you meet,” Levin was saying. “I already like Mr.—Professor Bucket, and I’m fond of Dr. Gilley.”
Fabrikant grunted. “If you’re fond of him I don’t think you’ll care for me.”
Levin, off balance, did not know what to say.
The associate professor mounted his horse, then came an edict: “Gilley and I may be in a contest for department headship after Fairchild retires. If you’re a liberal, you may be called on to prove it.”
He galloped back in the direction he had come.
The Syrian graduate student Mrs. Beaty had been expecting turned out to be Mr. Sadek Abdul Meheen, from Damascus, and Levin made his acquaintance the day he arrived. He was a short young man with a fluff of curly black hair on a balding brown skull, and a delicate Semitic nose that sniffed in the direction of vagrant odors. His moist black eyes were gently popped. He was respectful of Levin as an instructor, and although he spoke English well, consulted him in matters of usage. Levin tried but was not much taken by the man, hidden as a person and fanatic about hygiene. The fumes of Lysol stank up the bathroom for a half hour after he had been in it; he rubbed everything he touched—before, not after—with his personal bottle. He was majoring in sanitary bacteriology and taking courses in rat control and the bacteriology of sewage. But he played chess better than Levin and talked entertainingly of the Middle East.
Although they were uneasy with each other the two men
restlessly roamed the Easchester streets together. The town, though attractive, was much of sameness. It had grown in a semicircle around a bend in the Sacajawea and now extended thinly to the western and northern hills; surrounding the long rectangle of green campus and red-brick college buildings. Downtown was a treeless grid of boxlike store and small offices buildings, unimaginative and verging on abstraction. The goods in store windows supplied its only color. Around the business district were many old-fashioned double-pediform houses, mainly carpenter-built on small plots of ground, squeezed together; some were redeemed by gardens, shrubbery and trees, whose apples, plums and walnuts often rotted on sidewalks as Levin walked, evoking in him guilt for the waste. Farther out, past the campus, appeared the modern ranch houses with picture windows; tilted roof types; and split-levels climbing the hills. The fraternity and sorority houses were the most magnificent of the community. During the day, Levin enjoyed the town though it seemed entirely contemporary, without visible or tangible connection with the past. Nature was the town’s true history, the streets and park barren of fountain spray or sculpture to commemorate word or deed of any meaningful past event. Lewis and Clark had not slept here, nor Sitting Bull, Rutherford B. Hayes, nor Frank Lloyd Wright. After the covered wagons apparently little had happened that was worth public remembrance except a few serious fires and the expulsion, not hanging, of Leo Duffy. But what Easchester lacked in communal memory and imaginativeness, it made up in beauty of natural setting, trees and clouds, cleanliness and quiet. Roses and ivy grew up some of the phone poles; and automobiles by law stopped at street corners when pedestrians crossed. This was civilized. Not since New York had any harried driver called Levin dirty names as he hurriedly crossed the street. There were no harried drivers. The new instructor’s spirit was eased. He did not mind the smallness of the town. Had not Concord been for Thoreau a sufficient miniature of the universe?
But at night remembrance of New York City struck him like a spear hurled across the continent, adding weight to his body and years to his age. He walked with the map of the city underfoot; sometimes he thought of it as a jeweled grave to fall into, or a wound at his side. At night he missed the movement and mystery of people in dark city streets. The anticipation of adventure
Fabrikant grunted. “If you’re fond of him I don’t think you’ll care for me.”
Levin, off balance, did not know what to say.
The associate professor mounted his horse, then came an edict: “Gilley and I may be in a contest for department headship after Fairchild retires. If you’re a liberal, you may be called on to prove it.”
He galloped back in the direction he had come.
The Syrian graduate student Mrs. Beaty had been expecting turned out to be Mr. Sadek Abdul Meheen, from Damascus, and Levin made his acquaintance the day he arrived. He was a short young man with a fluff of curly black hair on a balding brown skull, and a delicate Semitic nose that sniffed in the direction of vagrant odors. His moist black eyes were gently popped. He was respectful of Levin as an instructor, and although he spoke English well, consulted him in matters of usage. Levin tried but was not much taken by the man, hidden as a person and fanatic about hygiene. The fumes of Lysol stank up the bathroom for a half hour after he had been in it; he rubbed everything he touched—before, not after—with his personal bottle. He was majoring in sanitary bacteriology and taking courses in rat control and the bacteriology of sewage. But he played chess better than Levin and talked entertainingly of the Middle East.
Although they were uneasy with each other the two men
restlessly roamed the Easchester streets together. The town, though attractive, was much of sameness. It had grown in a semicircle around a bend in the Sacajawea and now extended thinly to the western and northern hills; surrounding the long rectangle of green campus and red-brick college buildings. Downtown was a treeless grid of boxlike store and small offices buildings, unimaginative and verging on abstraction. The goods in store windows supplied its only color. Around the business district were many old-fashioned double-pediform houses, mainly carpenter-built on small plots of ground, squeezed together; some were redeemed by gardens, shrubbery and trees, whose apples, plums and walnuts often rotted on sidewalks as Levin walked, evoking in him guilt for the waste. Farther out, past the campus, appeared the modern ranch houses with picture windows; tilted roof types; and split-levels climbing the hills. The fraternity and sorority houses were the most magnificent of the community. During the day, Levin enjoyed the town though it seemed entirely contemporary, without visible or tangible connection with the past. Nature was the town’s true history, the streets and park barren of fountain spray or sculpture to commemorate word or deed of any meaningful past event. Lewis and Clark had not slept here, nor Sitting Bull, Rutherford B. Hayes, nor Frank Lloyd Wright. After the covered wagons apparently little had happened that was worth public remembrance except a few serious fires and the expulsion, not hanging, of Leo Duffy. But what Easchester lacked in communal memory and imaginativeness, it made up in beauty of natural setting, trees and clouds, cleanliness and quiet. Roses and ivy grew up some of the phone poles; and automobiles by law stopped at street corners when pedestrians crossed. This was civilized. Not since New York had any harried driver called Levin dirty names as he hurriedly crossed the street. There were no harried drivers. The new instructor’s spirit was eased. He did not mind the smallness of the town. Had not Concord been for Thoreau a sufficient miniature of the universe?
But at night remembrance of New York City struck him like a spear hurled across the continent, adding weight to his body and years to his age. He walked with the map of the city underfoot; sometimes he thought of it as a jeweled grave to fall into, or a wound at his side. At night he missed the movement and mystery of people in dark city streets. The anticipation of adventure
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