delivering an overdue homework assignment, he’d befriended Amy Burton, the professor’s secretary, who actually also was an Eng Lit student. She had agreed to meet him for coffee that night. And what a lovely night, cool but not cold.
Where is Ramji?
When Sona reached the chapel, across the green from the Student Center, where the residences also were located, he ran into an odd-looking threesome emerging from the alley: Ramji supported by a guy on either side.
“Ramji!”
“He got mugged,” one of the guys said. Ramji nodded wearily.
“It’s all right,” Sona said, “I’ll take over from here.”
“Thanks, guys,” Ramji said gratefully, “I won’t bother you anymore,” and the two Americans disappeared. Ramji hobbled along beside Sona, using a shoulder for support.
“So what happened?” Sona asked, and Ramji told him. He had been not mugged but jumped on by YAP s, who had been waiting for him.
Ramji had first visited MacDonald House, the newest of the west campus dorms. Having finished stuffing mailboxes there he came out the back door, pulling up the collar of his coat against a wind gusting from the river, wondering if there was any point at all in doing the rich dorms with their carpeted corridors and panelled walls. He was walking in the dark alley between the chapel and Mac House when he heard simultaneously a brief shuffle of footsteps and a mutter behind him, some fifteen feet away, he sensed. He became instantly nervous, his hairs tingling, throat constricted; he reached out to feel his wallet in his pants pocket, as if that would make a difference if he was going to get mugged. He started to run, when from behind a dumpster ahead of him a big guy in an open overcoat stepped out. If Ramji had continued running, he would have been tripped, so he stopped, and said, “What do you want?”
“Got you.”
Someone seized him in a tight neck hold from behind, pressing against him, another knocked the flyers from his helpless hands, and the third, the guy in front, punched him several times in the stomach. He was let go and crumpled to the ground.
“Fucking wog! If you don’t like America, go climb up the tree you came from.”
Ramji looked up, recognized a face. “I know who you are,” he said, clutching his stomach in pain. It was the YAP he thought of asChunky Crewcut, the guy who went about writing over Shawn’s graffiti. He was holding a camera.
“Hey!” There was a shout and approaching footsteps, and the three attackers disappeared.
“When I was down, they had the audacity to take a photo of me,” Ramji said to Sona as they walked back to Rutherford. “I think they were right,” he muttered, after a moment, “I should go climb up my tree —”
“Nonsense! This is America, everyone has a right to be here, even to protest.”
“Tell that to the YAP s. What would they want with my photo anyhow — they can get a better one from the yearbook, or the registrar. You think they took it as a trophy?”
Then Sona told Ramji about Steve Mittel and the telephone conversation he’d overheard and how he’d suspected that Mittel might be a police informer. They mulled over that awhile, then concluded they’d done nothing wrong.
Sona walked Ramji to his room, then went to the Student Center coffee house to meet Amy Burton. At his desk at the Rutherford House reception, Steve Mittel was painstakingly writing up his homework.
7
T
he great hall of Building 10, under the second classical-style dome of the Tech, overlooks Mem Drive and the Charles exactly halfway down the main corridor — where every moment of the working day scores of people are scurrying along in either direction, like neurons in a throbbing central nervous system going about their tasks acquiring fresh information, new knowledge. To take a break from this frantic activity is to feel wilted, redundant. And yet there are three tables set up here offering respite. Behind the middle table sits Ramji, eyeing
Where is Ramji?
When Sona reached the chapel, across the green from the Student Center, where the residences also were located, he ran into an odd-looking threesome emerging from the alley: Ramji supported by a guy on either side.
“Ramji!”
“He got mugged,” one of the guys said. Ramji nodded wearily.
“It’s all right,” Sona said, “I’ll take over from here.”
“Thanks, guys,” Ramji said gratefully, “I won’t bother you anymore,” and the two Americans disappeared. Ramji hobbled along beside Sona, using a shoulder for support.
“So what happened?” Sona asked, and Ramji told him. He had been not mugged but jumped on by YAP s, who had been waiting for him.
Ramji had first visited MacDonald House, the newest of the west campus dorms. Having finished stuffing mailboxes there he came out the back door, pulling up the collar of his coat against a wind gusting from the river, wondering if there was any point at all in doing the rich dorms with their carpeted corridors and panelled walls. He was walking in the dark alley between the chapel and Mac House when he heard simultaneously a brief shuffle of footsteps and a mutter behind him, some fifteen feet away, he sensed. He became instantly nervous, his hairs tingling, throat constricted; he reached out to feel his wallet in his pants pocket, as if that would make a difference if he was going to get mugged. He started to run, when from behind a dumpster ahead of him a big guy in an open overcoat stepped out. If Ramji had continued running, he would have been tripped, so he stopped, and said, “What do you want?”
“Got you.”
Someone seized him in a tight neck hold from behind, pressing against him, another knocked the flyers from his helpless hands, and the third, the guy in front, punched him several times in the stomach. He was let go and crumpled to the ground.
“Fucking wog! If you don’t like America, go climb up the tree you came from.”
Ramji looked up, recognized a face. “I know who you are,” he said, clutching his stomach in pain. It was the YAP he thought of asChunky Crewcut, the guy who went about writing over Shawn’s graffiti. He was holding a camera.
“Hey!” There was a shout and approaching footsteps, and the three attackers disappeared.
“When I was down, they had the audacity to take a photo of me,” Ramji said to Sona as they walked back to Rutherford. “I think they were right,” he muttered, after a moment, “I should go climb up my tree —”
“Nonsense! This is America, everyone has a right to be here, even to protest.”
“Tell that to the YAP s. What would they want with my photo anyhow — they can get a better one from the yearbook, or the registrar. You think they took it as a trophy?”
Then Sona told Ramji about Steve Mittel and the telephone conversation he’d overheard and how he’d suspected that Mittel might be a police informer. They mulled over that awhile, then concluded they’d done nothing wrong.
Sona walked Ramji to his room, then went to the Student Center coffee house to meet Amy Burton. At his desk at the Rutherford House reception, Steve Mittel was painstakingly writing up his homework.
7
T
he great hall of Building 10, under the second classical-style dome of the Tech, overlooks Mem Drive and the Charles exactly halfway down the main corridor — where every moment of the working day scores of people are scurrying along in either direction, like neurons in a throbbing central nervous system going about their tasks acquiring fresh information, new knowledge. To take a break from this frantic activity is to feel wilted, redundant. And yet there are three tables set up here offering respite. Behind the middle table sits Ramji, eyeing
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