floor at the back of the room. He adjusts his muffler, the shawl swathed around his shoulders, and the pair of blankets he wears like a robe, secured about his waist with a leather belt. There are chalkboards on two walls, a blank wall, and one with windows, a flag drooping on a pole, some coat pegs on the blank wall, and a wire wastebasket. Otherwise the room is entirely empty.
How cold it is! (he thinks)
And later,
What has this shrinking or this tingling or this flashing silvericity have to do with ‘cold’?
And later — a moment later,
But then what does silver, or what has ink, or paper, or a sound made with the vocal folds, have to do with temperature? Or ‘cold’ with cold?
When deKlend wakes up again, a number of students sit around him. According to the chalkboard, the subject of the class is FLATTERY.
Do they know I am already an expert? (deKlend wonders) I could be teaching this class.
There are four teachers roaming the irregular aisles in this one room. The students are informed that attendance is not compulsory and all of them immediately leave.
I don’t want to sit in here either (deKlend thinks)
In the halls, teachers mill in among the less numerous students a bit like contented nuns, trailing contrails of secondgradeteacherperfume. To deKlend this already seems like an anomaly; there’s something about the place that is fundamentally disengaged from activity. Nothing happens here.
A tug on his arm summons him to meet Dr. Politte, the acting dean. The interview is conducted in her high-ceilinged, gaunt-windowed office, faceted in shape; a dim white vault, icy as a refrigerator.
I’m Dr. Politte.
She introduces herself without getting up or doing much else but shivering, as though stirring herself even that little, just to greet him, had unsettled an invisible envelope of warmth.
It’s always so cold in this building! (she says)
The tailings of her words repeat and fade.
— cold in this building! — cold in this building! — cold in this building ...
She gestures at the windows, crowded with dark branches.
With those hemlocks blocking the windows, no heat can get in at all (she complains softly) And look — Look where that leak was —
She points to water damage on the ceiling, but deKlend has to squint for some time at it before he sees the bulge; some crumbling building matter, pale blue foam with flowers printed on it, not at all conspicuous.
Her desk is surrounded by a circle of wire wastepaper baskets. Perhaps, deKlend thinks, she has one for each hour.
I’d like to examine your credentials, if you please, (she says)
Sitting behind the desk she seems too small for it, and like a half-melted candle, just starting to lose its shape.
Certainly, (deKlend replies) and begins rummaging in his empty, rusty leather portfolio. Flakes of leather crumbling from it slide down his pant legs to the floor.
May I borrow a pen? (he asks without looking up)
Without a word, she hands him a fountain pen across the desk. He leans way over to take it and thanks her, fumbling with half-melted zippers and rusty snaps.
And (he adds a moment later) — a large sheet of paper, or vellum ... or parchment, anything like that ... would you happen to have? — About this dimensions?
He is trying to keep the portfolio from spilling onto the floor, and bunches it up roughly under one arm while making squirrelly gestures with his hands.
She smoothly opens the right upper side drawer of her desk, reaches in and pulls out a paper tube, which she holds out to him gently, so as not to crush it. He thanks her, taking it in his hand with care. He closes his portfolio and sets it across his knees, spreading the paper on it, pen between his fingers like a cigar, leaning too close to the desk.
Ink? — Please, ink?
From the same drawer, which she hadn’t bothered to close, she produces an inkwell and passes it to him. He thanks her, puts it on the edge of the desk nearest him, fills the pen, and begins to
How cold it is! (he thinks)
And later,
What has this shrinking or this tingling or this flashing silvericity have to do with ‘cold’?
And later — a moment later,
But then what does silver, or what has ink, or paper, or a sound made with the vocal folds, have to do with temperature? Or ‘cold’ with cold?
When deKlend wakes up again, a number of students sit around him. According to the chalkboard, the subject of the class is FLATTERY.
Do they know I am already an expert? (deKlend wonders) I could be teaching this class.
There are four teachers roaming the irregular aisles in this one room. The students are informed that attendance is not compulsory and all of them immediately leave.
I don’t want to sit in here either (deKlend thinks)
In the halls, teachers mill in among the less numerous students a bit like contented nuns, trailing contrails of secondgradeteacherperfume. To deKlend this already seems like an anomaly; there’s something about the place that is fundamentally disengaged from activity. Nothing happens here.
A tug on his arm summons him to meet Dr. Politte, the acting dean. The interview is conducted in her high-ceilinged, gaunt-windowed office, faceted in shape; a dim white vault, icy as a refrigerator.
I’m Dr. Politte.
She introduces herself without getting up or doing much else but shivering, as though stirring herself even that little, just to greet him, had unsettled an invisible envelope of warmth.
It’s always so cold in this building! (she says)
The tailings of her words repeat and fade.
— cold in this building! — cold in this building! — cold in this building ...
She gestures at the windows, crowded with dark branches.
With those hemlocks blocking the windows, no heat can get in at all (she complains softly) And look — Look where that leak was —
She points to water damage on the ceiling, but deKlend has to squint for some time at it before he sees the bulge; some crumbling building matter, pale blue foam with flowers printed on it, not at all conspicuous.
Her desk is surrounded by a circle of wire wastepaper baskets. Perhaps, deKlend thinks, she has one for each hour.
I’d like to examine your credentials, if you please, (she says)
Sitting behind the desk she seems too small for it, and like a half-melted candle, just starting to lose its shape.
Certainly, (deKlend replies) and begins rummaging in his empty, rusty leather portfolio. Flakes of leather crumbling from it slide down his pant legs to the floor.
May I borrow a pen? (he asks without looking up)
Without a word, she hands him a fountain pen across the desk. He leans way over to take it and thanks her, fumbling with half-melted zippers and rusty snaps.
And (he adds a moment later) — a large sheet of paper, or vellum ... or parchment, anything like that ... would you happen to have? — About this dimensions?
He is trying to keep the portfolio from spilling onto the floor, and bunches it up roughly under one arm while making squirrelly gestures with his hands.
She smoothly opens the right upper side drawer of her desk, reaches in and pulls out a paper tube, which she holds out to him gently, so as not to crush it. He thanks her, taking it in his hand with care. He closes his portfolio and sets it across his knees, spreading the paper on it, pen between his fingers like a cigar, leaning too close to the desk.
Ink? — Please, ink?
From the same drawer, which she hadn’t bothered to close, she produces an inkwell and passes it to him. He thanks her, puts it on the edge of the desk nearest him, fills the pen, and begins to
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