Prologue

2010-12-05T05:49:00.000+01:00

My plane is ninety minutes late. ‘Unforseen technical difficulties’ , ‘apologies for any inconvenience’ and ‘would passengers Choi, Brady and Parvez please make their way to the departure gate’ echoes through the departure lounge in English, French and Spanish. ‘Technical difficulties’. What exactly does that mean? A loose wing hurriedly riveted back into place? Coffee machines on the blink? Co-pilot stuck in traffic or just possibly between the thighs of a stewardess? We were not given any details. ‘Hydraulic fluid cable’ was alluded to with a knowing nod of the head by the man in a rumpled suit and day old growth of black stubble sitting to my left eating duty free crostini from the box. He offers me the box but I decline with a smile and a wave of my hand. He shakes the box, peers inside, grunts, stands up and shuffles over to the crowded espresso bar. Sixty minutes later, difficulties resolved, the plane takes off incredibly badly. After the shuffling and the curses, the tense smiles of the crew and the admonitions to please stow all luggage beneath the seat of in the overhead compartment, the plane takes to the air with a sudden, sickening, lurch. Like a kite it rises perhaps six hundred meters and then banks sharply back towards Aéroport Nice. Then all hell breaks loose. I nod knowingly to myself thinking, ‘hydraulic fluid cable’ – then panic. I want to tell her how much I loved her. And I just had.

“I love the sound of your voice, the way you smell, how you move ... I want you. I need you. I love you.” She rolls over onto her stomach and laughs. “Dearest you.” She strokes my cheek with her long fingers. “I’m flattered but – you really only need yourself.”

The fifth day of December and it’s 25 degrees beneath the palm trees lining the clogged Promenade des Anglais. The artery threads its way through the city, past the tourists, the busy market square and the coffee bar littered beach. The waves splash against the shore, pebbles crunch beneath our feet as we run up the embankment to the street. These sounds are all background noise to the thudding of my heart as we weave through the traffic and back to the hotel. Her voice, the cry of the seagulls, the salt in the air, the salt of her lips, the warmth of her skin. Holding her against me. We reach her hotel room on the 5th floor of the Meridien Hotel and fall onto the still unmade bed, warm from the sun shining through the old french windows. Am I being too reticent again? I almost drag her back from the beach through the snarled traffic to her hotel room, push her onto the unmade bed, lift her skirt and ... “I want you ...” She grabs my arm, then my hair, pulling me up to her face, raising a strict finger in front of my nose. “You’re going to miss your flight …” Her laugh is throaty, full of irony and expectation. “... so hold onto that thought. We’ll see each other next week. Now order a taxi …”

Oxygen masks release from above our heads and many of the passengers cross themselves. The woman seated next to me begins wailing hysterically, which makes the emergency announcement difficult to understand - though, if we’re going to crash, I doubt whether my seat being returned to an upright position or not will really matter. A man tries to open one of the emergency doors but is fought off by a stewardess – and by the man sitting next to it. I replay in my mind the memory of the kiss we shared before getting into the taxi - of waiting in the airport departure lounge looking through the windows along the stretch of beach I knew led to the hotel – back to our last kiss - her fingers on my cheeks smelling like rose water but her lips tasting like the garlic mayonnaise toasts she had just eaten. The plane shudders and levels out. A stewardess runs down the aisle in her stockinged feet and we are told to do something indiscernible in a calm yet garbled voice which rattles out from the intercom. I close my eyes and wait for the technical difficulties to end.

copyright 2009-2011 warren laine-naida from "the university club: a campus affair."

Four months earlier … Tuesday August 17th

2010-08-17T16:47:00.005+02:00

Four months earlier … the university club, 10:00 Tuesday August 17th

Dennis is sweating profusely. To avoid cleaning out the leaves each fall, trees near the outdoor pool were removed, leaving little opportunity for shade. He pulls irritably at the xxl tshirt – the largest the sports department carries but sadly one size too small for his girth. When Dennis was much younger he worked as a varsity swim coach, and it is for reasons of senority that the university still employs him. Dennis now manages the main pool facility, and most often takes the morning shift. He walks over to the shower stalls, glistening wet in the hot August sunshine, and tests the taps by turning them on and off. The pool is empty and still. The regular chutchutchut from the playing field sprinkler system can be heard in the distance. Dennis walks to the end of the pool, glancing over its’ pristine surface as he goes, and leans back against the railing which makes up the foot of the diving platforms. He watches the first arrival come out the doors and through the disinfectant footbath before walking along the rubber topped concrete to the edge of the pool.

Enjoying the ten minutes or so of emptyness the pool offers her, is Dr. Beatrice Kells, a lecturer in Microbiology. When she is not swimming, Beatrice lectures in General Microbiology, Virology and Immunology to the freshman classes - the great unwashed of the university hierarchy. She is always the first one in the pool each the morning, and relishes the space this affords her. Beatrice is a large woman, not fat, though there is noticeable fat around her stomach and buttocks as she bends down to test the water with her fingers. She is big boned, large breasted and has broad hips. She looks about the pool critically as she splashes her fingers in the water. Dennis unconsciously sucks in his stomach as her gaze passes over him. Beatrice appears to be judging the bacterial content of the water. Dennis is strongly aware of both her beauty and, being a young professor, her intelligence. Beatrice has high cheek bones, pale blue eyes eyes, a dazzling smile - and is considered by many to be a beautiful woman. At 25, she is the university’s youngest tenured professor. Having a PhD in Microbiology and an almost certain knowledge of things he does not understand, makes Dennis even more uneasy. He feels uneasy about anything he does not understand. He does not wish to have the presence of harmful microbes discovered in the pool on his watch - even though the pool is immaculately cared for using the prescribed doses of regulated chemicals. Dennis mostly feels threatened because Beatrice is young and beautiful and has absolutely no interest in him. She stands up again, purposefully kicks off the blue flipflops from her large feet, and stretches her arms up over her head, standing on tip toes. This act is observed by Dennis, who clenches in his stomach even more as though he were preparing himself to be punched. He feels rather more than ‘a bat squeak of sensuality’ as he watches her stretching. He has read this phrase in a book and likes the sound of it. He observes her in appreciative and fine detail knowing that the the view of her underarms, the calloused heels of her feet, the unslung heaviness of her breasts beneath the thin material of her suit, the faintly visible stretch marks on the backs of her thighs and the area of slightly paler skin at the edge of her swimsuit between her legs attesting to a recent shave of her pubic hair are private and very personal. They are hidden in the course of the day beneath her clothing, and revealed to very few eyes. Beatrice is not without admirers of both sexes but despite her suggestively maternal figure is single and childless - she is ‘married to her microbes’. Beatrice parks next to me in the lot behind the university club and we talk on most mornings. I am not without my own affection for her. She dives in, breaking the glassy blue-white surface of the pool without a splash, and swims the length of the pool beneath the surface.

Dennis does not wait for Beatrice to resurface - his attention has been diverted by three frat brothers horseplaying in the foot pool by the doors. Their legs are red and bare from last night’s annual leg and bikini wax summer charity event. Dennis raises himself from his position against the railing, blows his whistle once, and walks quickly towards them.

My attention is diverted from the view afforded by the university club’s floor to ceiling second floor windows which overlook not only the pool and the playing fields but also the university gardens - by the urgent smell of burnt sugar. I pull the pan from the flame and begin to seperate the apple crepe from the pan with a spatula - over-caramelised sugar sticking to the bottom.

“Bugger.”
“I like mine rather well done. I’ll take that crepe, if you don’t mind Jess?”
I look up and raise an eyebrow. “Hi Wendy – are you sure?”

I lift the crepe and place it in the middle of the plate she holds in her rough, unmanicured hand. Wendy Kirk is Vice President for Executive Education. I am very fond of Wendy and we sometimes have coffee together. Of all the vice presidents she runs the smallest group of departments. From my observations over the last months, I find her one of the very few vice presidents I would not sack. I find her a kindred spirit. “Yes, thank you.” I gesture towards the bowls of cinnamon sugar and butter but she shakes her head. “No, this is perfect. See you later.” She turns and returns to her seat. The club’s single conference table runs the length of the club’s second floor dining room and can comfortably seat the university’s twenty-four vps.

“ … it would be nice to have a calendar on the website.”
“We have a calendar.”
“I can’t find it. Does anyone else have trouble finding it?”
“It’s on every page. So it appears over 3000 times on our website.”
“It should be a calendar where I can find just those events I want. So I can filter the events.”
“You can do that already.”

The monthly vice president’s brunch is not going well for Wallace Price, Vice President for Communication. This is neither his fault, nor is there anything he could remotely do to counter the animosity that rages against him from the other vps. It began long before he arrived at the university. No one likes the communications departments but no one would be able to tell you why. The world is full of myriad innate prejudices. Wallace’s best strategy to overcome the assault on his departments is to team up with Wendy who is often herself under fire from the other, larger department groups. For some reason he does not realise this and treats her with the same defensive gestures he uses to fend off the others. Wallace gets up, walks over to the screen on the wall where an oversized version of the university website is beamed, and points to the calendar icon on the right hand side which is obvious even at the distance I stand from it. Some lean forward in their chairs and peer closer at the screen in order to add credence to their complaint.

“I never saw that before.”
“Top right hand column, 200 pixels deep, automatically rotating with new dates, linking to main calendar, visible on every page, events sortable to any institution by day, week, or month --- sort of a hard thing to miss.”

University President, Prof. em. Dr. Dr-Ing. E.h. Dr. h.c. mult. Samuel Fritztimmons, grunts, unfolds his hands which he has been resting his chin upon, gets out of his chair and walks slowly and purposely to the screen. He points to the calendar and turns to face the group.

“This is exactly the sort of calendar I’d like to have.”
“Well … that’s good.”

Wallace smiles weakly and walks over to the buffet, looking over his shoulder once as he goes. He has a pained expresion on his face and is trembling slightly as he takes a plate. In contrast to Wendy, his hands are long and smooth and appear to have been recently manicured. His well ironed Hugo Boss suit is in stark contrast to Wendy’s rumpled blue off the rack pant suit.

“Hello. I’d like a crepe please.”

I smile at him and place an extra portion of apple on the crepe, fold it gently over and place a spoonful of caramel butter on top. Any time I encounter Wallace, I find him friendly and pleasant. I think many see his friendliness as a sign of weakness and perhaps insecurity which exacerbates their aggression.

“There you are. Enjoy.”
“Thank you.”

He smiles, again painfully, and takes his seat. He then returns to collect a fork and a knife. However Wallace is unable to begin eating his crepe. His adversaries have regrouped. The defeated silence in his short absence from the table has been replaced by a new battle cry.

“In the directory listings, it would be good to have the ability to change my phone number when I’m not here – like on holidays. I could click and another number would appear.”
Eager nods all around.
“yes yes yes …”

Wallace looks around in confusion holding his knife and fork tightly in one hand. “What? So, you mean instead of transferring your telephone, or activating the answering service you’d want to edit your directory entry?”

“Colleagues … “ A new voice enters the fray - cultured, smooth, dangerous. “I think it would be productive to use this as a starting point for further discussions at a later date on how the website can be improved.”

Wallace noticeably grips his cutlery even tighter and bites his bottom lip. “Improved? It was just relaunched three months ago. We spent over a year implementing the web committee’s input and have invested a quarter of a million dollars in the project. You want to make changes now?” His disbelief is accompanied by speckles of saliva as he gesticulates with his cutlery in a wide arc to his right.

Sitting to his right and slightly behind, Mary Greeson, Wallace’s sultry personal assistant moves with experienced subtlety out of the path of the silverware. She straightens her skirt and purses her lips, brushing her long black hair from her cheek and wishing she were already aboard the chartered flight to South Africa which she booked, together with her mother, last month. She looks at her watch and calculates how many more minutes until lunch and the first of three cigarettes she allows herself each day.

Across the table from her Dr. Giannella Accardo has a condescending smile fixed on her face. She clicks her long, painted fingernails together like a hungry insect and looks around the table for support – which is immediately signaled by a respectful silence. Of the vps, Giannella is the most feared and for this reason actually the most disliked, though this never coalesces itself into any public attack on her departments. When the Provost died of a heart attack in his hotel room while attending a conference in Brussels last year, Giannella, then his assistant, was first on the scene in his hotel room. There were many rumours. While the machinations of university politics run at lightening speed, the actual workings of its departments run disproportionately slower. Four years ago Giannella was left to temporarily take over running the Provost’s office while the university went through the motions of seeking a replacement. She rises from her seat, and passes her assistant a thick stack of papers she has been signing during the meeting. “Wallace, no one is questioning the project per se. In everything there is always room for improvement.”

As Wallace turns to speak with Mary, who begins scribbling furiously in the hardcover notebook which rarely leaves her side, Giannella pushes her chair back from the table and walks up to the buffet. She brushes down imaginary creases on her grey silk skirt - all male eyes in the room track her long, stockinged legs as she moves. She smiles at me with an emotionless and well practiced curve of her mouth. Her cheeks dimple.

“I’d like a crepe with no apple please.”

Giannella is always impecably dressed, but I believe she wears too much lipstick. Her long blonde hair is today pulled into a tight bun unfortunately displaying her ears which appear too small for her head. She turns to look back at the group. Her face, while mostly beautiful when viewed directly, is not flattered when seen in profile as it reminds one of a turtle. She wears two very large and heavy rings on her long fingers which are probably very dangerous at close quarters. She stands with her arms crossed, watching the crepe pan in my hand.

“Is it ready now? It seems ready.”

I look at her and plate the crepe, restraining the desire to smack the hot pan onto the back of her outstretched hand. “Thank you.” She takes some cutlery and returns to her seat.

***

Enjoy the rest of "The University Club A Campus Affair" after publication in fall 2011!

copyright 2009-2011 warren laine-naida from "the university club: a campus affair."

The University Club A Campus Affair by Warren Laine-Naida

Prologue

Four months earlier … Tuesday August 17th