could an applicant determine his seriousness without knowing what the job entailed? Did “serious” mean that I had to be serious, or that my application had to be capable of being taken seriously by my prospective employer? For instance, I might seriously desire to become a fire-breathing lesbian astronaut, but one could not reasonably describe my chances as serious.
The ad’s tone warned as it invited, one hand outstretched, the other up in defense. Who said anything about solicitors? Perhaps the seeker was concerned about identity theft. In that case, why publish a phone number? Why not an e-mail address or, for the truly old-fashioned, a P.O. box? Something here did not jibe, and I had the feeling that I was staring into the mouth of a scam. These days it’s hard to be too suspicious, paranoia no longer a pathology but a mark of savvy.
Still. It sounded so strange, so enticingly strange.
I could have called from inside the library—there was nobody around—but I have always considered Widener a temple, disturbing its dusty silence a sacrilege. I packed up and left, crossing the Tercentenary Theater in the direction of Canaday Hall, the hideous dormitory known as “The Projects,” where I’d lived as a freshman. Outside the Science Center, the snow was soiled, compacted by hundreds of feet, and I paused to watch a group of students putting the finishing touches on a giant, Daliesque snow-ear. Once indoors, I breathed on my hands, took out my cell phone, and dialed. A recorded voice told me that this account had been deactivated, message one-one-four-seven.
I tried again and got the same voice, and after it happened a third time, I realized that this was actually happening. Yasmina had cut me off. That she footed the entire bill seemed irrelevant just then; she had once again stranded me without a word of warning, and I was livid. I almost threw the phone against the wall. My need for a source of income grown even more pressing, I went downstairs in search of a pay phone.
SHE SOUNDED ELDERLY. I thought I detected an accent, although I needed to hear more than a single hello.
“Yes, hi, I’m calling about the ad in the Crimson.”
“Ah. And with whom am I speaking?”
“My name is Joseph Geist.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Geist.”
“Thank you. Same to you, Ms....” I paused to let her introduce herself. She didn’t, so I said, “I’m intrigued. What sort of conversationalist are you after?”
“A catholic one. Small c. Is that how you would describe yourself?”
“I think so. Although for the record, I’m Catholic, big C, as well.”
She laughed gently. “Well, I shan’t hold that against you.”
I’d settled on German, although her inflections were decidedly different from those I’d encountered in Berlin. Perhaps she was from the countryside, or another city.
“I’m no longer practicing, for what it’s worth.”
“Ah, a lapsed Catholic. That I find more to my taste.”
“Glad to oblige.”
“So, Mr. Geist, the lapsed Catholic, you saw my advertisement. You are a Harvard student, I presume?”
To explain my exact status would have taken far too long. I said, mostly truthfully, “Graduate student.”
“Yes? And what do you study?”
“Philosophy.”
There was a tiny pause. “Really. That is very interesting, Mr. Geist. And what kind of a philosopher are you?”
Though tempted to puff myself up, I decided to proceed with caution.
“A catholic one,” I said. “Small c.”
She laughed again. “Perhaps I should ask instead your philosopher of choice.”
I couldn’t possibly anticipate her tastes, so I said what I thought would best provoke and amuse: “Myself, of course.” Except what I actually said was, “Ich, natürlich.”
“Oh, come now,” she said.
But I could hear her smiling.
“I shall be pleased to meet you, Mr. Geist. Are you available at three o’clock?”
“Three o’clock—today?”
“Yes, three o’clock today.”
I almost said no. I didn’t want to seem too needy. “That should be fine.”
“Very good. Allow me to give you the address.”
I wrote it down. “Thank you.”
“Danke schön, Herr Geist. ”
Standing there, receiver in hand, it occurred to me that we had not set any terms. I didn’t know how long she wanted to talk or what she wanted to talk about. Nobody had mentioned money, so I didn’t know what, if anything, she intended to pay me. I didn’t even know her name. The whole arrangement was incredibly bizarre, and I wondered if it was a scam after all. She sounded harmless enough, but.
The phone began to chirp. Distractedly, I depressed the hookswitch, fumbled out more change, and called information for the number of the local sperm