Early Warning

“Eighteen bulbs,” said Frank.

“Who changes them? It must be twelve feet off the floor.”

“It’s on a pulley. It lowers.”

“I like that,” said Arthur.

For years, Frank had cultivated indifference to personal concerns. If someone had a complaint, Frank thought, it was that person’s job to express it, but, maybe because of the influence of Minnie, he now said, “How are you? Are you all right?”

“That’s an interesting question,” said Arthur. “I’m probably better than I’ve ever been.”

“What have they got you doing?”

“Divulging top-secret information.”

“Pardon me?” said Frank.

“Well, I was so secretive for so long that now, when I talk to news reporters, they think I’ve actually told them something, because, of course, we only do it in long walks in Rock Creek Park, or in garages, where whatever we say is broken up by the sound of revving engines.”

“Are you teasing me?”

“No. Even the KGB does PR. You can only say ‘no comment’ so many times, because ‘no comment’ means ‘yes.’ ”

Frank leaned forward. “But why you?”

Arthur shrugged. “What do I know?”

“You’ve been there since the beginning. You knew about everything.”

“I thought I knew a few things,” said Arthur. “But I don’t know them anymore.”

Shock treatments. A chill ran up Frank’s spine.

—

HENRY OPENED the door of his office on the second knock. In his first office hours of the fall, he expected kids either wanting in or wanting out of one of the three classes he was teaching. Instead, there was a pleasant-looking young man carrying a briefcase, smiling and holding out an envelope. The envelope had Henry’s name on it in Gothic letters. He took it, and opened it.

My dear boy,

Please note the bearer of this missive. He is a brilliant student of mine named Philip Cross who has taken it into his head, now that your poofters have decided to riot and make their presence felt, to try his luck in the U.S. He is about to enroll in that monument to capitalism, the University of Chicago, in literary criticism. Please do not discuss any work of literature with him, as you will not understand a word he says, and it will lower your estimation of our educational system. He is, however, a young man of exceptional grace and intelligence, and I told him that you will introduce him to the mid-continental wilderness, as you so ably introduced me. I have cultivated him assiduously and I defy you to uncover his dialect roots. In addition, he is an excellent chef. Suet is his middle name.

I am, as always, your devoted,

Basil

Henry said, “Philip. Do come in.” He stepped back, and this young man (Henry thought, no more than twenty-one, no taller than five nine, but neatly made) stepped across the threshold. Henry said, “U of Chicago. Good Lord. It’s a jungle down there.”

Philip smiled, opened his mouth, and came out with the most beautiful speaking voice Henry had ever heard, as vibrant, deep, and rounded as a human voice could be. Henry said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Philip said, “It does seem a different world than this campus, which is very open.”

“Northwestern is a little bit of Iowa right beside Lake Michigan. It came first, you know, before the town. We take an Iowa approach in many things — for example, we approach student unrest by wondering why the students are unhappy. Down there, they just expel you.”

“Is that a warning?” said Philip.

“Are you restless?” said Henry.

“Basil would say so,” said Philip. He sat down on the windowsill.

So — the young man called his professor “Basil.” Henry said, “His letter indicates that I am not to discuss literature with you, so what else are you interested in?”

“How do you feel about these bouts of campus—”

Henry waited to hear what word he would use—“unrest”? “silliness”? “brutality”? Henry had heard dozens of words applied. His aunt Eloise, who knew the U of Chicago catalyst, Marlene Dixon, slightly and said that she was “well meaning but doctrinaire,” always talked about “campus preliminaries.” Philip said—“rebellions.”

That was nicely limiting, but respectful. He said, “Ask me in ten years. I have no idea. I suppose I am sympathetic, but from a distance. As a medievalist, I am not asked to do teach-ins, but I would if I could think of something to teach. The fate of the Cathars is not a heartening precedent. I think the military draft has been God’s gift to the left.”

Philip smiled. “I didn’t realize God gave gifts to the left, or that those gifts were accepted.”

Oh, he is a charming boy, thought Henry, and Basil was right — he might have been born at the BBC, his pronunciation was so perfect and smooth.

Just then there was a knock, and when he opened the door, Henry saw Marcy Grant, his tallest student, decked out as usual in her giant army-surplus pants held up by a string, her glasses sporting a piece of masking tape, her hair a tangle. She peered at Henry and said, “Oh, Professor Langdon,” then looked around. She smiled her brilliant smile. Someday she would stand up straight and discover that she was a lovely woman. “That’s me,” said Henry.