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How quickly silence falls upon the class. Even Justin stops talking to himself.
TWO (#ulink_1cc86c13-b3dd-5eed-895d-b2999ed83cdf)
‘Professor Hitchcock.’ Dr Fields approaches Justin, who is arranging his notes at the podium while the students take a five-minute break.
‘Please call me Justin, Doctor.’
‘Please call me Sarah.’ She holds out her hand.
Very ‘Nice to meet you, Sarah.’
‘I just want to make sure we’ll see each other later?’
‘Later?’
‘Yes, later. As in … after your lecture,’ she smiles.
Is she flirting? It’s been so long, how am I supposed to tell? Speak, Justin, speak.
‘Great. A date would be great.’
She purses her lips to hide a smile. ‘OK, I’ll meet you at the main entrance at six and I’ll bring you across myself.’
‘Bring me across where?’
‘To where we’ve got the blood drive set up. It’s beside the rugby pitch but I’d prefer to bring you over myself.’
‘The blood drive …’ He’s immediately flooded with dread. ‘Ah, I don’t think that—’
‘And then we’ll go for a drink after?’
‘You know what? I’m just getting over the flu so I don’t think I’m eligible for donating.’ He parts his hands and shrugs.
‘Are you on antibiotics?’
‘No, but that’s a good idea, Sarah. Maybe I should be …’ He rubs his throat.
‘Oh, I think you’ll be OK,’ she grins.
‘No, you see, I’ve been around some pretty infectious diseases lately. Malaria, smallpox, the whole lot. I was in a very tropical area.’ He remembers the list of contraindications. ‘And my brother, Al? Yeah, he’s a leper.’ Lame, lame, lame.
‘Really.’ She lifts an eyebrow and though he fights it with all his will, he cracks a smile. ‘How long ago did you leave the States?’
Think hard, this could be a trick question. ‘I moved to London three months ago,’ he finally answers truthfully.
‘Oh, lucky for you. If it was two months you wouldn’t be eligible.’
‘Now hold on, let me think …’ He scratches his chin and thinks hard, randomly mumbling months of the year aloud. ‘Maybe it was two months ago. If I work backwards from when I arrived …’ He trails off, while counting his fingers and staring off into the distance with a concentrated frown.
‘Are you afraid, Professor Hitchcock?’ she smiles.
‘Afraid? No!’ He throws his head back and guffaws. ‘But did I mention I have malaria?’ He sighs at her failure to take him seriously. ‘Well, I’m all out of ideas.’
‘I’ll see you at the entrance at six. Oh, and don’t forget to eat beforehand.’
‘Of course, because I’ll be ravenous before my date with a giant homicidal needle,’ he mumbles as he watches her leave.
The students begin filing back into the room and he tries to hide the smile of pleasure on his face, mixed as it is. Finally the class is his.
OK, my little twittering friends. It’s pay-back time.
They’re not yet all seated when he begins.
‘Art,’ he announces to the lecture hall, and he hears the sounds of pencils and notepads being extracted from bags, loud zips and buckles, tin pencil cases rattling; all new for the first day. Squeaky-clean and untarnished. Shame the same can not be said for the students. ‘The products of human creativity.’ He doesn’t stall to allow them time to catch up. In fact, it is time to have a little fun. His speech speeds up.
‘The creation of beautiful or significant things.’ He paces as he speaks, still hearing zipping sounds and rattling.
‘Sir, could you say that again ple—’
‘No,’ he interrupts. ‘Engineering,’ he moves on, ‘the practical application of science to commerce or industry.’ Total silence now.
‘Creativity and practicality. The fruit of their merger is architecture.’
Faster, Justin, faster!
‘Architecture-is-the-transformation-of-ideas-into-a-physical-reality. The-complex-and-carefully-designed-structure-of-something-especially-with-regard-to-a-specific-period. To-understand-architecture-we-must-examine-the-relationship-between-technology-science-and-society.’
‘Sir, can you—’
‘No.’ But he slows slightly. ‘We examine how architecture through the centuries has been shaped by society, how it continues to be shaped, but also how it, in turn, shapes society.’
He pauses, looking around at the youthful faces staring up at him, their minds empty vessels waiting to be filled. So much to learn, so little time to do it in, such little passion within them to understand it truly. It is his job to give them passion. To share with them his experiences of travel, his knowledge of all the great masterpieces of centuries ago. He will transport them from the stuffy lecture theatre of the prestigious Dublin college to the rooms of the Louvre Museum, hear the echoes of their footsteps as he walks them through the Cathedral of St-Denis, to St-Germain-des-Prés and St-Pierre de Montmartre. They’ll know not only dates and statistics but the smell of Picasso’s paints, the feel of baroque marble, the sound of the bells of Notre-Dame Cathedral. They’ll experience it all, right here in this classroom. He will bring it all to them.
They’re staring at you, Justin. Say something.
He clears his throat. ‘This course will teach you how to analyse works of art and how to understand their historical significance. It will enable you to develop an awareness of the environment while also providing you with a deeper sensitivity to the culture and ideals of other nations. You will cover a broad range: history of painting, sculpture and architecture from Ancient Greece to modern times; early Irish art; the painters of the Italian Renaissance; the great Gothic cathedrals of Europe; the architectural splendours of the Georgian era and the artistic achievements of the twentieth century.’
He allows a silence to fall.
Are they filled with regret on hearing what lay ahead of them for the next four years of their lives? Or do their hearts beat wildly with excitement as his does, just thinking about all that is to come? Even after all these years, he still feels the same enthusiasm for the buildings, paintings and sculptures of the world. His exhilaration often leaves him breathless during lectures; he has to remember to slow down, not to tell them everything at once. Though he wants them to know everything, right now!
He looks again at their faces and has an epiphany.
You have them! They’re hanging on your every word, just waiting to hear more. You’ve done it, they’re in your grasp!
Someone farts and the room explodes with laughter.
He sighs, his bubble burst, and continues his talk in a bored tone. ‘My name is Justin Hitchcock and in my special guest lectures scattered throughout the course, you will study the introduction to European painting such as the Italian Renaissance and French Impressionism. This includes the critical analysis of paintings, the importance of iconography and the various technical methods used by artists from the Book of Kells to modern day. There’ll also be an introduction to European architecture. Greek temples to the present day, blah blah blah. Two volunteers to help me hand these out, please.’
And so it was another year. He wasn’t at home in Chicago now; he had chased his ex-wife and daughter to live in London and was flying back and forth between there and Dublin for his guest lectures. A different country perhaps but another class of the same. First week and giddy. Another group displaying an immature lack of understanding of his passions; a deliberate turning of their backs on the possibility – no, not the possibility, the surety – of learning something wonderful and great.
It doesn’t matter what you say now, pal, from here on in the only thing they’ll go home remembering is the fart.
THREE (#ulink_ed5674f6-7ab0-5a46-bfc6-ba32a96a94b2)
‘What is it about fart jokes, Bea?’
‘Oh, hi, Dad.’
‘What kind of a greeting is that?’
‘Oh, gee whizz, wow, Dad, so great to hear from you. It’s been, what, ah shucks, three hours since you last phoned?’
‘Fine, you don’t have to go all porky pig on me. Is your darling mother home yet from a day out at her new life?’
‘Yes, she’s home.’
‘And has she brought the delightful Laurence back with her?’ He can’t hold back his sarcasm, which he hates himself for but, unwilling to withdraw it and incapable of apologising, he does what he always does, which is to run with it, therefore making it worse. ‘Laurence,’ he drawls, ‘Laurence of A—inguinal hernia.’
‘Oh, you’re such a geek. Would you ever give up talking about his trouser leg,’ she sighs with boredom.
Justin kicks off the scratchy blanket of the cheap Dublin hotel he’s staying in. ‘Really, Bea, check it next time he’s around. Those trousers are far too tight for what he’s got going on down there. There should be a name for that. Something-itis.’
Balls-a-titis.
‘There are only four TV channels in this dump, one in a language I don’t even understand. It sounds like they’re clearing their throats after one of your mother’s terrible coq-au-vins. You know, in my wonderful home back in Chicago, I had over two hundred channels.’ Dick-a-titis. Dickhead-a-titis. Ha!
‘Of which none you watched.’
‘But one had a choice not to watch those deplorable house-fixer-upper channels and music channels of naked women dancing around.’
‘I appreciate one going through such an upheaval, Dad. It must be very traumatic for you, a sort-of grown man, while I, at sixteen years old, had to take this huge life adjustment of parents getting divorced and a move from Chicago to London all in my stride.’
‘You got two houses and extra presents, what do you care?’ he grumbles. ‘And it was your idea.’
‘It was my idea to go to ballet school in London, not for your marriage to end!’
‘Oh, ballet school. I thought you said, “Break up, you fool.” My mistake. Think we should move back to Chicago and get back together?’
‘Nah.’ He hears the smile in her voice and knows it’s OK.
‘Hey, you think I was going to stay in Chicago while you’re all the way over this side of the world?’
‘You’re not even in the same country right now,’ she laughs.
‘Ireland is just a work trip. I’ll be back in London in a few days. Honestly, Bea, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be,’ he assures her.
Though a Four Seasons would be nice.
‘I’m thinking of moving in with Peter,’ she says far too casually.
‘So what is it about fart jokes?’ he asks again, ignoring her. ‘I mean what is it about the sound of expelling air that can stop people from being interested in some of the most incredible masterpieces ever created?’
‘I take it you don’t want to talk about me moving in with Peter?’
‘You’re a child. You and Peter can move into the wendy house, which I still have in storage. I’ll set it up in the living room. It’ll be real nice and cosy.’
‘I’m eighteen. Not a child any more. I’ve lived alone away from home for two years now.’
‘One year alone. Your mother left me alone the second year to join you, remember.’
‘You and Mum met at my age.’
‘And we did not live happily ever after. Stop imitating us and write your own fairy tale.’
‘I would, if my overprotective father would stop butting in with his version of how the story should go.’ Bea sighs and steers the conversation back to safer territory. ‘Why are your students laughing at fart jokes, anyway? I thought your seminar was a one-off for postgrads who’d elected to choose your boring subject. Though why anybody would do that, is beyond me. You lecturing me on Peter is boring enough and I love him.’
Love! Ignore it and she’ll forget what she said.
‘It wouldn’t be beyond you, if you’d listen to me when I talk. Along with my postgraduate classes, I was asked to speak to first-year students throughout the year too, an agreement I may live to regret, but no matter. On to my day job and far more pressing matters, I’m planning an exhibition at the Gallery on Dutch painting in the seventeenth century. You should come see it.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Well, maybe my postgrads over the next few months will be more appreciative of my expertise.’
‘You know, your students may have laughed at the fart joke but I bet at least a quarter of them donated blood.’
‘They only did it because they heard they’d get a free KitKat afterward,’ Justin huffs, rooting through the insufficiently filled mini-bar. ‘You’re angry at me for not giving blood?’
‘I think you’re an asshole for standing up that woman.’
‘Don’t use the word “asshole”, Bea. Anyway, who told you that I stood her up?’
‘Uncle Al.’
‘Uncle Al is an asshole. And you know what else, honey? You know what the good doctor said today about donating blood?’ He struggles with opening the film on the top of a Pringles box.
‘What?’ Bea yawns.
‘That the donation is anonymous to the recipient. Hear that? Anonymous. So what’s the point in saving someone’s life if they don’t even know you’re the one who saved them?’
‘Dad!’
‘What? Come on, Bea. Lie to me and tell me you wouldn’t want a bouquet of flowers for saving someone’s life?’
Bea protests but he continues.
‘Or a little basket of those, whaddaya call ’em muffins that you like, coconut—’
