Olsson. They moved more confidently than any fingers Bea had ever watched before. “What do you mean?” she repeated.
As if superior on a social level as well, Ronny chose not to mingle. All the rest of the class went to Nick’s Nook for sandwiches; you never saw Ronald Olsson at Nick’s. The rest went sometimes to the Run Way for coffee after class; Ronny was never glimpsed at the Run Way. In truth, Bea had already imagined a couple of little quarrels with Ronny Olsson, in which she’d flummoxed him with accusations of snobbery. Still, he was perhaps the most interesting “type” in a class rich in types.
The Institute Midwest was divided into two disciplines, Industrial Arts and Fine Arts. The exclusively male Industrial Arts crowd favored a straitlaced look. Most of them hoped, when the War ended, to go into things like automotive design. The Industrial Arts crowd had few exchanges with Bea’s own Fine Arts crowd, where most of the “types” were found.
There was huge Hal Holm, with his big fanning red beard and overalls, who was gaped at wherever he went. And Tatiana Bogoljubov—also gaped at, but in a different way. Tatiana dressed just like a whore (not a word Bea would have voiced to anyone except, perhaps, her best friend, Maggie). Tatiana had dyed her long hair yellow—not blonde, yellow. She wore lengthy gaudy scarves over exceedingly tight blouses. She was a buxom girl who had pierced her ears. And there was Mr. Cooper—David Cooper—far older than the rest of them and perhaps Jewish. He’d come from Poland. He had a long doleful nose and a dark gaze of uncomfortable intensity. The vertical furrows connecting his nose and mouth might have been drawn with a knife. “Art is my only home,” Mr. Cooper continually declared, with lugubrious pride. And there was Donald Doobly, Jr., who was a Negro and who studied both Fine Arts and Industrial Arts. Donald always looked neat and dapper but a little comical, since his clothes were mostly a couple of sizes too large. You might have called Donald slight , but one day Bea had watched him marching down Woodward against a strong wind that whipped hisbaggy trousers tight to his thighs, and she’d realized he was slighter than slight: his legs weren’t much thicker around than broom handles. Donald drew beautifully, and if glamorous Ronald Olsson hadn’t materialized midsemester, Donald might now reign as Professor Manhardt’s star pupil.
Ronny, too, took his time in answering. “Might I perhaps?”
And now he moved quickly. Whether or not he might , he did: before Bea had had time to agree, quite, Ronny Olsson began applying his pencil to her paper. He was a lefty, like her, which somehow cheered her.
His speed was intimidating. A few scratches of shading to the apple’s underside, a few smudging strokes of the eraser, and the apple commanded what it had lacked heretofore: the true reserved weight of a terrestrial object. This was fruit, however modest in size, to strike a dozing Isaac Newton on the crown of his head and awaken him to a universe bound by gravity …
Ronny displayed much the same speed and smoothness in spiriting her away after class. They didn’t head to the Run Way. They marched to a little luncheonette a few blocks on, where they were unlikely to encounter classmates. It was called Herk’s Snack Shack. They sat in a booth over mugs of watery coffee. Bea was feeling hungry, but she didn’t order any food because Ronny didn’t. The confident way he’d hustled her here, as though she couldn’t possibly have anything better to do, might have been insulting had it not been so suave.
She’d thought Ronny “stuck up.” But he spoke warmly and directly—and with a rapid precision comparable to his rapid precision with a pencil. Bea’s rushed sentences characteristically went astray. (Maggie was forever teasing her about this, when not mocking her “overflowery vocabulary;” Bea had a weakness for the picturesque and
As if superior on a social level as well, Ronny chose not to mingle. All the rest of the class went to Nick’s Nook for sandwiches; you never saw Ronald Olsson at Nick’s. The rest went sometimes to the Run Way for coffee after class; Ronny was never glimpsed at the Run Way. In truth, Bea had already imagined a couple of little quarrels with Ronny Olsson, in which she’d flummoxed him with accusations of snobbery. Still, he was perhaps the most interesting “type” in a class rich in types.
The Institute Midwest was divided into two disciplines, Industrial Arts and Fine Arts. The exclusively male Industrial Arts crowd favored a straitlaced look. Most of them hoped, when the War ended, to go into things like automotive design. The Industrial Arts crowd had few exchanges with Bea’s own Fine Arts crowd, where most of the “types” were found.
There was huge Hal Holm, with his big fanning red beard and overalls, who was gaped at wherever he went. And Tatiana Bogoljubov—also gaped at, but in a different way. Tatiana dressed just like a whore (not a word Bea would have voiced to anyone except, perhaps, her best friend, Maggie). Tatiana had dyed her long hair yellow—not blonde, yellow. She wore lengthy gaudy scarves over exceedingly tight blouses. She was a buxom girl who had pierced her ears. And there was Mr. Cooper—David Cooper—far older than the rest of them and perhaps Jewish. He’d come from Poland. He had a long doleful nose and a dark gaze of uncomfortable intensity. The vertical furrows connecting his nose and mouth might have been drawn with a knife. “Art is my only home,” Mr. Cooper continually declared, with lugubrious pride. And there was Donald Doobly, Jr., who was a Negro and who studied both Fine Arts and Industrial Arts. Donald always looked neat and dapper but a little comical, since his clothes were mostly a couple of sizes too large. You might have called Donald slight , but one day Bea had watched him marching down Woodward against a strong wind that whipped hisbaggy trousers tight to his thighs, and she’d realized he was slighter than slight: his legs weren’t much thicker around than broom handles. Donald drew beautifully, and if glamorous Ronald Olsson hadn’t materialized midsemester, Donald might now reign as Professor Manhardt’s star pupil.
Ronny, too, took his time in answering. “Might I perhaps?”
And now he moved quickly. Whether or not he might , he did: before Bea had had time to agree, quite, Ronny Olsson began applying his pencil to her paper. He was a lefty, like her, which somehow cheered her.
His speed was intimidating. A few scratches of shading to the apple’s underside, a few smudging strokes of the eraser, and the apple commanded what it had lacked heretofore: the true reserved weight of a terrestrial object. This was fruit, however modest in size, to strike a dozing Isaac Newton on the crown of his head and awaken him to a universe bound by gravity …
Ronny displayed much the same speed and smoothness in spiriting her away after class. They didn’t head to the Run Way. They marched to a little luncheonette a few blocks on, where they were unlikely to encounter classmates. It was called Herk’s Snack Shack. They sat in a booth over mugs of watery coffee. Bea was feeling hungry, but she didn’t order any food because Ronny didn’t. The confident way he’d hustled her here, as though she couldn’t possibly have anything better to do, might have been insulting had it not been so suave.
She’d thought Ronny “stuck up.” But he spoke warmly and directly—and with a rapid precision comparable to his rapid precision with a pencil. Bea’s rushed sentences characteristically went astray. (Maggie was forever teasing her about this, when not mocking her “overflowery vocabulary;” Bea had a weakness for the picturesque and
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