I hope you’ll leave more than your ghost here.
I flick open my eyes, sure for a second that someone has said the words aloud, and find Mark staring at me in the silent room. It’s only then that I feel the tears on my face.
Chihiro reaches across me as if reaching for one of my cookies and knocks my cup of coffee onto the floor. “I’m sorry,” she says. We both scramble to the floor to mop up the spilled coffee, and Chihiro passes me a tissue to dry my face. Is it really so shameful, I wonder, to cry for a young boy’s death? But when I finish with the tissue I see that it’s black with mascara and I’m grateful that I won’t spend the rest of the meeting looking like a deranged raccoon.
By the time we surface, the director of the counseling center, Dr. Milton Spiers, is giving his report on the steps the counseling center is taking to handle the impact of Robin’s death on the student body. Hours at the counseling center have been extended, and additional staff have been borrowed from neighboring hospitals.
“By the time your students show up to class on Monday morning, they’ll have heard about what happened and they might want to talk about it. I would suggest making a brief statement about the event and posting the counseling hours on the blackboard. It’s up to you if you want to open your classroom up to discussion—”
“Isn’t that likely to get out of hand?” Lydia Belquist, the classics professor, asks, nodding her long patrician face up and down (“Lydia Equinus,” Chihiro calls her).
Normally I find Lydia’s comments in meetings irritating, but I’ve been mentally counting down Spiers’s agenda and know I’m next, so I welcome Lydia’s interruption.
“After all, we’re not trained at counseling,” she says, pronouncing the word as if it represented an arcane and slightly suspect skill, like dousing or feng shui. “Isn’t it better to keep their minds on their studies? It’s when they get distracted that these kinds of things happen. I plan to give my students extra passages of Tacitus to translate.”
Someone tsks so loudly and explosively, it sounds like one of the urns has boiled over, but when I look in that direction I see it’s Frieda Mainbocher, the women’s studies professor and Lydia Belquist’s bête noire. Frieda is a social historian whose work relies on statistics and other quantifiable data about the ancient world and the Renaissance. Her enmity with Lydia Belquist dates from an APA panel they both served on during which Frieda proclaimed that it was more important to know what the prostitutes in Rome were paid per noctem than what Caesar wrote in that silly book on Gaul. Lydia accused Frieda of having her mind in the gutter. Frieda accused Lydia of being a misogynist elitist. These are the two, I recall, that Mark has paired up to teach the Women in Italian History class. I can just imagine what fireworks that collaboration will produce.
“Sixty-five percent of suicides or suicidal attempts are made by students who have reported feelings of stress over academic performance,” Frieda drones (I’ve heard students complain that her lecture style could put a meth addict to sleep). “Giving them more work is not the answer.”
“I had Mr. Weiss in Latin 101, and he did not strike me as a scholar who subjected himself to pressure of any kind whatsoever. A shame, really, because he had a good mind.” I could swear I hear a slight quiver in Lydia’s voice, but then I remember that she has Parkinson’s. “He was planning on majoring in classics before he went to Italy and got involved with all those film people.” Lydia sends a purposeful look toward Gene Silverman, who is slumped in his chair sipping coffee from a Star-bucks cup, but if the look penetrates behind his opaque Ray-Bans, he doesn’t let on. Instead, Theodore Pierce, the English chair, responds to Lydia’s comment.
“Really? He told me he was planning on majoring in English,” Ted says at the same moment that three other professors attest that Robin was interested in majoring in their fields.
Mark holds up a hand to silence the commotion of wounded academic egos. It’s not that unusual for a freshman to run through several majors before settling on one, but I’ve never seen so many professors so invested in that choice. Each sounds personally wounded by Robin’s abandonment of his or her field.
“Clearly he was a confused young man,” Mark says when the commotion has died down. “A compelling young man, charismatic even. He had a unique ability to draw people into his orbit.” There’s a reproving note in Mark’s voice that I’m afraid is directed toward me, but when I look up I see that he’s looking at Gene Silverman, who remains impervious to Mark’s gaze behind his Ray-Bans.
“I’d like to ask if any of you encountered any irregularities with Mr. Weiss’s written work—any cases of plagiarism.” Now Mark’s gaze does come to rest on me.
I raise my hand and describe the incident of the Oscar Wilde paper freshman year. “He seemed quite chastened, and he never gave me any reason to suspect his work again,” I conclude.
“Did you continue to submit his papers to ithenicate.com?” Frieda Mainbocher asks.
“Periodically,” I answer, not adding that I stopped after the rest of his papers that semester checked out okay.
“Did anyone else encounter any issues of plagiarism with this young man?” Mark asks.
Lydia Belquist, looking uncharacteristically abashed, clears her throat. “He handed in some Virgil translations that clearly had been cribbed from the Robert Fitzgerald translation, but that’s not all that unusual…”
“He failed to attribute a few quotes in one of his papers,” Ted Pierce volunteers, “but it seemed to be a confusion about MLA citation practices instead of a deliberate attempt to steal.”
“He submitted a story to a workshop that sounded a lot like some-thing by Bret Easton Ellis,” our writer-in-residence says, “but to tell you the truth, so do half the things I get. Kids that age are so impressionable…”
A silence descends on the table. Another moment of silence for Robin, only this time I imagine we’re all wondering whether we ever knew the boy we’re mourning at all. I know I am.
Mark breaks the silence with a long-drawn-out sigh. “I think we can all see the necessity of reporting such incidents, however minor they may seem. Each on its own may appear innocent, but taken together they present a disturbing pattern. If this young man from Italy publicly accused Robin of plagiarizing this script that he’d just sold to Hollywood, all these other stories would have come out, and so he chose to take his own life instead.”
“But are we absolutely sure it was a suicide?” Ted Pierce asks. “I was inside and couldn’t see everything, but it looked to me like the Italian boy was running right at Robin and would have rammed into him hard enough to knock him off the railing.”
“He would have if Mark hadn’t gotten in the way,” Gene Silverman says, pushing his sunglasses up onto the top of his head and turning his bloodshot eyes toward Mark. No wonder he’d worn the sunglasses; his eyes look ravaged. “Maybe if we hadn’t been distracted by the other boy we could have kept Robin from falling. I know that I was paying more attention to him than to what Robin was doing. Even if he didn’t push Robin, I think Orlando Brunelli has a lot to answer for.” When he’s finished speaking, Gene lowers his sunglasses, retreating behind them as if behind a stage curtain.
“Brunelli?” Lydia Belquist asks. “Isn’t that the name of the family who is suing Cyril Graham for control of half the villa?”
At the mention of the lawsuit, a palpable ripple of excitement sweeps through the room. There have been rumors that Cyril Graham’s ownership of La Civetta was being contested in the Italian courts, but this is the first I’ve heard the name of the other party in the suit. I can hear the words “illegitimate heir,” “Sir Lionel Graham’s mistress,” and “slept with his wife’s secretary” in the general melee. I turn to Chihiro and see immediately by her wide-eyed look (she always looks like an anime princess when she’s trying to hide something) that she knew.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was the Brunelli family that was suing Graham?” I whisper.
“Because,” s
he says, “that name makes you crazy.”
Of course she’s right. Just the sound of the name, repeated in the fervid whisperings around the table, has the power to make my ears burn and my heart pound. The chattering swells and rises in the vaulted room until it seems as if the monkeys on the ceiling have come to life. Mark finally puts an end to it by pounding his fist on the table.
“This is exactly what we cannot have,” he says, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. It’s not like Mark to come so close to losing control—it must be the lack of sleep. “Yes, it’s true that Orlando Brunelli is the grandson of Benedetta Brunelli, Lucy Graham’s private secretary, who was rumored to have had an affair with Sir Lionel Graham. She was La Civetta’s hospitality coordinator—and a fine one, I might add—for years and never seemed the least bit interested in suing for a piece of the estate, and neither did her son, Bruno Brunelli, who’s taught at La Civetta for several years now. Brunelli’s wife, Claudia, however, who took over the job of hospitality coordinator when the old woman died, filed a lawsuit in her son, Orlando’s, name as soon as he came of age. They are contesting Cyril Graham’s ownership of La Civetta and his intention to bequeath the entire estate to Hudson College, but our lawyers”—here Mark nods toward the pretty blond woman and she seems to glow under the attention—“are confident that the Brunellis will not be successful in their suit.”
“Because the Italian government doesn’t recognize illegitimate heirs?” Frieda Mainbocher asks.
“No,” the lawyer answers, “because the villa and all the art collected by the Graham family were purchased by Lucy Wallace Graham, Sir Lionel’s wife. This was her family home before she married Sir Lionel.” The lawyer casts her eyes upward to take in the grand proportions of the room and seems startled to encounter the gaze of an impudent monkey. “She brought a great deal of money to the marriage, which Sir Lionel used to buy La Civetta and to finance his personal art and rare book collection.”
“So if you can prove La Civetta really belonged to Lucy Graham you render the Brunelli suit impotent,” Frieda Mainbocher sums up.
“But everyone knows it was Sir Lionel who was interested in art. Lucy Graham couldn’t have told a Bellini from a Bernini,” an art history professor points out.
“Ultimately that doesn’t matter if the money was hers—but in fact we’ve discovered that Lucy Graham was more interested in her husband’s collections than we might have thought. A number of important purchases—especially in the area of rare manuscripts—were made directly by Mrs. Graham. What would be helpful is more scholarly work on Lucy Graham’s role as a collector—”
“What in the world does this all have to do with that poor boy’s death!” The remark comes, surprisingly, from Lydia Belquist, whose head is nodding and quivering like a bobble-head doll’s and whose rheumy old eyes are bright with tears.
Mark sighs and lifts his hands—pressed together as if in prayer—to the classics professor. “Thank you, Lydia. The answer is, nothing, absolutely nothing. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence that Robin was involved with this young man. As for his involvement with Robin’s death, yes, I agree with Gene that he was a precipitating factor in Robin’s emotional state and I did ask the police to talk to the boy. Unfortunately, he was able to catch a plane out of New York early this morning and has returned to Italy. Given the negative publicity that would arise if a connection with Robin’s death and the La Civetta lawsuit were made, I am asking everyone in this room to discourage this type of gossip. As far as I’m concerned, Orlando Brunelli was not responsible for Robin Weiss’s death. Now, to get back to Dr. Spiers…”
Dr. Spiers, who seems wrapped up in an elaborate doodle on his notepad, startles at the sound of his name. “Oh, yes,” he says, straightening up in his chair, “I think I’ve covered most of what I wanted to cover. Extended counseling hours, dorm meetings, refer troubled students to me…” As he ticks off each item on his list, I hope that he’s doodled so heavily over my name that he can no longer read it. What in the world could he want with me anyway? I notice that a few people have gotten up to refill their coffee cups at the sideboard and some are packing their papers away in their briefcases and book bags, signaling that the meeting is drawing to a close. Mark is leaning across the table talking in hushed tones to the young lawyer. I notice that her skin pinkens at something he says and I feel another stab of jealousy. I suddenly remember that yesterday when he asked me to go to La Civetta with him he mentioned he would be working there with one of the lawyers to go over the terms of Cyril’s bequest to the college. Was this the lawyer?
“Oh, yes, Dr. Asher,” Dr. Spiers says, “I have a note to talk to you. You were very close to Robin, weren’t you?”
“Well,” I say, trying to sound neutral, “he was very interested in Renaissance sonnets.” As soon as I say the words I find myself wondering whether they’re true. Robin had apparently presented himself as a devotee of half a dozen disciplines. Perhaps his interest in sonnets was manufactured. Perhaps even his flirtation with me was part of an act.
“I was just his teacher,” I say, trying not to sound as sad as I suddenly feel. “I wouldn’t say that we were particularly close.”
“Well, Robin must have felt differently,” Dr. Spiers says. “I’m meeting with Robin’s father as soon as this meeting’s over, and he specifically asked that you be present. He said his son couldn’t stop talking about you.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
I’LL BET YOU ANYTHING SPIERS DUMPS YOU WITH THE GUY,” CHIHIRO TELLS me while we’re standing at the foot of the staircase, waiting for Dr. Spiers to come back with Robin’s father.
“He wouldn’t.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why is the meeting in your office?”
“Spiers said he thought it would be more intimate than the counseling center.”
“And easier for him to bail. Just wait. Ten minutes into the session he’ll get an emergency phone call, which he’ll have to take because it’s a distressed student. That way he gets to look caring while he’s abandoning Robin’s dad with you.”
I’m about to protest, but Chihiro has an unerring ability to predict behavior so instead I enlist her aid.
“So, what should I do then?”
“Order in.”
“What?”
“The poor guy probably hasn’t had a bite to eat since he got the call last night. I’d recommend something light and nourishing, say, the borscht from Veselka…well, look at this.” Chihiro points toward the glassed-in foyer, where Dr. Spiers is signing in at the security desk while talking on a cell phone. Next to him is a short man—no more than five feet six, I’d say—in a tan trench coat several sizes too big for him. Although he’s wearing slacks and loafers, he gives the impression of being in his pajamas and of having just woken up. Maybe it’s the way what little hair he has stands up on his head, or the dazed look in his eyes, or the way he keeps blinking like a newborn chick. “Spiers is already on the phone. I’d give you five minutes at best. Good luck, sweetie.” Chihiro hands me a slip of paper and darts out the door before I can beg her to stay. I look down at it, hoping it contains some sage advice, but instead it’s the phone number for Veselka on Second Avenue, which I slip into my book bag before coming forward to greet Robin’s father.
“Mr. Weiss—” I begin.
“Dr. Asher? Please, it’s Saul. I feel like I know you. Robbie talked about you so much.”
I take Saul Weiss’s soft, damp hand and hold it in both of mine. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am—”
He ducks his head, looking embarrassed to be the object of sympathy. I notice that under his tan raincoat he’s wearing a washed-out plaid shirt in shades of tan and ecru and putty, colors that seem designed to blend in with some drab institutional setting. I rack my brain to remember anything Robin might have told me about what his father did for a living, but the fact is I can’t remember Robin ever saying anything about his parents. Robin managed to give the impressio
n of having sprung fully formed on his first day of college like Venus arising out of the sea.
“Is Mrs. Weiss—?” I begin, glancing toward Spiers for help, but he’s still talking into his cell.
“Robbie’s mother died when he was eight, so I’ve raised him on my own. Maybe I didn’t do such a good job—”
“Don’t say that. Robin was an extraordinary young man, so talented—”
“He was always good at school. Acting, writing, charming the girls,” Saul says, managing a small proud smile, “but he had trouble settling down to one thing. He told me when he took your class on Shakespeare that he’d decided to write plays. I said that was fine, but how was he going to pay the rent until he became the next Mr. Neil Simon?” Saul shakes his head. “Of course I got it all wrong. That wasn’t the kind of plays he wanted to write at all. I never could keep up with him.”
I smile sympathetically, remembering all the times my mother would get it all wrong. When I first showed an interest in poetry, she thought maybe I could get a job writing greeting cards or jingles for advertising. When I told her I was studying Italian, she found me a summer job waitressing at an Italian restaurant in Astoria.
“I’m sure he appreciated the effort. Right, Dr. Spiers?” I say shooting Spiers a murderous look over Saul Weiss’s head. He responds by clicking his phone closed and nodding vigorously.
“Yes, yes, absolutely—although the adolescent may overtly reject the parent’s attempts to assimilate their cultural contexts, on a subconscious level they absorb the message.”