Diary of a Discontent (4 page)

~

Saturday morning, and I’ve just returned from
a long walk. I wandered along the waterfront, the gray promenade of
moss-choked stones and rotting wood and rusted lampposts. There was
fog on the water, wispy and white. I had to walk against the wind,
beneath the sporadic drizzle of rain. This weather makes me feel
old—older than I actually am.

~

Perhaps my memory cannot be relied upon, but
I am fairly certain that universities have lowered their standards.
When I was at school I had to justify my existence as a student; I
had to prove that I had good reason for sitting through lectures
and taking tests, for withering away in the dusty corners of the
library and sweating in cramped classrooms. Now, however, everyone
is
entitled
to an education—even those who
don’t want one. Of course no one will stand up against this and
speak the truth: that some people are better off not attending
college. This obvious fact has been so skillfully concealed that to
even think of it today—much less say it out loud—is a crime against
humanity.

~

There is no light in the basement windows.
There is no sign of life. What’s become of my underground girl? I
walk slowly and stare through the glass, sometimes even stooping to
get a better view, but it is useless. The subterrarium, as I call
it, is empty. She is gone.

~

Sixty, I’ve decided, would be a good age to
end at. I just can’t imagine living past that point. Or rather, I
can imagine it perfectly—
too
perfectly. I
don’t like what’s waiting for me should I choose to extend myself
into a seventh decade. I can see all the pathetic traits I would
inherit, the annoying habits, the sad and weak ways in which I
would be forced to exist. It’s impolite to live beyond sixty. At
that point my life would become a burden—to myself as well as to
others.

I don’t mean to insult the elderly, and it is
not my intention to place a general limit on the years we are
allowed to live. I am merely speaking for myself. There are, of
course, many people who live well beyond sixty without suffering
much because of it. Take Bertrand Russell, for example. He lived to
be ninety-seven and seemed happy and useful till the end. For me,
though, it would be different. I just couldn’t endure it. Life
humiliates me enough as it is. I don’t need any more handicaps; I
don’t need another thirty or forty years. Who would take care of
me, anyway, while I crawled feebly through an elderly existence?
Who would want me around?

~

Well, it’s complete. The passionate,
prescient pen of Mr. Willows has danced again. This afternoon I
dropped the essay off at the post office. If all goes well—which
I’m confident it will—I’ll be seeing my words in print by next
week.

It will cause quite a sensation. And why not?
I’ve lived long enough to deserve an outspoken opinion or two.
Every day the newspaper spills over with the idiotic words of
half-wits and gasbags; why not bless it with some wisdom now and
then?

And incidentally, writing under a pseudonym
has been exhilarating. I feel incredibly free—possessed, even, by
freedom. When I pick up Willows’s pen (literally and figuratively,
for I have in fact reserved a special fountain pen for him) it
feels as though my soul suddenly leaps up from a deep sleep, as
though the invented Willows is closer to myself than I am, as
though—and I know it sounds ridiculous—I was meant to be Willows
rather than myself.

While walking back from the post office I
indulged in a tortuous mental rehearsal of my future—the future,
that is, of Mr. Willows. After these two sensational essays, I
won’t be able to stop. Even if I wanted to, the public demand would
be too great. I’ll have to dash off a few more pieces and sign a
book deal. Yes, a collection of essays dealing with modern social
and political issues, a mixture of lambent wit and incisive logic,
at once enlightening
and
devastating. We’ll
be famous, Mr. Willows and I.

~

I watch the leaves spiral and swirl in the
bleak autumn air. I feel winter seeping through every crack and
crevice. The windows are streaked with the trails of evaporated
rain. It will come again in an hour or so and tread the exact same
paths. Some days I feel as though I could sit beside my windows
forever, observing the world in a state of complete
purposelessness. And can’t I do exactly that? There is no one to
tell me otherwise, nothing else to occupy my time.

~

Persephone has returned to the underworld. I
see new traces of her existence every day: a striped sock, a
rumpled towel, a discarded yellow bathrobe, a book splayed open
against the floor. I wait until nighttime, when her world becomes
illuminated and I am able to catch in passing a flash of her body.
Just yesterday she happened to bend down as I walked through the
alleyway, and as she did so her head lowered into view. If only my
eyesight was as sharp and clear as it used to be! But no, I had to
squint and stick my head out as far as it would go, and still her
face was barely more than a blur. She is beautiful, though; I am
sure of it. It is a beauty that is not so much visible as
perceivable
, a beauty so great that even a
diminished man like myself can appreciate it.

~

Late this morning I took a stroll to the
university. I was thinking about my essays and the freedoms that
become available when one assumes a second identity. As Willows, I
finally feel as though I can accomplish the things I’ve always
wanted to accomplish. Indeed, under my pseudonym I have already
accomplished some of these things. In the past I’ve found it
paralyzing to be myself, to have to act in accordance with my given
identity. But with Willows, I am free. And it is not just the sense
of freedom that comes with every anonymous act. It is much more,
for while most people seek anonymity in order to hide, I have
become Willows in order to reveal myself.

So there I was, at the university, strolling
beneath a canopy of evergreens, pondering the future of Willows. I
stepped into the library for a brief rest, and just as I did so a
young student approached me.

“Professor Daniels?” she asked.

I shook my head, frowned, and then said with
perfect authority, “No, no, I’m not Professor Daniels.” I paused
for a moment and watched the girl slump with disappointment. “I am
Professor
Willows
.”

The girl cheered up at this. I smiled at her,
and to myself; it was remarkable how the mere mention of the name
Willows could brighten a young girl’s face, could turn her into
something pretty.

“And do you…” she faltered momentarily,
nervously. “Do you teach history?”

“History? Of course I teach history. I
write
history.”

The girl nearly squealed with glee. “You
see,” she said, “I’ve got this terrible assignment due in an hour,
and I don’t know where to begin.”

I chuckled in the most professorial way.
“Let’s take a look, dear,” I said, gesturing to a nearby table. We
sat down and she withdrew an enormous textbook from her shoulder
bag. “And what if old Willows decides to catch this little
sparrow?” I said to myself. “What if…”

The sound of her textbook smacking the table
startled me out of my daydreams. “Ah, yes…” I said, my voice
automatically assuming the appropriate tone—the tone of a wise and
worldly professor.

“We’re studying Africa,” she said, sliding
the book closer to me. “I have to write an essay on the
geopolitical dilemmas of life in eastern Botswana.”

“Now, my dear…”

“My name is Ashley.”

“Ashley, the important thing to remember here
is that there
aren’t
any geopolitical
dilemmas in a country like Botswana, much less the eastern portion
of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who’s heard of Botswana, anyway? Who even
knows where it is?”

“Well, it’s in Africa.”

“Of course it’s in Africa…that’s exactly my
point.”

“I’m not sure I understand you.”

I nodded knowingly. “Yes, of course not. I
don’t expect a mere undergraduate to immediately appreciate the
wisdom of a man with a Ph.D. Did you know that I graduated at the
top of my class? Yes, my thesis became a best seller…very rare,
very rare indeed.”

We spoke for a little while longer about
Africa and history and some of the other professors at the
university. The poor girl wasn’t very bright, but she had a good
sense of humor and seemed to be in awe of my mental faculties.
“Thank you, Professor Willows,” she said as she was leaving. Her
words sent a tingling sensation down my neck.

~

The girl comes to life every night, glowing
in the lamplight of the subterrarium. I see her in snippets, moving
from one place to another, bending and turning but never coming to
rest in the frame of the window. I imagine how she looks as a
whole, but her face eludes me.

I stand behind the alley gate, in the shadow
of the adjacent building, and stare into her world. Am I the
voyeur, or is it Mr. Willows?

~

I’ve just been reading the morning paper,
marveling over the incisive words of Peter Willows. Yes, my second
essay has been printed. My hands are trembling. I have an
indescribable energy bubbling inside me, seeking release. I want to
write all my frenzied thoughts down on paper, but I feel like I
first need to run through the streets. It is a curious thing for an
author to see his words in print: they assume a certain gravity
that is absent from all the first drafts, the smeared ink and
crumpled notebook paper. Printed in neatly aligned columns in the
city’s largest newspaper, they hardly seem like my own words at
all! Did I really summon such wisdom? Has my prose always been so
evocative? And to think of all the citizens who will wake up today
to my words…

I had better prepare myself for the onslaught
of publicity. Surely this second essay will create a stir. I’ll
need an agent, a lawyer, perhaps.

I want to keep writing, but my hands can
barely keep hold of my pen. I must go out.

~

I wandered around the university library for
two hours before I found my pupil. She was sitting at a creaky
carrel in the basement, hiding behind a stack of books. I strutted
by her once, twice, and then a third time, pretending not to notice
her. I was looking for a book on the nearby shelves.

“Professor Willows?” she nearly exclaimed. At
last, the words I had been waiting for.

“Ah, Ashley. What a nice surprise to see you
here. Hard at work, I see?”

She sighed and made a face at the piles of
books surrounding her. “History is killing me,” she said with a
groan.

“Yes, it tends to do that to people,” I said,
smiling with practiced sophistication. “Can I be of any help?”

She looked startled by my question. “You
wouldn’t mind…?”

“Of course not. I am a professor, after all.
It’s my job.”

“Well…” She shuffled the papers in front of
her and clicked her pen nervously.

“What is it this time?” I asked. “More
African history?”

“Not exactly. Do you know much about
philosophy?”

“I’m practically a philosopher myself,
dear.”

“I’m sorry, that was a stupid question.”

“No, not at all. I can’t expect you to know
all of my fields of expertise. There are so many, after all…”

I borrowed a chair from a nearby desk and
took a seat next to her. There was hardly enough room for the two
of us: our arms brushed, her hair rested briefly on my shoulder, I
detected a slight fragrance of honey and rain. I had to take a
deep, steadying breath.

“I have to write a three-page essay on Kant,”
she muttered.

Well, that was enough to still my stuttering
heart.

“Kant…” I said, allowing the name to linger
between us, hoping that its prolonged presence would hint at
something profound. She waited eagerly, eyes wide, mouth slightly
open. There were freckles around her nose, and I had the sudden
impulse to reach out and brush her beaming cheek with the back of
my hand.

“Kant was a fraud,” I said at last.

These were not the words she expected to
hear. Her lovely face scrunched up into a frown that compelled me
to look away.

“I should clarify my words,” I said. “Kant
himself was not a fraud, but his philosophy has been used
fraudulently.”

I peeked at Ashley, hoping that my second
attempt had made a better effect. She ignored what I said and began
reading to me the exact instructions of her assignment, something
about the modern era and the influences on ethical theory.

“I’m sorry, Ashley, but I just remembered an
appointment I have with the chair of the history department.”

She bumbled an apology mixed with some words
of thanks.

“Perhaps we can continue this tomorrow,” I
said.

“Thank you so much, Professor Willows.”

I smiled, nodded, and excused myself. As I
left the library I was uncertain whether or not our meeting had
been a success. As I write these words, I am still uncertain.

~

I could have been an Epicurean. I could have
whiled away my days in the philosopher’s garden, seeking happiness
beneath the brilliant light of ancient Greece.

But then again, there is that bit about
friendship that held such a dear place in the philosopher’s heart.
Here I must diverge, I must sneak away, out of the garden, away
from the sunlight, into the reassuring shade of my own tree. For
all his wisdom, Epicurus was profoundly mistaken on this point.
Friendship is not a pleasure to be sought, but an affliction to be
avoided. It does not raise the individual to new heights, but
condemns him to communal mud. Isn’t it obvious, after all, that we
seek friendship as a refuge from ourselves? What greater betrayal
could there be?