Carolyn

As Dr. Tigranian walked me at a very rapid pace from the Fine Arts Building to the Liberal Arts Building, I wondered irritably why I couldn’t have of simply met him at the dean’s office. He hadn’t said a word to me in his own office other than, “Hurry. I don’t want to keep the dean waiting.” Well, I wasn’t keeping the dean waiting. I’d been exactly on time. Tigranian had kept me waiting outside with his secretary while he shouted at someone on the telephone about the care of tubas.

The dean’s secretary showed us right in, and there stood a short, plump man with fuzzy gray hair on head and chin; small, round spectacles; and a vested suit with the jacket removed. “Why you’re the Middle Eastern history professor,” I exclaimed. I’d had a fascinating conversation with him at a presidential reception. He and Jason are both chaired professors.

“And you’re Mrs. Blue, who likes medieval European history.” He shook my hand. “I’m also the dean. I don’t think you know my name. Lester Latimer Britten, spelled like the English composer of ugly operas, as Tigranian can tell you.”

“I never said ‘ugly operas,’ ” the music chairman declared. “I love Benjamin Britten.”

“I like the Italian composers better myself,” I said, always happy to discuss opera. “Verdi, Puccini, Bellini, Donizetti.”

“I quite agree. Much more pleasant,” said the dean. “Except for that performance of Macbeth staged by Gubenko, with whom, I hear, we’re having problems.”

“Postmortem,” I agreed. “You did know he’s dead?”

“Small wonder,” said the dean. “It’s a miracle the audience didn’t accomplish that. I personally like Macbeth, both play and opera, in period costume. I wonder who hired that man.”

“I didn’t hire him,” shouted Dr. Tigranian, as if he’d been accused. “That Russian Don Juan, that seamy, long-haired . . .”

Oh dear, I thought. Dr. Tigranian’s working himself into a rage again.

“You must have hired him,” Tigranian roared at the dean.

“I did not hire him, and if you insist on having a childish temper tantrum in my office, Tigranian, I shall call security and have you locked in the men’s room until you cool down,” said the dean, without ever raising his voice. Then to me, “Now, tell me, my dear, did you read Desert Queen as I suggested?”

“I did,” I replied enthusiastically. “And it gave me the shivers. So many things she talked about are happening all over again in the news.”

“He who doesn’t read history is doomed to relive it,” said Dean Britten. “I’ll be discussing What Went Wrong at your book club next spring.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“What is this?” demanded Tigranian, who had been sulking over the threat of being locked in the men’s room. “Gubenko leaves us with an ugly mess, which could explode in our faces and get us sued, and you are talking about romance books.”

“Hardly a romance,” said the dean. “A very timely biography that teaches us about the unfortunate parallels between Arab-English relations in the period of the first world war and American-Arab relations now. But you’re quite right; we need to address this unsavory situation with the two Russian music students. It’s not the first time we’ve had a similar problem, you know, but it wasn’t in our college, and the young women, although they had student visas, weren’t actually our students. That sort of thing couldn’t happen now. The government is keeping close track of foreign students these days. Still, there’s no question that we have to remove these young women from their present situation and see that they receive their degrees, in due time, without being sexually exploited.” He patted his fuzzy beard as if hoping to rearrange it into a tidier configuration.

“Tuition is not a problem. Gubenko arranged for that, and I can see that the grant continues next year. However, I understand that their housing accommodations are unacceptable.”

“Disgusting,” I agreed. “I’ve visited their trailer. It’s not fit for human habitation, but no one seems to know who owns the trailer, whether Vladik rented it for them, or owned it, or—”

“Yes. Well, we always have people dropping out of school and leaving the dormitory—for the most part athletes who haven’t made and will never make their grades. Therefore, I can provide the young women with a double room and board in university housing that, happily, has already been paid for by the athletic department. Do you think that will suffice to solve the housing problem, Mrs. Blue?”

“I’m sure they will be terribly grateful and relieved. When can they move in?”

“As soon as they like.”

“Maybe we can do it this afternoon.” I glanced at my watch. “They can call the dreadful man who is making them work for free now that Vladik is dead, quit on the telephone, and refuse to tell him where they’re going, if he should ask. That should take care of that problem.”

“I can’t provide them with jobs, however,” cautioned the dean, “and Dr. Tigranian tells me there’s no money in his budget to hire any student help.”

“No money?” said Tigranian. “Worse than no money. We’re—”

“Shhh,” I cautioned, putting my finger to my lips.

“Stop doing that,” he retorted, voice quieter.

“Maybe I should try the shhh option,” said the dean dryly. “I’m sure, Mrs. Blue, that you know the state legislature is cutting our budget to the bone.”

I smiled. “I hear about it all the time; however, I’m hopeful that members of Opera at the Pass, and, incidentally, they don’t know about the strip club, just that Vladik was supporting the girls—”

“Thank goodness for that. Does anyone else know?” the dean interrupted.

“Jason, and Mr. Boris Ignatenko, whose club it is, and the girls, of course. Anyway, my committee is collecting clothes, food, and job offers. I may even be able to get them a car that actually runs.”

“And you will explain to the young ladies that their present circumstances are not to be mentioned. By the way, you should not call them girls; it’s politically incorrect. I’d rather not see them myself to explain things. The university cannot entirely divorce itself from this unfortunate situation, but the farther away I stay from it, the better. Which applies to you, as well, Dr. Tigranian. I do not want you yelling at these students about their late sponsor or the jobs he provided for them or anything else.”

“I hope never to see them,” said the music chairman, as dignified as if he hadn’t just shouted at his dean.

“Well, I hope they’ll receive parts in university productions,” I hastened to add. “They have lovely voices.”

“No more productions. We may even have to charge admission to the student degree recitals,” said Tigranian, scowling.

Which should insure that no one shows up but relatives, I thought. And maybe not even relatives.

I went back immediately to ask the music secretary where I could find Polya and Irina and was sent to the practice rooms. There I discovered them trilling away, but without direction since their professor had vomited himself to death, probably with some help from an unknown murderer. In the remaining three hours of the afternoon, the excited girls—students—and I carried cans and clothes into their new room, which they thought was wonderful—so clean, such nice furniture, a nice bathroom; what more could they ask? Then we drove to the trailer, after I pushed their car from a student parking lot to a hill.

While they collected their pitiful cache of possessions, I presented myself to the woman who ran the park to give notice that her tenants were leaving. She said whatever Mr. Gubenko wanted, but the November rent was late. I told her to call the professor. She asked if I wanted to leave a forwarding address for girls. I didn’t.

What a strange-looking woman she was—squat, with a light mustache. And what a strange trailer park! I had always imagined them as being places full of children and people sitting outside in lawn chairs drinking beer. This one might have occupants, other than Polya and Irina, but I didn’t see any—just the twitch of a curtain as I passed, but no visible people. After collecting the young women and giving their car another push, we drove back, in separate cars, to the university and recruited some large young men from the lobby to help carry things upstairs. Polya and Irina might have been exotic dancers and lesbians, but they could giggle like any American college girl in the presence of young men.

My last duty was to shoo the football players out of the room and have a serious talk about never discussing Brazen Babes or their housing or association with Vladik and his seamy associates. They assured me that they would be very happy to forget that part of their lives immediately and, instead, look forward to jobs and a viable car and all the good things that might be coming their way. In the meantime they had rooms, meals, classes, different clothes, and cans of soup that they could warm up in the microwave down the hall. They were ecstatic. I warned them to remove the soup from the cans before microwaving it.

I received more hugs and kisses from my new protégés than I deemed necessary. Such gratitude can be embarrassing. After all, my motives were not entirely charitable.

With one last goodbye, I headed for home and the choice of a moderately sexy, but tasteful outfit for my venture into Juarez. God help me! Jason would be very angry if I wrecked my car in a foreign country and ended up in a foreign jail, one that has a very dubious reputation, according to the newspaper.