his usual back booth, reading the Tribune and the Wall Street Journal in tandem. His back stiffens and he pretends not to see her. A man who functions from the neck up, he has the incongruence of the hands and thick frame of a butcher.
“Am I interrupting?” Cheri says.
“Oh, Professor Matzner,” he says, putting down his papers then clasping his sausage-like fingers together.
“I wanted to check in and see how things were progressing. I know Dennis Donohue was in town last week.”
“I’m working with quite a few parties on this, as you know.”
“And is there any news on how we might proceed? Obviously, nobody is getting into Iraq at the moment, given the current politics.”
“Fits and starts, my dear. We’ve dealt with worse blows from UN sanctions in the past. Whatever happens this time, the prudent course is to take the long view. I believe we’ll resolve the situation, just like we did in Nippur.”
“That was before 9/11. Who knows if Tony Blair has any real evidence of weapons of mass destruction, but it’s pretty clear that he and Cheney are building a case for invasion.”
“Governments may enact all sorts of Sturm und Drang, but much can slip twixt the cup and the lip. One thing experience will teach you is—know enough to know when you don’t know. Leave it to those who do.”
A waiter appears, bearing iced tea.
“Sugar, please,” McCall says, “the real stuff.” The waiter looks at Cheri, but before she can order a drink, Samuelson waves him off. “In any event, while nobody wants bloodshed, one could make an argument that a regime change—if it’s done with the framework of an international coalition and blessed by the UN—would be in the best interests of the Iraqi people as well as archaeology.” He sits back and nods, seemingly satisfied at the wisdom he has just bestowed on Cheri.
But, to the evident annoyance of McCall, Cheri charges on. “Politics aside, I’m sure you must be considering how you’d like your team to proceed until we can get access to the tablets in Baghdad.”
“There are many moving parts to consider and, rest assured, we are considering them all.”
“I understand,” she says, trying to sound calm as she clenches her hands under the table. “I’m bringing this up because, as you know, I’ve cleared my teaching schedule in the fall to be fully available to you. My publisher is waiting on my second book and I’m trying to plan my time.”
Just then, a stately man walks up to the table, holding his coat in his hand. “Professor Matzner, Dr. Donohue,” McCall says. “Professor Matzner is a cuneiform scholar and one of our professors. She was just leaving.”
“Nice to meet you,” Cheri says with a too-firm handshake, and with that, she is dismissed.
Cheri presses the gas pedal of her Jeep, listening to the engine cough and then die, cough and then die. Samuelson’s condescension infuriates her. Her hand trembles. It’s a tic, an old hangover from her love affair with amphetamines. When the engine finally catches, she drives west on North Avenue to get to the Kennedy Expressway.
“Men can’t handle women being direct. You have to appeal to his ego,” her oldest friend, Taya, had advised when she’d complained about Samuelson. “Or, better yet, make a donation. He probably chairs some archaeology foundation that needs funding. You may live like you don’t have money but you inherited a boatload from Sol so fucking spend some of it to help yourself for once. Or if all else fails, you could always fuck him.” Unfortunately, Taya’s only knowledge about the pressure points of academe came via an affair she had with a visiting professor from Russia when she and Cheri were undergraduates at NYU.
The direct approach with Samuelson had failed her before. Last March when Saddam Hussein held an international conference in Baghdad and invited leading Western archaeologists to attend, Cheri made it known that, if Samuelson was
“Am I interrupting?” Cheri says.
“Oh, Professor Matzner,” he says, putting down his papers then clasping his sausage-like fingers together.
“I wanted to check in and see how things were progressing. I know Dennis Donohue was in town last week.”
“I’m working with quite a few parties on this, as you know.”
“And is there any news on how we might proceed? Obviously, nobody is getting into Iraq at the moment, given the current politics.”
“Fits and starts, my dear. We’ve dealt with worse blows from UN sanctions in the past. Whatever happens this time, the prudent course is to take the long view. I believe we’ll resolve the situation, just like we did in Nippur.”
“That was before 9/11. Who knows if Tony Blair has any real evidence of weapons of mass destruction, but it’s pretty clear that he and Cheney are building a case for invasion.”
“Governments may enact all sorts of Sturm und Drang, but much can slip twixt the cup and the lip. One thing experience will teach you is—know enough to know when you don’t know. Leave it to those who do.”
A waiter appears, bearing iced tea.
“Sugar, please,” McCall says, “the real stuff.” The waiter looks at Cheri, but before she can order a drink, Samuelson waves him off. “In any event, while nobody wants bloodshed, one could make an argument that a regime change—if it’s done with the framework of an international coalition and blessed by the UN—would be in the best interests of the Iraqi people as well as archaeology.” He sits back and nods, seemingly satisfied at the wisdom he has just bestowed on Cheri.
But, to the evident annoyance of McCall, Cheri charges on. “Politics aside, I’m sure you must be considering how you’d like your team to proceed until we can get access to the tablets in Baghdad.”
“There are many moving parts to consider and, rest assured, we are considering them all.”
“I understand,” she says, trying to sound calm as she clenches her hands under the table. “I’m bringing this up because, as you know, I’ve cleared my teaching schedule in the fall to be fully available to you. My publisher is waiting on my second book and I’m trying to plan my time.”
Just then, a stately man walks up to the table, holding his coat in his hand. “Professor Matzner, Dr. Donohue,” McCall says. “Professor Matzner is a cuneiform scholar and one of our professors. She was just leaving.”
“Nice to meet you,” Cheri says with a too-firm handshake, and with that, she is dismissed.
Cheri presses the gas pedal of her Jeep, listening to the engine cough and then die, cough and then die. Samuelson’s condescension infuriates her. Her hand trembles. It’s a tic, an old hangover from her love affair with amphetamines. When the engine finally catches, she drives west on North Avenue to get to the Kennedy Expressway.
“Men can’t handle women being direct. You have to appeal to his ego,” her oldest friend, Taya, had advised when she’d complained about Samuelson. “Or, better yet, make a donation. He probably chairs some archaeology foundation that needs funding. You may live like you don’t have money but you inherited a boatload from Sol so fucking spend some of it to help yourself for once. Or if all else fails, you could always fuck him.” Unfortunately, Taya’s only knowledge about the pressure points of academe came via an affair she had with a visiting professor from Russia when she and Cheri were undergraduates at NYU.
The direct approach with Samuelson had failed her before. Last March when Saddam Hussein held an international conference in Baghdad and invited leading Western archaeologists to attend, Cheri made it known that, if Samuelson was
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