me.
Marie, an ancient, diminutive woman with silver hair, looked at him across her large desk in her book-filled and paper-strewn office, with twinkling, kindly eyes. Among her past students, it was said, were (besides illustrious scholars) one of Henry Kissinger’s advisers, a Mossad agent, and a PLO official.
You could do something useful, Marie said to Sona. We scholars are not meant to demonstrate in the streets. What we are good at is sorting and presenting information. Sona thought that was an excellent idea — he would obtain information on foreign students’ rights to demonstrate and distribute it. This was not quite what Marie had in mind, but she smiled and said, Go ahead, it can’t hurt. And so Sona produced his pamphlet, entitled, “The Foreign Student and Free Speech: Your Rights.” You are free to express your opinions, it said, after a rhetorical preamble; it warned against silly things like getting caught in the possession of drugs or attacking policemen, and it gave a list of phone numbers to call in case of arrest.
On Saturday night, at about nine o’clock, while he was stuffingthe mailboxes at Rutherford House with his flyers, Sona overheard something that sent a chill up his spine:
someone was discussing him and Ramji
.
“They’re using the foreign students … one of them is right here, putting flyers in mailboxes, another’s on his way to the west side … I’ve got one here.…You’re free to express your opinion it says …”
It was Steve Mittel, on duty at reception, talking on the phone. A solitary guy, Mittel — tall and athletic-looking, often seen manning the late shift here while absorbed in his course assignments. He was at his table now, round the corner from the wall of mailboxes so Sona couldn’t see him. Who is he speaking to so intently, passing on information? What can they do — who
are
they? The FBI ? Is this guy an informer? A quiet chap, but his close-cropped hair, his button-down shirt and trouser pants are a statement of sorts.
Shaken and disheartened, he continued the chore. The more he stuffed, the more worried he became. He had never shown his hand on the issues; this was the first time, and it was almost a neutral hand, yet here he was face to face with opposition. “They’re using foreign students” — when there is a “they” there is also a “we.” Would his name be filed on a record somewhere? A frightening thought, all he seriously desired was to be able to do his beloved research. When he had finished the job, from one of the phone booths in the lobby, so he couldn’t be overheard, he called his own dorm in the west campus where Ramji had gone with his share of the flyers.
“Has a tall guy come there with flyers … a tall Indian … no? If he comes —” What, if he comes? “Tell him to wait there, hisfriend Sona is coming.…Yes, Sona, without the ‘r’ at the end. It’s urgent. He shouldn’t move.” The joke about his name was getting pretty stale, he thought.
He hurried towards the west campus. The long walk through the Tech tunnel-corridor allowed him to compose himself. Perhaps he had overreacted, there was no real urgency; but it was no idle gossip he’d heard — not from Mittel’s mouth. He’d sensed menace, and instinct told him to find Ramji right away.
As he crossed Mass Ave, the rhythms of music from a party came throbbing down from the direction of the Student Center. It’s either the homosexual party or the Thai party, he thought. He’d seen posters around for both events. Tekle the Ethiopian passed him with a wave, on his way to spend the night at the Student Center library. Isaac the Cameroonian and Stavros the Greek had spent a fruitless time hunting American girls at a singles club, and were now also on their way to the Student Center. The sight of the building reminded Sona that he himself had a date there in fifteen minutes on which he had placed rather high hopes. Earlier in the day, while
Marie, an ancient, diminutive woman with silver hair, looked at him across her large desk in her book-filled and paper-strewn office, with twinkling, kindly eyes. Among her past students, it was said, were (besides illustrious scholars) one of Henry Kissinger’s advisers, a Mossad agent, and a PLO official.
You could do something useful, Marie said to Sona. We scholars are not meant to demonstrate in the streets. What we are good at is sorting and presenting information. Sona thought that was an excellent idea — he would obtain information on foreign students’ rights to demonstrate and distribute it. This was not quite what Marie had in mind, but she smiled and said, Go ahead, it can’t hurt. And so Sona produced his pamphlet, entitled, “The Foreign Student and Free Speech: Your Rights.” You are free to express your opinions, it said, after a rhetorical preamble; it warned against silly things like getting caught in the possession of drugs or attacking policemen, and it gave a list of phone numbers to call in case of arrest.
On Saturday night, at about nine o’clock, while he was stuffingthe mailboxes at Rutherford House with his flyers, Sona overheard something that sent a chill up his spine:
someone was discussing him and Ramji
.
“They’re using the foreign students … one of them is right here, putting flyers in mailboxes, another’s on his way to the west side … I’ve got one here.…You’re free to express your opinion it says …”
It was Steve Mittel, on duty at reception, talking on the phone. A solitary guy, Mittel — tall and athletic-looking, often seen manning the late shift here while absorbed in his course assignments. He was at his table now, round the corner from the wall of mailboxes so Sona couldn’t see him. Who is he speaking to so intently, passing on information? What can they do — who
are
they? The FBI ? Is this guy an informer? A quiet chap, but his close-cropped hair, his button-down shirt and trouser pants are a statement of sorts.
Shaken and disheartened, he continued the chore. The more he stuffed, the more worried he became. He had never shown his hand on the issues; this was the first time, and it was almost a neutral hand, yet here he was face to face with opposition. “They’re using foreign students” — when there is a “they” there is also a “we.” Would his name be filed on a record somewhere? A frightening thought, all he seriously desired was to be able to do his beloved research. When he had finished the job, from one of the phone booths in the lobby, so he couldn’t be overheard, he called his own dorm in the west campus where Ramji had gone with his share of the flyers.
“Has a tall guy come there with flyers … a tall Indian … no? If he comes —” What, if he comes? “Tell him to wait there, hisfriend Sona is coming.…Yes, Sona, without the ‘r’ at the end. It’s urgent. He shouldn’t move.” The joke about his name was getting pretty stale, he thought.
He hurried towards the west campus. The long walk through the Tech tunnel-corridor allowed him to compose himself. Perhaps he had overreacted, there was no real urgency; but it was no idle gossip he’d heard — not from Mittel’s mouth. He’d sensed menace, and instinct told him to find Ramji right away.
As he crossed Mass Ave, the rhythms of music from a party came throbbing down from the direction of the Student Center. It’s either the homosexual party or the Thai party, he thought. He’d seen posters around for both events. Tekle the Ethiopian passed him with a wave, on his way to spend the night at the Student Center library. Isaac the Cameroonian and Stavros the Greek had spent a fruitless time hunting American girls at a singles club, and were now also on their way to the Student Center. The sight of the building reminded Sona that he himself had a date there in fifteen minutes on which he had placed rather high hopes. Earlier in the day, while
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