Two weeks pass and Malarkey has not heard from Liliana. It’s springtime. The Reader knows this because the jacarandas are blooming, turning the streets of Malarkey’s neighborhood into carpets of lavender and the college into a tent city in preparation for commencement. Malarkey always finds commencement a time of reflection since he often recognizes students he’s had as freshmen graduating as seniors. It’s a bittersweet moment for him since he senses the passage of time not only by the erection of tents and scaffolds, but by the fact students of students he has taught over the years are also the children of children he has taught over the years. A bit like Proust’s madeleine with the difference being one should not eat students.
Regardless, there’s a piece of parchment tacked on Malarkey’s office door and scribbled in a font that tends to bleed on the page reads,
There’s a knock on Malarkey’s door and Malarkey, a wee bit hung over from finishing yet another bottle of Bushmills the night before, catatonically sits at his desk staring at a computer screen the screensaver of which shows a picture of ships sinking in the Grand Canal of Venice, before he gets up and opens the door. To his surprise, it’s Matthew.
“Professor Malarkey.”
“Yes, yes, Matthew come in,” he says, trying to shake off the residue of his hangover.
Matthew walks in.
“How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
Matthew sits.
“It’s the end of the year and I just came by to say … thank you.”
“For what, pray tell.”
“For being one of the best teachers I’ve ever had.”
Malarkey is a bit taken aback by Matthew’s comment since few students ever tell him that either in person or in writing. To the contrary, they usually write things on his evaluations such as, “Fire him immediately!” or “He thinks he knows more than we do!” or “He makes us read too much!” or “Why does he care about typos!” or, most cutting of all, “He’s a lousy dresser!” The Reader gets the idea. So, for Matthew to say something like that to his face is tantamount to the Chancellor condoning Malarkey’s behavior.
“It’s very kind of you say that, Matthew. Thank you.”
“No, it’s been a privilege to learn from you and, and, I just wanted to tell you that in person.”
“Well, you’ve done an excellent job with your work and I wish you a restful summer. You’ve earned it. What will you do after graduation?”
“I’ve been accepted to medical school thanks in part to your recommendation. I’d like to work for Doctors Without Borders eventually.”
“Well, I commend you on that. It’s an arduous journey, but you’re more than capable of completing it and I’m certain you’ll make an outstanding physician.”
“I see you’re going on sabbatical.”
“Yes, I need a respite.”
“From teaching?”
“From life.”
“Where will you go?”
“I’m thinking about Trieste.”
“Why there?”
“I need to go somewhere out of this world and the name of the city matches my mood at this time.”
Matthew nods, puts his can of Red Bull on a nearby end table, fiddles around in his backpack and removes a small box.
“I wanted to give this to you.”
Matthew holds out a pen box that boldly reads “Mont Blanc.” Malarkey is surprised by the gift. He rarely if ever receives compliments about his teaching and even more rarely receives gifts. After all, the only gift an asshole should get is another asshole to replace the one he is.
“This is very thoughtful, Matthew. Thank you, but you shouldn’t have …”
“Well, I have to get going, professor. See you at commencement.”
Matthew gets up, quickly hugs Malarkey, grabs his backpack and starts to walk out.
“Goodbye, Matthew.”
“Goodbye, professor.”
Matthew closes the door and as Malarkey stares at the pen box, he becomes a bit emotional about it. As Malarkey ponders that moment, there’s another knock at the door and Malarkey assumes it’s Matthew returning for the can of Red Bull. He picks up the can and opens the door with a smile. But it’s not Elmo; it’s Liliana. They say nothing. Nothing needs to be said. She’s been crying. Newly spawned tears linger on her cheeks. She merely hands him the engagement ring, wrapped in the same parchment in which she received it, kisses him on the lips, turns and leaves.
Malarkey stands in silence. His face registers a combination of disbelief and disappointment, results of a denial past and an emptiness that can never be registered in prose. Maybe poetry, but Malarkey isn’t much of a poet so he’s not going to wax poetic. Let’s just say that awakened at four in the morning to the sounds of staggered footsteps outside, sleep avoids him. Perplexed, Malarkey allows himself to wander aimlessly in thoughts. Thoughts tangent to other thoughts, lost love, lost marriage, both of which arraigned in the court of love’s mismanagement. It appears that Malarkey is destined for days of lost desire, isolated moments along the Schiavoni. Not Aschenbach on the Lido, but another autumn in Venice with a death of a different odor. He returns to his computer and stares at the sinking ships in the Grand Canal wishing he were on one.