadim Arcadi who’s waiting for you?”
“How do you know that?”
“I didn’t know it. Now I do. What did you say to explain why you’re spending the evening at my place? Is this going to cause problems for me?”
“No! Of course not! Well, I hope not. You were looking for a student to assist you, and I volunteered. That’s all.”
“That’s an excellent idea!”
“Huh?”
“I’d never thought about it. I’m hiring you.”
“But, Mr. Abrams, I—”
“I imagine this won’t be the last time I serve as your alibi. I advise you to say yes.”
“What will I have to do?” I ask, a little worried.
“I don’t know yet. Help me, I guess. After all, you don’t achieve anything alone in life. And you’ve finally understood that. Give Arcadi my regards.”
“Can I go?”
“Wait. Hitch, come here! He’s the one who will decide.”
Hitch?
“If he lies down at your feet, you’ve got yourself a job.”
A sort of plump sausage on very short legs enters the room at an incredibly slow pace, his long ears dragging along the floor.
He sniffs my shoelaces, then the bottom of my pants, looks at me with his mournful, drooping eyes, lets out a sort of grunt, and collapses onto his side, as if he has just made the greatest effort of his existence.
His glossy head, mottled brown and white, rests heavily on my shoe. He falls asleep almost instantly.
This dog blends perfectly into the surroundings: the same colors as the furniture, the same standoffish expression as his master, the same low, hoarse voice, the same weariness with life, and the same way of imposing himself.
“This is Hitchcock. He’s a Basset Hound. He doesn’t like humans much, but I love him more than my own son. For ten years, he has been my faithful assistant, and I think he’s earned a little rest now. Go on, leave, but don’t wake him up. See you tomorrow, Alma.”