you could come sometime to teach a course at the School. Let me know how your ideal city of knowledge progresses.â
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But neither wrote to the other. The promises, the good things they wished each other as they were leaving, were as abundant and unreal as the stacks of German bills that filled oneâs pockets and werenât enough to buy a cup of coffee. Suddenly time accelerates, and the children have grown without your being aware of it. On land where nothing existedâwhere pine groves had been uprooted by steam shovels, the ground leveled, the plain subdivided by imaginary linesâthere are now streets with sidewalks, but no houses, young trees, buildings emerging from the mud, some completed but still empty, some inaugurated and put to use, the School of Philosophy and Letters Building is occupied, though masons, carpenters, and painters continue to work there, though students have to cut across open country and walk around ditches and piles of building materials to reach it. Through the windows of his office he could see the red blocks of the Schools of Medicine and of Pharmacy, almost finished on the outside, the structure of the University Hospital, surrounded by swarms of laborers, donkeys, trucks carrying materials, armed guards patrolling the site. Farther on past the somber green of oaks and pines, and above that, on a more distant plane, the outline of the Sierra, its highest peaks still snow-covered. Itâs almost six on the large office clock, too late to receive a visitor who doesnât have an appointment. The calendar shows a date in May 1935, which Ignacio Abel will cross out just before he leaves. He looked up from the board on which a student had spread a plan, and the pale old man from the other world smiled at him awkwardly, his eyes watery, stretching wide a mouth filled with ruined teeth, extending his hand, the other pressing against his chest the black briefcase, as immediately recognizable as his accent and stiff comportment from another century, the briefcase in which he no longer kept dazzling objects with which heâd transmit to his students the mystery of the practical forms that make life better: now he kept documents, certificates in Gothic print and gilt seals no longer worth anything, printed requests for visas in a variety of languages, copies of letters to embassies, official letters that denied him something in neutral language or demanded yet another certificate, some insignificant but inaccessible paper, some consular stamp without which the months of waiting and delays would have been in vain.
âProfessor Rossman, what a pleasant surprise. When did you get here?â
âMy friend, my dear Professor Abel, you wouldnât believe what has happened. But donât worry about me, I see youâre busy, I donât mind waiting.â
5
A BLACK SILHOUETTE crossed the illuminated rectangle of the screen where the slides were being projected, next to the podium from which Ignacio Abel gave his lecture. His nerves settled down when he began to speak. He was calmed by the clear sound of his own voice, the sturdy podium on which he rested his hands. Before walking onstage heâd been comforted by the warm sound of the audience filling the hall, after having been afraid that no one would attend the lecture, his fear growing as the day approached; how embarrassed he felt that morning trying to hide his anxiety from Adela and the children during breakfast and then excusing himself from the table, explaining he would rather walk to the Student Residence by himself. Heâd been speaking only a few minutes when heâd asked that the lights in the auditorium be turned off, and the murmur of the audience dissolved into silence. On the podium, a lamp with a green shade reflected the white of the written pages onto his face, hardening his features with areas of shadow. He looked older than he was, as seen from the first row where Adela and their
Â
But neither wrote to the other. The promises, the good things they wished each other as they were leaving, were as abundant and unreal as the stacks of German bills that filled oneâs pockets and werenât enough to buy a cup of coffee. Suddenly time accelerates, and the children have grown without your being aware of it. On land where nothing existedâwhere pine groves had been uprooted by steam shovels, the ground leveled, the plain subdivided by imaginary linesâthere are now streets with sidewalks, but no houses, young trees, buildings emerging from the mud, some completed but still empty, some inaugurated and put to use, the School of Philosophy and Letters Building is occupied, though masons, carpenters, and painters continue to work there, though students have to cut across open country and walk around ditches and piles of building materials to reach it. Through the windows of his office he could see the red blocks of the Schools of Medicine and of Pharmacy, almost finished on the outside, the structure of the University Hospital, surrounded by swarms of laborers, donkeys, trucks carrying materials, armed guards patrolling the site. Farther on past the somber green of oaks and pines, and above that, on a more distant plane, the outline of the Sierra, its highest peaks still snow-covered. Itâs almost six on the large office clock, too late to receive a visitor who doesnât have an appointment. The calendar shows a date in May 1935, which Ignacio Abel will cross out just before he leaves. He looked up from the board on which a student had spread a plan, and the pale old man from the other world smiled at him awkwardly, his eyes watery, stretching wide a mouth filled with ruined teeth, extending his hand, the other pressing against his chest the black briefcase, as immediately recognizable as his accent and stiff comportment from another century, the briefcase in which he no longer kept dazzling objects with which heâd transmit to his students the mystery of the practical forms that make life better: now he kept documents, certificates in Gothic print and gilt seals no longer worth anything, printed requests for visas in a variety of languages, copies of letters to embassies, official letters that denied him something in neutral language or demanded yet another certificate, some insignificant but inaccessible paper, some consular stamp without which the months of waiting and delays would have been in vain.
âProfessor Rossman, what a pleasant surprise. When did you get here?â
âMy friend, my dear Professor Abel, you wouldnât believe what has happened. But donât worry about me, I see youâre busy, I donât mind waiting.â
5
A BLACK SILHOUETTE crossed the illuminated rectangle of the screen where the slides were being projected, next to the podium from which Ignacio Abel gave his lecture. His nerves settled down when he began to speak. He was calmed by the clear sound of his own voice, the sturdy podium on which he rested his hands. Before walking onstage heâd been comforted by the warm sound of the audience filling the hall, after having been afraid that no one would attend the lecture, his fear growing as the day approached; how embarrassed he felt that morning trying to hide his anxiety from Adela and the children during breakfast and then excusing himself from the table, explaining he would rather walk to the Student Residence by himself. Heâd been speaking only a few minutes when heâd asked that the lights in the auditorium be turned off, and the murmur of the audience dissolved into silence. On the podium, a lamp with a green shade reflected the white of the written pages onto his face, hardening his features with areas of shadow. He looked older than he was, as seen from the first row where Adela and their
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