The Executor Part 3

THERE ARE TWO CAMBRIDGES. There's the magical Cambridge, steeped in history and ripe with opportunity, the postcard of my undergraduate years and the first few years of grad school, before I fell from grace. Then there's the real Cambridge, the one where real people live, beyond the walls of the ancient coc.o.o.n. In the real Cambridge, there are no carrels. No grants. No deeply meaningful all-night discussions. Pride of membership is noticeably diminished. This second Cambridge can come as something of a shock to the system when you've spent a decade living in the first. All through my twenties I'd been hanging on for dear life, but as I slogged through the filthy slush, headed for a job interview with a stranger, I felt myself headed into hostile territory. Glancing back at Memorial Hall, I saw its bell tower giving me the finger.

It's a testament to the insularity of life in the academy that I could walk less than a mile off campus and find myself on a street hitherto unknown to me, a charming little cul-de-sac lined with white oaks and red maples. Cars lay buried under snow. A sidewalk in dire need of shoveling fronted a long row of clapboard Victorians-some high-gabled Gothic Revivals, others bracketed simply in the American folk style, all except the last converted to duplexes and triplexes. Number forty-nine's empty driveway revealed that the house ran quite far back. Soon enough I would discover what those depths held.

Down at the corner, a silent procession of pedestrians and taxis, spectral in the winter haze.

I could not blame my prospective employer for wanting to have her conversation delivered in. Getting to the end of the block would be nightmarish for someone with bad hips or an arthritic knee.

One benefit to being so tucked away: it was quiet. Blissfully so. I grew aware of my own breathing, the fizz of my nylon jacket as I moved my arm to cover a cough. It occurred to me that this would be an ideal place to get some writing done.

I climbed the porch steps and knocked. The curtains in the bay window stirred. I looked over but not in time, and twenty seconds later the front door opened on darkness.

"Mr. Geist. Do come in."

I stood in the entry hall, my eyes adjusting.

"I would offer to take your coat, but you may want to keep it. I'm afraid the house is rather cold. Before we go any further, let me get a look at you."

I did likewise. I put her at seventy-five, although it was still too dark to draw firm conclusions. What I could tell was that she had once been exceedingly beautiful, and that much of that beauty had lingered on into old age. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes quick and moist. I squinted: were they green?

"You appear decent enough," she said. "You aren't going to rob me, are you?"

"I hadn't planned on it."

"Then let us hope that your plans remain unchanged, eh?" She laughed. "Come."

Down a creaking hallway she went, trailing perfume. She was right about the temperature. New England homes tend to be suffocatingly overheated-anyone who has lived there will understand-and often I came in from the cold to start pouring sweat. Now I zipped up my coat. She paused at the noise, turned with an apologetic smile.

"Ach. I must beg your pardon. My condition is provoked by heat. Bright light can be bothersome as well. I hope you shan't be too uncomfortable."

We came to a delicately furnished room. A pair of pale pink sofas faced each other, perpendicular to the fireplace, which was accented by a hearth rug. In the middle of the room was a low gla.s.s table, atop it a half-empty china cup and saucer. The curtains were heavy enough to block out all sunlight; two bra.s.s floor lamps with chinoiserie shades provided the room's only illumination.

"You would like some tea, perhaps?"

"That'd be lovely, thanks."

"Please sit down. I shan't be long."

Watching her go, I wondered about this condition of hers. She seemed healthy enough. She walked slowly-not out of difficulty but with grace. It was the walk of someone accustomed to having others wait for her, the speed of dignity. She wore a long floral dress beneath a creamy cardigan, and from the back I saw her white hair tidily pulled into a bun, a pearl hairpin at twelve o'clock. Her sole concession to informality was a pair of slippers that slapped at her heels as she disappeared.

I got up to poke around. Aside from the entry hall, there were two ways out: the one she'd taken, leading, presumably, to the kitchen, and another opening into a still deeper darkness. The living room bowed out toward the front of the house, creating s.p.a.ce for a dining-room set that gleamed through the dim.

Most striking was the lack of photographs. Who doesn't keep a portrait of mother and father over the mantel? Spouse? Children? Friends. Yet there was nothing except a ceramic clock. Indeed, the walls were almost bare. Near the doorway to the kitchen hung Audubon's famous lithograph of the Carolina parakeet-extinct in nature but alive in art, their greens and reds and yellows so vibrant that one could almost hear them screeching. Near the back hallway was an oil, a nighttime seascape, black sky and black ocean.

I heard her coming.

The sofa cushions gave up a faint breath of perfume as I sat.

She handed me my own cup and saucer. "I don't know your preferences, so here are lemon and sugar. Should you want milk, I can fetch some."

"That's perfect, thank you."

"You are quite welcome." She sat opposite me, her posture immaculate. "I hope you found me easily?"

"Yes."

"And you were not inconvenienced."

"Not at all."

"Excellent. I commend you on your punctuality, a virtue in regrettably short supply. Der erste Eindruck zahlt. Der erste Eindruck zahlt. " "

German gets a bad rap for being uniformly guttural and heavy. Her accent was airy, balletic; I still couldn't pinpoint it. Her English shalls shalls and and shan'ts shan'ts seemed less an affectation than the product of upbringing, and I wondered if she had been raised with British tutors or studied abroad. If so, that would imply a wealthy background. Before I made too many a.s.sumptions, though- seemed less an affectation than the product of upbringing, and I wondered if she had been raised with British tutors or studied abroad. If so, that would imply a wealthy background. Before I made too many a.s.sumptions, though- "I don't mean to be rude," I said, "but I still don't know your name."

She laughed. "How extraordinary. I apologize again. My brain must be frozen. I am Alma Spielmann."

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Spielmann."

"And the same to you again, Mr. Geist. You must forgive my abruptness on the telephone. I regret that this is a bad habit of mine. I remember when even a brief call cost a fortune. When I was your age-ach. I don't want to be one of those old ladies whose stories begin, 'When I was your age."'

I smiled. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Oh, there are many places to begin. Yes? No subject is out of bounds to the philosopher."

"Don't feel obliged to talk philosophy on my account."

"I feel nothing of the sort," she said. "That was the reason I asked you here. I have known a number of philosophers over the years. You might say that I was a bit of a philosopher myself. But they are nowadays quite difficult to come by. Before you, I had calls from two filmmakers, three writers, a linguist, and someone studying forestry. All from Harvard, like you, although you are the first I have troubled to invite. I suppose that is my punishment for advertising in the student newspaper. I mistakenly believed that this would attract a more sophisticated element."

"What was the problem?"

"They were all dreadfully stupid."

"That's too bad," I said.

"For them, yes, it is too bad. It is a terrible thing to be stupid, don't you think?"

"... yes."

"You seem to disagree."

"I don't disagree."

"But you don't agree."

I shrugged. "I'm not sure it's my place-"

"Bah. Please, Mr. Geist. I haven't asked you here so you could parrot my opinions back to me."

"Well," I said, "some people would consider consciousness a kind of curse."

"And do you?"

"Me? No. Not most of the time."

"Some of the time, then."

"I think we all have moments when we'd like to be able to shut off our minds."

"That is what wine is for," she said. "Is that what you would like to do, Mr. Geist? Shut off your mind?"

A lump of self-pity rose into my throat, and I almost started blubbering about Yasmina, about my rudderless career, about the fact that I was here singing for my supper. I shrugged again. "You know. Angst."

I'd been right in thinking her eyes green; but they changed, or seemed to change, when she smiled. "Very well, then. I don't mind that you are unhappy. It shall make you more interesting to talk to. That was the other problem with your predecessors. They all sounded so improbably cheery."

I laughed. "I'm sure they thought they were doing the right thing."

"Yes. This is the American way, after all. But the Viennese do not believe in happy endings."

"I was wondering."

"About?"

"Your accent. I thought it might be Swiss."

She looked offended. "Mr. Geist."

I apologized-in German.

"Your own accent is good. Clean. I must ask where you learned to speak."

"I lived in Berlin for six months."

"Well. I shan't hold that against you, either."

"I've never been to Vienna," I said.

"Oh, you must go," she said. "It is the only real city in the world." She smiled. "Now. Let us discuss whether it is better to be happy or to be intelligent."

IT HAD BEEN a long time since I'd had a conversation anything like the one I had with Alma that afternoon. We did not proceed methodically. Nor did we aim to produce a conclusion. To the contrary: ours was a sublimely haphazard cascade of ideas, metaphors, allusions. Neither of us staked out a firm position, remaining content to lob words back and forth, sometimes in support, sometimes to draw contrast. I cited Mill. She quoted Schopenhauer. We argued over whether one could in fact claim to be happy without any grasp of truth. We talked about the concept of eudaimonia, which the Greeks used to describe both the state of being happy and the process of doing virtuous acts, and from there we moved to a debate about virtue ethics, systems of values that emphasize the development of character, as opposed to deontology, which emphasizes universal duties (e.g., "Don't lie"), or consequentialism, which emphasizes utility, the happiness generated by an act.

It was the best conversation I'd had in a long time, precisely because it had no goal other than itself. Three facts about her emerged as we spoke: one, she was ferociously witty; two, she seemed to have read every major work of Continental philosophy published prior to the 1960s; and three, she enjoyed playing the provocateur. As such, we engaged not in a race but a dance, the two of us circling each other, every one of our ideas sprouting ten more. At last she drew up.

"It has been a delightful afternoon, Mr. Geist. For today let us table the debate. Now, I must please ask you to wait."

While she was gone, I glanced at the mantel clock, astonished to see that two hours had pa.s.sed.

"For your trouble," she said, handing me a check for one hundred dollars. "I trust that is sufficient."

Actually, I didn't think I deserved anything at all. Something about getting paid for a pleasurable activity feels wrong. Though in no position to argue-it would've been impolite, and I needed the money-I did think a bit of feigned reluctance was in order. "It's too much."

"Rubbish. I shall see you tomorrow? The same time?"

Without hesitation I agreed. She was so enchanting, so European, that I fought the urge to kiss her hand as she let me out.

"May I ask a question?" I said.

"Please."

"I'm glad to have met you-very glad. I have to ask, though, how you knew you could trust me. I mean, I hope this isn't something you do often, open your door to strangers."

"I find your concern touching, Mr. Geist. You need not worry; I am a good judge of character, even over the telephone." Her eyes changed. "And naturally, I own a pistol."

She winked at me and shut the door.

7.

Once again I commend you on your punctuality, Mr. Geist."

This time my tea was waiting for me, but instead of putting out the entire sugar bowl, she had left a single cube-exactly what I'd used the day before-on the rim of my saucer. We took our same seats, and she folded her hands in her lap.

"So," she said. "What shall we talk about today?"

I reached into my pocket. "I've taken the liberty of coming up with a list of topics I thought might interest you."

She lowered her reading gla.s.ses, skimmed in silence. "I see that you have a spiritual side to you. That must be a severe handicap in an American philosophy department."

"It can be."

"Perhaps you would care to share with me the focus of your studies. You must write a thesis, yes?"

"... that's right."

She looked at me over the page. "You are under no obligation to discuss it with me. I merely intended to give you free rein."

I don't like to trumpet my failures-who does?-and had it been anyone else asking, I would have changed the subject. It was, I think, the newness of our acquaintance that disarmed me. "It's on hold at the moment," I said.