laughed. “Well, sure, give me one,” she yelled in my ear. “You don’t know where we can find any pot, do you?”
While I was lighting the cigarette for her, someone elbowed me in the back and I lurched forward. The music was insanely loud and people were dancing and there was beer puddled on the floor and a rowdy mob at the bar. I couldn’t see much but a Dantesque mass of bodies on the dance floor and a cloud of smoke hovering near the ceiling, but I could see, where light from the corridor spilled into the darkness, an upturned glass here, a wide lipsticked laughing mouth there. As parties go, this was a nasty one and getting worse—already certain of the freshmen had begun to throw up as they waited in dismal lines for the bathroom—but it was Friday and I’d spent all week reading and I didn’t care. I knew none of my fellow Greek students would bethere. Having been to every Friday night party since school began, I knew they avoided them like the Black Death.
“Thanks,” said the girl. She had edged into a stairwell, where things were a little quieter. Now it was possible to talk without shouting but I’d had about six vodka tonics and I couldn’t think of a thing to say to her, I couldn’t even remember her name.
“Uh, what’s your major,” I said drunkenly at last.
She smiled. “Performance art. You asked me that already.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
She looked at me critically. “You ought to loosen up. Look at your hands. You’re very tense.”
“This is about as loose as I get,” I said, quite truthfully.
She looked at me, and a light of recognition began to dawn in her eye. “I know who you are,” she said, looking at my jacket and my tie that had the pictures of the men hunting deer on it. “Judy told me all about you. You’re the new guy who’s studying Greek with those creepos.”
“Judy? What do you mean, Judy told you about me?”
She ignored this. “You had better watch out,” she said. “I have heard some weird shit about those people.”
“Like what?”
“Like they worship the fucking Devil.”
“The Greeks have no Devil,” I said pedantically.
“Well, that’s not what I heard.”
“Well, so what. You’re wrong.”
“That’s not all. I’ve heard some other stuff, too.”
“What else?”
She wouldn’t say.
“Who told you this? Judy?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“Seth Gartrell,” she said, as if that settled the matter.
As it happened, I knew Gartrell. He was a bad painter and a vicious gossip, with a vocabulary composed almost entirely of obscenities, guttural verbs, and the word “postmodernist.” “That swine,” I said. “You know him?”
She looked at me with a glitter of antagonism. “Seth Gartrell is my good friend.”
I really had had a bit much to drink. “Is he?” I said. “Tell me, then. How does his girlfriend get all those black eyes? And does he really piss on his paintings like Jackson Pollock?”
“Seth,” she said coldly, “is a genius.”
“Is that so? Then he’s certainly a master of deception, isn’t he?”
“He is a wonderful painter. Conceptually, that is. Everybody in the art department says so.”
“Well then. If everybody says it, it must be true.”
“A lot of people don’t like Seth.” She was angry now. “I think a lot of people are just jealous of him.”
A hand tugged at the back of my sleeve, near the elbow. I shrugged it off. With my luck it could only be Judy Poovey, trying to hit up on me as she inevitably did about this time every Friday night. But the tug came again, this time sharper and more impatient; irritably I turned, and almost stumbled backward into the blonde.
It was Camilla. Her iron-colored eyes were all I saw at first—luminous, bemused, bright in the dim light from the bar. “Hi,” she said.
I stared at her. “Hel lo ,” I said, trying to be nonchalant but delighted and beaming down at her all the same. “How are you? What are you doing here? Can I get you
While I was lighting the cigarette for her, someone elbowed me in the back and I lurched forward. The music was insanely loud and people were dancing and there was beer puddled on the floor and a rowdy mob at the bar. I couldn’t see much but a Dantesque mass of bodies on the dance floor and a cloud of smoke hovering near the ceiling, but I could see, where light from the corridor spilled into the darkness, an upturned glass here, a wide lipsticked laughing mouth there. As parties go, this was a nasty one and getting worse—already certain of the freshmen had begun to throw up as they waited in dismal lines for the bathroom—but it was Friday and I’d spent all week reading and I didn’t care. I knew none of my fellow Greek students would bethere. Having been to every Friday night party since school began, I knew they avoided them like the Black Death.
“Thanks,” said the girl. She had edged into a stairwell, where things were a little quieter. Now it was possible to talk without shouting but I’d had about six vodka tonics and I couldn’t think of a thing to say to her, I couldn’t even remember her name.
“Uh, what’s your major,” I said drunkenly at last.
She smiled. “Performance art. You asked me that already.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
She looked at me critically. “You ought to loosen up. Look at your hands. You’re very tense.”
“This is about as loose as I get,” I said, quite truthfully.
She looked at me, and a light of recognition began to dawn in her eye. “I know who you are,” she said, looking at my jacket and my tie that had the pictures of the men hunting deer on it. “Judy told me all about you. You’re the new guy who’s studying Greek with those creepos.”
“Judy? What do you mean, Judy told you about me?”
She ignored this. “You had better watch out,” she said. “I have heard some weird shit about those people.”
“Like what?”
“Like they worship the fucking Devil.”
“The Greeks have no Devil,” I said pedantically.
“Well, that’s not what I heard.”
“Well, so what. You’re wrong.”
“That’s not all. I’ve heard some other stuff, too.”
“What else?”
She wouldn’t say.
“Who told you this? Judy?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“Seth Gartrell,” she said, as if that settled the matter.
As it happened, I knew Gartrell. He was a bad painter and a vicious gossip, with a vocabulary composed almost entirely of obscenities, guttural verbs, and the word “postmodernist.” “That swine,” I said. “You know him?”
She looked at me with a glitter of antagonism. “Seth Gartrell is my good friend.”
I really had had a bit much to drink. “Is he?” I said. “Tell me, then. How does his girlfriend get all those black eyes? And does he really piss on his paintings like Jackson Pollock?”
“Seth,” she said coldly, “is a genius.”
“Is that so? Then he’s certainly a master of deception, isn’t he?”
“He is a wonderful painter. Conceptually, that is. Everybody in the art department says so.”
“Well then. If everybody says it, it must be true.”
“A lot of people don’t like Seth.” She was angry now. “I think a lot of people are just jealous of him.”
A hand tugged at the back of my sleeve, near the elbow. I shrugged it off. With my luck it could only be Judy Poovey, trying to hit up on me as she inevitably did about this time every Friday night. But the tug came again, this time sharper and more impatient; irritably I turned, and almost stumbled backward into the blonde.
It was Camilla. Her iron-colored eyes were all I saw at first—luminous, bemused, bright in the dim light from the bar. “Hi,” she said.
I stared at her. “Hel lo ,” I said, trying to be nonchalant but delighted and beaming down at her all the same. “How are you? What are you doing here? Can I get you
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