11.

The rest of the weekend withered away from his grasp. Matt never left Sophie’s except for some errands and a brief walk on Sunday evening, which turned out to be a slushy mistake. She was in a foul mood; she kept stalking around the apartment in socks and flip-flops, sighing and picking up pieces of paper. She even broke a mug, most unlike her, most—then, kneeling to pick up the shards by the counter where it had slipped, she blew up the hair fallen in her eyes and glared at him; venomously, as if it were somehow his fault. Had she picked up on his minor infatuation with Liza? Fine, not minor, but, say, mild? Or a touch over mild…Liza. She simply electrified, with her topazy eyes, she just—“Ah.”

“Mm? What’s up?” From the pillow on his lap, Sophie’s eyes drilled into his.

His heart tripped. “Oh, just some think-thought. You know. The whole Josh debacle, what I’ll do Monday.”

Her gaze went aimless and casual again as she lifted fingers to his hair. “You’re mental. I told you, you should have already apologized. Go there. Or call him.”

The notion was distasteful. The release that had come in that room had been so pure, so out-of-body ecstatic. He felt changed now, woken up a wolf after years as a sniveling sheep. Yet how could he possibly go on living there if he didn’t at least simulate some regret?

In point of fact, the situation turned out to be entirely out of his hands. Monday at eleven, on a surreptitious mission to retrieve his notebooks, he discerned a brazen red flashing on his answering machine box: the message hailed from Saturday afternoon. Dirk Proctor would see him today at one. On a disciplinary matter.

“As you probably know, this can’t wait. I’ve checked your schedule online and you should be free then; if you have any other commitments (sigh), I seriously advise you to skip them.” Click.

Matt managed to stay calm long enough to drag himself up two flights to Jason’s. Two hours to go. They scrapped the idea of class and headed to the diner on 7th for a plot out session. And here, over French toast and fries, Jason persisted in the delusion that he had a cunning plan. Viz., that Matt should play this in terms of responsibility. That he should explain to Dirk how necessary his job was—after all, “I mean, my God,” Jason waxed outraged, oratorically righteous, “you’re putting yourself through school, and here’s this fucking little shit, doesn’t have to work a day in his life, and he’s about to cost you your fucking job, so wham! You lose your temper. You’re so, so sorry, it’s not like you meant to do it, it’s just a—a crime of passion! Haven’t you said Dirk, like, grew up in buttfuck, dirt schoolroom, blah blah blah, outside of Atlanta somewhere? You just rock that angle.” Jason snarfed down a last handful of fries, tossed some cash on the table. “C’mon, it’s quarter-to, I’ll walk you over.”

But what would they do to him? Useless to fantasize that Dirk might grant him any benefit of the doubt; Matt knew how this one went. Historically, all interactions with discipliners had lacked something in the way of justice—from as far back as the first grade, when Kyle Gordon had taken off Matt’s pants and thrown these on a bookshelf he could not reach. For though it seemed obvious to him no six-year-old would wish to store his pants in a high place, Miss Penny did not see the matter in the same light.

“I wish I could take you with me,” Matt moaned at Jason in the lobby at the bottom of the Third North main steps.

“Don’t be so melodramatic.” Jason gave his shoulder a brisk pat. “It’ll be fine.”

Matt plodded one by one up the heartless stairs.

Dirk was waiting for him; Matt had barely touched knuckles to the door when it swung open, revealing the familiar face wearing a familiar disappointed expression touched by—well: was that rage? “Come in,” demanded Dirk gruffly. As he shut the door, his expensive-looking robin’s-egg-blue shirt rippled, releasing a dizzying waft of cologne. Inside, beneath a window of winter brilliance, another man was sitting in the leftmost of two leather armchairs facing a small wooden one. Now, this threw everything out of whack—what on earth? “This is Dr. Saarsgaard,” explained Dirk, gesturing toward the pale man dressed in a light-gray suit, woolen V-neck sweater, and limp checked button-down. “Our Resident Coordinator in Third North.”

Of course it is.

Dr. Saarsgaard was holding a clipboard above crossed legs. Late thirties, though worn-looking, and very thin; his blond hair bled into his pallid face, his thin lips blended into a raggedy sketchy beard and mustache. Beside him on the maroon carpet lay a rather used-looking brown leather briefcase, abraded white here and there. “Hello,” he said in a tense, high voice that seemed to strive for a pleasant note. “Have a seat.”

Matt gingerly assumed the little wooden chair. “Hello.”

Dirk threw himself into the right armchair, crossed his arms against his chest, straining the opulent shirt over his biceps, and lunged in so hard the chair inched forward along the carpet. Next to fey, frail Dr. Saarsgaard, he seemed a mammoth Mount Rushmore of a person, and sparkling new, a just-minted penny. Throwing restless glances at Dr. Saarsgaard, Dirk squirmed in his chair, the fists pushing down powerfully on the seat as if trying to find an outlet besides punching Matt out. Suddenly he clasped his hands and declared, “Dr. Saarsgaard is the first circuit for disciplinary matters.”

“Well, you could put it that way,” Dr. Saarsgaard informed Matt, a frozen half smile on his lips. “Apart from the many student RAs, who revolve every year, each dorm has a Resident Coordinator, a certified counselor. With specialized training⁴⁴ and,” he lifted a hand, let it drop on the clipboard with a weary, submissive gesture, “all that.”

“Right,” Dirk assented humbly. He scratched his jaw, emitting a manly rasp. Then he blurted, “Well, you know why you’re here.”

“Why don’t you tell us,” asked Dr. Saarsgaard, keeping his eyes fixed pointedly on Matt, “why you destroyed your roommate’s things?” Like a child’s psychologist, that’s how he sounded, desperately trying to keep his voice guilt-free and bright.

Matt looked down timidly at his own linked hands. They made fun of me: ha, that useless old saw. But now how to play the responsibility card Jason had plotted, with this strange doctor-person? Still, he was likely better off than alone with disdaining Dirk.

“Michael,” continued Dr. Saarsgaard, “I’m not on anyone’s side. You can talk to me.” The words sounded as threadbare as his ugly sweater: sheer overuse.

“Sir?” Should he even correct? “It’s Matthew?”

“What?” Dr. Saarsgaard blanched, impossibly, further, glancing at his clipboard.

“It is Matthew,” inserted Dirk hurriedly, looking over the man’s shoulder to point.

Dr. Saarsgaard gave Dirk a bitter look. Then, “Matthew. I’m sorry. Please, go on.”

“Well. You see, I have this job. I depend upon it. I take it very seriously. I work very hard. It’s a lot of…responsibility. I am putting myself through school; I’m here on scholarship. And what happened was, I thought an action of Josh’s cost me my job.”

“An action of Dwight’s,” corrected Dr. Saarsgaard evenly.

“No, no, that’s not…” Dirk hovered over Dr. Saarsgaard’s clipboard.

“I have it right here,” Dr. Saarsgaard snapped at Dirk, a little hairy fox terrier snapping at a mastiff. “Dwight Smeethman. It says it right here on the incident report.”

“But I didn’t…” Matt looked beseechingly at Dirk. “I didn’t touch…”

“You see, Doctor, his roommate Dwight Smeethman—now, Matthew, you have the right to know this,” Dirk nodded at him, cold-eyed, “Dwight Smeethman filed the report, but the victim”—he reached to thumb through the papers—“it’s the other boy in the room.”

Ah. I’ll take care of it, Josh.

Dr. Saarsgaard moved the clipboard to the left, out of Dirk’s grasp. He turned to fix Matt with a steely glance, as if focusing all his energies on blocking out Dirk from his side altogether. Then he glanced down at the clipboard abstractedly. He seemed to be unable to take in this new piece of information. He looked again at Matt, an ingratiating smile on his lips. “Why did the other roommate file the incident report?” The question was obviously for Dirk, though Dr. Saarsgaard kept his eyes trained forward. A desiccated laugh escaped him, sounding more like a couple of joyless gasps.

“I don’t know, sir,” Matt piped in meekest mouse tones. Sheer evil?

“—technicality,” Dirk was saying in his booming confident voice. “I’m sure by the time it goes to Judicial Affairs, we’ll have an incident report from the victim.”

“Technicality.” Dr. Saarsgaard’s pen tapped spitefully at the clipboard. “But it won’t go to Judicial Affairs,” he nearly shrieked, “if we don’t have an incident report from the victim. Because it should not have come to me without an incident report from the victim.” Dr. Saarsgaard let the words roll off his tongue in a kind of childish singsong, evidently deriving a great deal of enjoyment from repeating this formula.

“But, Doctor.” Good-natured, eyes atwinkle, Dirk manuevered his ripply body before Dr. Saarsgaard’s. “Surely we can get one. I’ll just call Joshua in here.”

Whatever Dirk was doing really was not working. Dr. Saarsgaard was staring at him, his narrowed eyes shooting daggers of derision, his lips pinched. “You’ll just call Joshua in here?” Dr. Saarsgaard asked, raising his eyebrows ironically. “You’ll just badger a student into entering a formal complaint? Is that what you suggest?”

There was an opening here. A vista of escape. Well, it’s all we have: you may as well try. “Sir?” Matt began, taking the cue to studiously avoid Dirk.

“Yes, Matthew, what is it?” All benevolence again, Dr. Saarsgaard turned to Matt.

“What does this mean?” Matt asked, plaintive. “What is an incident report?”

“Well—” Dirk sprang forward in his chair.

Dr. Saarsgaard glared him down. “You see, an incident report is what I have right here.” With one agitated finger he poked at the clipboard pages. “Whenever a dispute between residents arises, whenever there is an accusation of any wrongdoing, the victim can come to his or her RA and file a formal complaint. The written record of that complaint is called an incident report.” Dr. Saarsgaard was growing voluble, eager, as if what he’d most wanted all along was to explain the arcana of his job. “Then it’s my job to determine the truth of the matter, which can often be very complex, you know, which is why I hesitate to call myself a first circuit,” here a ghastly gummy smile, faintly sinister, “because anyway these matters are not remotely like court cases in the criminal system, and it’s not as if I am simply passed over in later stages of the process in favor of higher circuits. You’ll find that in almost every instance, even when incidents go all the way to Judicial Affairs, still, it’s the recommendations of myself and of my col leagues that form the basis of their decisions.”

“Because you’re the experts. That makes sense,” answered awestruck Matt. Nodding as if the whole world had generously deigned to become much clearer.

“Yes, it does,” said Dr. Saarsgaard, his voice strained dangerously high. Then he clasped his frail arms above the elbows, looking dreamily off as if savoring the truth of this statement.

Dirk cleared his throat. “Doctor. What do you advise—what do you determine…”

“Well, I don’t advise badgering the victim into making a complaint, if that’s what you mean. That is absolutely not the policy, that is no iota like the policy of New York University.”

Now: intervene now, before some actually fair solution might be found. “Sir.” Matt sighed. “I think maybe I know why. Why Josh didn’t do it.” Sounding powerless as the true victim here.

An exultant flash pulsed through the man’s face. “Can you tell me?”

“Maybe I don’t know why,” said Matt, looking shyly down at his hands. He knew this one from debate: give them something, whip it away, make them reach for it like a cat batting at a piece of string.

“Michael—Matthew.” Dr. Saarsgaard’s vexed flicker of chagrin transformed into an even greater show of warmth when he hit on the right name. “You can trust me.”

Matt stared pleadingly at Dr. Saarsgaard, tossing a couple of timid peeks toward Dirk. I can trust you, sir, but not…

Dr. Saarsgaard caught the hint. “Would you like to speak privately?”

“Oh.” Matt pinned his gaze to his knees and sucked in his breath. “I don’t want to trouble…” He shrank his body ever so slightly Dr. Saarsgaard-ward, as if terrified of some physical reprisal that might explode upon him from Dirk.

“It’s perfectly acceptable to request a private conference. Don’t be afraid.”

Matt lifted eyes full of moist gratitude. “O-okay?”

“Dirk,” Dr. Saarsgaard announced, “would you mind giving us fifteen minutes?” Then, “Will that be enough time?” he asked Matt, warming to the role of a white knight of children everywhere. As soon as Dirk walked out the hall door—thrown out from his own suite, how about that!—Dr. Saarsgaard’s mood lightened considerably. “Is that better?” He seemed downright cheerful.

“Much.” Matt smiled a fragile, abused-boy smile. “Thank you. This is exactly what I needed without my having to—being able to say,” he marveled.

“Well, yes. Part of a counselor’s training is in psychology, you know. And of course, your typical counselor has been in conference with students you just can’t imagine how many times over the years. We try very hard to be perceptive about our students’ needs.” But suddenly the man shut his eyes disgustedly. He scooped his thumbs along the crinkled lids and cleared his throat. “So, Matthew,” his fingers linked around one skinny knee, “why don’t you tell me what you couldn’t say in front of Dirk?”

“It’s like, every time I talk to Dirk, all year, he always”—Matt swallowed back what someone might take for a sob. “The first time I—I had a problem here, in my room,” not exactly true but who cares, “he, he basically made me feel, like it was me who, like I was…”

“He thought it was your fault?” Dr. Saarsgaard raised an eyebrow. I knew it.

“He said I should go seek help. That I was just homesick. But I wasn’t, Dr. Saarsgaard, I swear.”

“I’m listening.” Dr. Saarsgaard frowned.

“So…when I started having more problems, my roommates harassing me—”

“They harass you?”

“—saying really derogatory things, I mean, terrible things, about how I’m poor,” well, scrubbing toilets, sort of, “and all this stuff, I mean, what could—like, I couldn’t go back to Dirk? So. I didn’t have anyone to go to. You know,” Matt leaned in rapturously, “I had no idea about you until just now?”

Dr. Saarsgaard grimaced at the ceiling. “That’s the trouble. What you say does not surprise me, Matthew. Not at all. Students who need me the most, like yourself, there’s just no good way for them to know I’m here.”

“You mean I could have come to you?”

“And all this time you’ve been talking to some corporate-lawyer-in-training instead.” Dr. Saarsgaard threw up his hands. “It doesn’t make any sense to me either. I mean, what on earth does a corporate lawyer know about fostering…” Dr. Saarsgaard dismissed the remainder of this statement with a wave. “Well, Matthew,” he gloated. “What was it again, why your roommate didn’t come forward, did you say?”

And because Dr. Saarsgaard was so obviously entering this incident in the great record book of his victories of tedious years at NYU, was even perhaps inventing a few extra things he might have said to this corporate lawyer Dirk—Matt contented himself with small facts and dark hints, steering clear of outright bald lies that might have woken the man from his pleasant reverie, from his noddings and ohs and sympathetic, automatic That’s terribles. When Matt was bemoaning the lack of class sensitivity in his roommates, Dr. Saarsgaard did tune in long enough to fill him with blab about how Matt would have no idea just how entitled, and spoiled, and privileged some of these kids were at NYU—and although that was in effect what Matt had just been talking about, he neatly switched gears, showing himself properly astonished. Wow. Really, Dr. Saarsgaard?

“Nine years at this school,” Dr. Saarsgaard was saying. “And let me tell you something that might surprise you. In all that time, if there’s one thing I’ve discovered, it is that when victims do not come forward, there’s a very good reason. I’m not talking about sexual assault: those cases are the exception. In that event we work with counselors to help the victims come forward. Because we never badger students into a complaint. But as a rule,” he said, craning his neck out unnaturally on rule, “in all other disciplinary matters, whenever the victim does not come forward, the advising center, the counseling center, and myself and my col leagues, operating in tandem with Judicial Affairs and the Dean of Housing, have developed a policy.” Dr. Saarsgaard’s lips curled up in a triumphant smirk. “And do you know what that is?”

Matt shook his head. Capital punishment?

“We do this.” Dr. Saarsgaard undid two pages from his clipboard, neatly banged them together, and mimed a swift rip. The whole event had had an absolutely salutary effect on the man’s complexion; now he looked almost flesh-colored. “I tell you what, Matthew,” Dr. Saarsgaard said, apropos of nothing. “Why don’t we transfer you?”

What on earth? “But—sir. I really like NYU. Mostly. You know, it’s just those kids. Privileged kids. Like you were saying.”

“No, no, no! We’ll just transfer your room. I mean, it doesn’t sound as if you can go on living there, after what you’ve, you know.” Another wave dispatched the troublesome uncertainty of what might have been said. “Would you like that?”

“Oh, absolutely, sir, absolutely. That would be so wonderful!” Thank you, Dad! This is the best Christmas ever!

“I’ll go back to my office.” Dr. Saarsgaard was shoving his clipboard into his crappy briefcase. “I’ll make a few calls. That’s what,” he added to the briefcase, “we have real resident counselors for.” He fished in a side pocket for a card. “It probably won’t happen till tomorrow, you might want to stay somewhere else tonight. Do you have somewhere to stay?” he hastened to ask, as if having just remembered his caring act.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Dr. Saarsgaard called in a sterner, stronger voice; a chastened Dirk entered. “I’m moving him from your hall group. Thanks for all of your assistance.” He was having some trouble hoisting his briefcase and looking official at the same time. “Come along, Matthew.” Struggling to get the door open. “You’ll get my report,” he noted to Dirk—then, just before the door closed, still within Dirk’s hearing, he added to Matt, “So you’ve got my number? You’ll call me tomorrow?” And the man in the gray suit trotted off along the hideous mint-green floor.

My hero. My wimpy, petty hero! A miraculous travesty of justice had just gone down, a benevolent wind fanning the flames of flagrant insecurity, vindictiveness. And we have done our part! Found a weakness, trod heavily on that shaky ice—until the whole thing surrendered with a fulminating detonation. Promoting really set you up for life. Valuable skills. A manipulator’s training. Matt melted down the hallway, floating along on fumes of pure exaltation, but by the time he touched his hand to the doorknob of 403, crept into the deserted suite—ah, farewell, old shit-hole, how we loved you not!—this was slipping from him, replaced by up-currents of what was certainly bitter hate.

Dwight. Dwight, smiling Young-Man-Responsible Dwight, Mr. Politician, Mr. Student Body President. Well—your little conspiracy’s gone awry, hmm? So much the worse for you. Oh, how you shall suffer.

Matt tore about the suite. He ripped out a handful of garbage bags from the box on the fridge. Spend another night here?—not under this roof, no, sir. Grab whatever possible, return Wednesday or Thursday, midday, when they were never here: not to see them again until he’d exacted his vengeance. The bloodguilt, drop by drop—there, that phrase satisfied. Drop by drop—he echoed it in his mind as he threw open his wardrobe. Should have realized Josh could never be capable of this on his own. Yes, scrubbing toilets, idle words, but this was outright warfare—to knife him behind his back, not even allow him a chance to make up: and what had been destroyed? Containers of gruel. Fine, a mug, a pair of shades. But straightaway on Saturday, or maybe even Friday…to try to assassinate, snitching to Dirk? That took some dastardly, bald-faced shyster—should have instinctively smelled the foul hand of Dwight Smeethman from the start. But…

Whosoever the malefactor: this treachery was a poor failure. Poor? An embarrassing failure, a failure of the highest order—bro! Matt twist-danced on the wooden floor, then sashayed over, grabbed his three bags, flicked the light switches, and shut the door on that whole eviscerated dorm world.

         

When in the heavy gold suffusion of the following afternoon Matt taxied to the curb before Eleventh Street Residence, the bitter bird of irony and revenge sang sweetly from the topmost branch of his inner pear tree.⁴⁵ From the front, a perfect slice of cake, salmon-pink pied-à-terre: through a deep-green door with gold knocker and knob, the small entrance hall drowsed in carefree afternoon light. A slick serpentine rail snuck sinuously up the stair; three flights, my darling, and it’s a dark-wood corridor where, all the way at the end, tucked on the right, a heavy oak door opens into—

A room. His. Flung himself backfirst on the crisp white bed—bounce!—the mattress clean and soft to the fingers and—ho! His very own bathroom!

Matt whipped his things from the bags: then it was out to make his purchases. Two hours later he was on the sidewalk of 11th Street, arms full with a case for the cell phone bought Saturday, champagne, berries du bois, and a bell-mouthed vase spotted on his way to the liquor store where they didn’t card. He would float rose petals in it. Fill it with champagne sorbet. Tomorrow he might squeeze in a trip for a nice blue silk Japanese dressing gown. Or should it be a red plush smoking jacket?

“Hey!” Liza shoved his shoulder, grinning. “You’ve got a lot of stuff!”

A beauty of rare eloquence and grace. “Ciao,” he air-kissed. “I just moved in to Eleventh Street.” His stomach had reduced to a gelatinous ooze: stay calm, sir. “My old roommates…” He shifted the packages and rolled his eyes. “From another planet,” he explained, neatly ripping off Vic’s line.

She cocked her head. “Didn’t you live with Dwight Smeethman? Who goes out with Allison Carleton?”

Matt blinked, long, and studied the curb with a snide gaze: to cover the terror that was exploding tiniest ball bearings through his veins. Small world, to say the least. He ought to have remembered that from her facebook précis—one of those precious New York prep schools, a ritzy address, a sailor’s profile down to the veriest detail: why wouldn’t she know Dwight’s patrician wench? “Voilà,” he snickered finally, when his mouth could be trusted. “So you know exactly what I mean.” Please say yes. Please let this not get ugly.

“God, Allison…” Liza moaned, kicking at the curb.

Attagirl! Matt snorted empathetically. “How do you know her?”

“I went to school with her for a couple years, so…” She shrugged. “They were all like that.” She looked at him wistfully, did he understand… “You know, finally you’re like—arghhh!” She thrust her hands round his neck and choked him back and forth.

“Ha-ha,” he said, recovering his balance. That was very, very close to capsize.

“What is all this stuff?” Her eyes widened. “Are you having people over?”

“Ah, just, ah, couple. Want to? Come?”

She lit up, clearly mistaking it for some top-list occasion. “That’d be awesome.”

A stolid guy in a houndstooth sport coat approached and laid a hand lightly on Liza’s red satined arm. “Liza, hello! Now, this is a rare pleasure. We missed you the other night, uptown.” Turned entirely toward her, ignoring Matt, even craning his head down nearer to her on uptown as if he didn’t want Matt to hear.

Fine. “I’m jetting,” Matt sighed. “It’s number forty-seven, if you still want to join us.”

“Okay!” She waved eagerly, twisting back toward him while the eyes of the guy beside her rested, interested, on Matt for a second.

Jason and Sophie were sitting cross-legged in the hall. “There you are,” said Sophie, jumping up. “I thought you said eight o’clock!”

They oohed over the whole place. “You have your own bathroom?” Sophie gaped disbelievingly. “Oh my God.”

“Hello?!” said Jason. “A fucking double bed?” He tackled Matt onto it and pummeled. “You are the luckiest motherfucker I know! Motherfucker!” Jason propped himself on an elbow, his hair all sticking up in patches. “How did you talk your way into this?”

“Holy shit.” Sophie had sat, dazed, on the edge of the bed. “You know you don’t deserve this.”

They threw the goodies onto the desk—Sophie tossed Swedish Fish, wasabi peas, and her signature melon candies into the vase, while Jason set up his Discman and portable speakers. Then, with the Magnetic Fields cranked and the champagne popped and poured—indeed, hardly spilled at all—there came a knock at one of the side (closet?!) doors.

This frightened him so much he squeezed his plastic glass so that it fissured.

“Is that another entrance?” Jason squinted at the door.

“Are you expecting anyone?” asked Sophie, hurriedly smoothing her hair and white eyelet-lace skirt. “Aren’t you going to get it?”

Matt dabbed toilet paper at the stain on his gray wool pants and turned the knob.

“Heyyyy!” Liza leaned in the doorframe. “There you are. Guess who it turns out is your new suitemate!” She jerked a slender thumb dismissively over her shoulder.

There beyond her shoulder was a large room, outfitted in leather armchairs and sturdy side tables, with an enormous marble fireplace, like some Edwardian hunting lodge. Now the guy in the houndstooth jacket moved from behind Liza; he put out his hand cordially. “Welcome to Eleventh Street Residence. Glad to have you here.” His words fell flat, like slabs of fudge, as his solid hand pumped Matt’s.

“Ryan, Matt; Matt, Ryan.” Liza tossed her tawny hair and barged in, leaving Ryan in her wake.

“Hello.” Sophie had come up shyly beside Matt; she gave Liza a nod. “I’m Sophie,” she added to Ryan, extending her small hand. “Matt’s girlfriend.” Jason stood from the bed, diffidently waved his cigarette hand. “Jason. ’Sup.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Ryan replied. Perhaps he might have said more, but Liza, already bounded to the desk, now lifted a glass and called, “So let’s get this party started! Ryan, champagne?” over the chords of defenseless music. “Oh my God, Swedish Fish!” She jammed her hand into the bowl and dug out a red netful. “I haven’t had these since I was, like, ten. Who brought these?” she demanded, whirling to face them urgently.

“That would be me.” Sophie tilted back her head to fix Liza with a strained smile.

“They’re the best,” sighed Liza, biting off an aspic-smooth head.