Death Comes for the Deconstructionist. Daniel Taylor
divide by ideology and politics and causes and we are infused with suspicion. It’s ironic, Mr. Mote. We have never been so opposed to talking about the moral dimension of literature, and yet we have never been more moralistic and judgmental. And whom do we judge most harshly? The great writers and thinkers of the past. They were, we convince ourselves, little more than imperialists, abusers of women, exploiters of the poor, defenders of a corrupt status quo. Their poems and novels and plays, once thought to be works of genius and insight and wisdom, are now paraded about like handcuffed prisoners being carted to the guillotine. And we, the teachers and scholars, lead the young in howling our abuse.”
Professor Abramson has picked up a small bust of Bartók from his desk and is rotating it in his hands. He is conducting, for the thousandth time, a painful conversation within himself, and the outcome can only be sorrowful.
“Not, of course, that any of this leads to murder. But combine an atmosphere of accusation and suspicion with a student who is running up huge tuition bills and has been abandoned by his girlfriend and who believes all the latest conspiracy theories and has just had his dissertation rejected and … .”
Abramson stops abruptly, as though suddenly aware of my presence.
“I apologize. I’m getting carried away. As I said, we are all upset at Dr. Pratt’s death, and maybe a bit paranoid.”
“I understand completely. It has to be a difficult time for everyone. If I may, I’d like to talk a bit more about this idea of an ‘enemies list.’”
“I’ve exaggerated that. It’s really very civil around here most of the time. Everyone acts correctly. We smile at each other in the hallways. The academy gets attacked enough from outsiders, and I don’t want to contribute to that.”
“What kind of relationship did you have with Dr. Pratt?”
There it is—out on the table, a little too bluntly I fear, but no taking it back. I hate that I used the word “relationship” with Professor Abramson. It is a squishy, abstract, shop-worn word from our pop psych culture, and it comes out on its own.
“Our relationship, as you call it, was as it should be. He was chair of the department and I respect that position—a position I once held myself, by the way. Most people here do not recall that I was chair when Dr. Pratt was first hired. In fact, I cast the deciding vote in his favor. He was young and inventive and energetic, and we needed all those things at the time.
“And his career subsequently has proven that we made the right choice. He published three widely acclaimed books. He made himself a recognized force among the guerilla avant-garde of the profession, and he brought a lot of grants and attention to a somewhat tired English department, which in recent years he had almost entirely reshaped.”
That is a fine summary of Dr. Pratt’s career for a speaker’s introduction, but it evades the thrust of my question. How do you get a naturally reserved Hungarian-born, war-seared, library-dusty scholar of Eastern European literature to talk to someone like me about his re-la-tion-ship with a dead colleague with whom he was, apparently, in conflict?
That’s easy—you keep asking transparently stupid questions in transparently awkward ways.
“Did you and Dr. Pratt get along?”
Abramson shifts in his chair and pauses a long time before answering.
“I would like to be helpful, Mr. Mote, but I am not one to analyze professional relationships in the terms you are suggesting. As I said, I helped hire Dr. Pratt, I watched with some amazement the unfolding of his highly visible career, and I lament very much and very sincerely the ending of his life. It was no secret in the department that he and I had very different understandings of literature and life and of the direction of our profession. But that is, as I said earlier, the nature of academic life today. I may wish things were otherwise, but I do not find many allies in the academy, and I am too old to tilt at windmills. Nevertheless, and this is the point most relevant for your purposes, I most certainly have never wished any of my colleagues ill.”
He starts gathering some papers on his desk and putting them into his briefcase.
I want to assure him that I know, of course, that he himself has never wished any harm on Dr. Pratt. I want to say that I am only wondering if he knows of anyone else, student or colleague or janitor, who might have been upset with Pratt. But I know the interview is over even before he stands up and holds out his hand.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mote. Even though my teaching career is over, I am still writing and I need to go to the library. I wish I could have been of more help. It was good to see you again. If anything pertinent comes to mind, I will be sure to inform you.”
When I return to the English lounge, I find Judy deep in conversation with an unusually attractive young woman with dark hair and tusk-white skin. She is sitting next to Judy on the sofa, each turned toward the other as though they are sharing secrets.
Judy spots me over the woman’s shoulder and flashes me that bright, puppy-dog look she gives when pleased. Then she launches into one of her laboriously formal introductions:
“Well, there you are, Jon. I want … I should say, I want you to meet my new friend, Miss Bri … Miss Brianna Jones.”
Miss Jones, indeed. I offer my hand as she rises from the couch.
“Brianna, this is my … my brother of mine, Mr. Jon Mote.”
We exchange greetings as Judy beams from the sofa, satisfied that she has once again successfully navigated another of life’s shoals.
“Your sister was just telling me that you used to teach here.”
“Oh no, no. I was a graduate student here once. No. I never even finished. I was a grad school dropout.”
“Well, I’m about to join those ranks myself. I was telling Judith that I’m here to close out my accounts.”
“Have you finished a degree or are you taking a break?”
She looks out the window.
“Well, I’ve finished something, but it wasn’t a degree.”
She seems sort of upset. I’ve been around upset women enough to pick up on the signs. My wife used to send out more distress signals than a sinking ship. But have you ever tried reading signal flags at a thousand yards? There was lots of waving and gesturing, but what the hell was she trying to say? “Abandon ship”? “Come on board”? “Torpedoes off the starboard bow”? Not being much good at the hermeneutics of female cues, I usually just sat there, contemplating the cold Atlantic waves.
This time, I pull anchor.
“It’s been nice meeting you, Brianna. Let’s go Judy. We’ve got to get home.”
It takes a three count for Judy to process that it’s time to go and then notify her body.
“Yes, Jon. I … I am coming. I am coming right now.”
She gets her feet on the ground, bends at almost a right angle, and pushes herself slowly away from the sofa. She carefully pulls down her sweater, straightens her shoulders, and holds out her hand to her new friend.
“It has been nice talk … talking with you, Bri … Brianna Jones. I am … I should say, I am very glad to have made your acquaintance.”
Brianna returns the formality. “And yours as well, Judith. I hope we see each other again in the future.”
This delights Judy to no end.
“Yes, perhaps on … on another occasion.”
Since this exchange has no guaranteed ending point, I take Judy by the hand and we head out the door.
FIVE
Outside the Humanities building, I’m starting to feel unwell. I have levels of unwellness, ranging from the generic to the acute. This unwellness is more specific than usual.
I