Beet by Roger Rosenblatt Page A

nobuyer was interested. They tried to sell the paving stones on the pathways for $500 apiece, calling it a “Walk of Fame,” and were rejected even by Donald Trump, whom Bollovate called a “close personal friend.” (Bollovate was called the same thing by Mr. Trump.) Finally, they offered the parquet floor tiles in the vestibule of the student center for $5 a tile. Here they made a sale. Gregory, the security guard, bought one for four one-dollar bills, three quarters, two dimes, and two pennies (the college forgave the difference). After his name was inscribed he would sneak away from the front gate, stare at his purchase, and murmur, “Rhandor.”
    There even was talk of making Latin the Pig available for branding. The Bring Home the Bacon butchers offered $500 to have its name burned into Latin’s hide. But when the students got wind of it, they staged an “Ightnay orfay Atinlay in which the pig was paraded back and forth, albeit carefully, and was cheered lustily with “Avesay Our Igpay!” They took up a collection and raised $500 to keep Latin brand-free. The honoree spewed his gratitude all round.
    On the cost-cutting side of the ledger, Mrs. Whiting was told that her workweek in the English Department was to be limited to three days, and her salary reduced proportionately. When Peace learned of it, he offered to help her out with extra work. She declined with thanks and a what-can-you-do shrug.
    If there were a third side to the ledger, it would show that the college continued to accept applications for the following year—and more to the point, Bollovate’s point—application fees. Manning observed to Peace that while other colleges were competing for students by offering discounts, laptops, and other swag, Beet had its hands in their pockets.
    â€œAnd if we close shop,” said Manning, “there won’t be enough lawyers in Massachusetts to handle the lawsuits. Wait and see.”
    There was more: “Did you know Huey is requiring quarterly reports from the departments?” Manning asked Peace. “No, of course you didn’t. You live on a higher plane.”
    â€œQuarterly reports on what?”
    â€œEnrollment. Income from tuition. Price points. Yields. Inshort—” Peace started to make the time-out T. “Yes! The bottom line. I keep trying to explain this to you. It’s simple. Ask for an accounting every three months, and the employees—you and I—start to run scared. We have to meet expectations, like any Wall Street–driven company. We have to produce —in an institution where the product isn’t visible. The goal is money, man, and make it quick. So, what does one do to show a gain every quarter? Lower! Lower quality, lower standards. You think you’re going to draw new students without diluting what little we have left?”
    â€œI’m going to try,” said Peace.
    â€œWell, good luck, my boy. But the fact is, we’ve plunged straight to the bottom line and are headed down from there. Did I ever tell you my theory about that?”
    The way things were going, Peace was not very hopeful he would persuade Bollovate the sale of the Moore was ill-advised, as some of his colleagues might say, or as Livi might, crooked, stupid, and wrong. Nonetheless, Livi’s Candide decided to give it a shot and make the one-hour drive to Bollovate’s office in Cambridge, in one of the new high-rises near Harvard Square. After all, he reasoned, only two weeks earlier Bollovate had said the college could be saved by a new curriculum. Why sell off valuable property?
    But Bollovate had a previous appointment in Boston, and only a minute to spare. He was just finishing a large bowl of succotash, his favorite dish. On his desk lay antique paper pressed between glassine sheets.
    â€œAre those surveys?” Peace asked. “They look old. Colonial?”
    â€œYeah. I’m interested in property