‘I wonder, Mr Isaacs, whether I am the right person to speak to Melanie.'
`You are, Professor, you are! As I say, Melanie has such respect for you.'
Respect? You are out of date, Mr Isaacs. Your daughter lost respect for me weeks ago, and with good reason. That is what he ought to say. 'I'll see what I can do,' he says instead. You will not get away with it, he tells himself afterwards. Nor will father Isaacs in faraway George forget this conversation, with its lies and evasions. I'll see what I can do. Why not come clean? I am the worm in the apple, he should have said. How can I help you when I am the very source of your woe?
He telephones the flat and gets cousin Pauline. Melanie is not available, says Pauline in a chilly voice.
'What do you mean, not available?'
‘I mean she doesn't want to speak to you.'
`Tell her', he says, 'it is about her decision to withdraw. Tell her she is being very rash.'
Wednesday's class goes badly, Friday's even worse. Attendance is poor; the only students who come are the tame ones, the passive, the docile. There can be only one explanation. The story must be out. He is in the department office when he hears a voice behind him: 'Where can I find Professor Lurie?'
`Here I am,' he says without thinking.
The man who has spoken is small, thin, stoop-shouldered.
He wears a blue suit too large for him, he smells of cigarette smoke.
`Professor Lurie? We spoke on the telephone. Isaacs.'
`Yes. How do you do. Shall we go to my office?'
`That won't be necessary.' The man pauses, gathers himself, takes a deep breath. 'Professor,' he begins, laying heavy stress on the word, 'you may be very educated and all that, but what you have done is not right.' He pauses, shakes his head. 'It is not right.'
The two secretaries do not pretend to hide their curiosity. There are students in the office too; as the stranger's voice rises they fall silent.
`We put our children in the hands of you people because we think we can trust you. If we can't trust the university, who can we trust? We never thought we were sending our daughter into a nest of vipers. No, Professor Lurie, you may be high and mighty and have all kinds of degrees, but if I was you I'd be very ashamed of myself, so help me God. If I've got hold of the wrong end of the stick, now is your chance to say, but I don't think so, I can see it from your face.'
Now is his chance indeed: let him who would speak, speak. But he stands tongue-tied, the blood thudding in his ears. A viper: how can he deny it?
Иxcuse me,' he whispers, 'I have business to attend to.' Like a thing of wood, he turns and leaves. Into the crowded corridor Isaacs follows him. 'Professor! Professor Lurie!' he calls. 'You can't just run away like that! You have not heard the last of it, I tell you now!'
That is how it begins. Next morning, with surprising dispatch, a memorandum arrives from the office of the Vice-Rector (Student Affairs) notifying him that a complaint has been lodged against him under article 3.1 of the university's Code of Conduct. He is requested to contact the Vice-Rector's office at his earliest convenience.
The notification - which arrives in an envelope marked Confidential - is accompanied by a copy of the code. Article 3 deals with victimization or harassment on grounds of race, ethnic group, religion, gender, sexual preference, or physical disability. Article 3.1 addresses victimization or harassment of students by teachers.
A second document describes the constitution and competences of committees of inquiry. He reads it, his heart hammering unpleasantly. Halfway through, his concentration fails. He gets up, locks the door of his office, and sits with the paper in his hand, trying to imagine what has happened. Melanie would not have taken such a step by herself, he is convinced. She is too innocent for that, too ignorant of her power. He, the little man in the ill-fitting suit, must be behind it, he and cousin Pauline, the plain one, the duenna. They must have talked her into it, worn her down, then in the end marched her to the administration offices.
`We want to lodge a complaint,' they must have said. `Lodge a complaint? What kind of complaint?'
‘It's private.'
`Harassment,' cousin Pauline would have interjected, while Melanie stood by abashed - 'against a professor.'
`Go to room such-and-such.'
In room such-and-such he, Isaacs, would grow bolder. 'We want to lay a complaint against one of your professors.'
`Have you thought it through? Is this really what you want to do?' they would respond, following procedure.
`Yes, we know what we want to do,' he would say, glancing at his daughter, daring her to object. There is a form to fill in. The form is placed before them, and a pen. A hand takes up the pen, a hand he has kissed, a hand he knows intimately. First the name of the plaintiff: MELANIE ISAACS, in careful block letters. Down the column of boxes wavers the hand, searching for the one to tick. There, points the nicotine-stained finger of her father. The hand slows, settles, makes its X, its cross of righteousness: J'accuse. Then a space for the name of the accused. DAVID LURIE, writes the hand: PROFESSOR. Finally, at the foot of the page, the date and her signature: the arabesque of the M, the l with its bold upper loop, the downward gash of the I, the flourish of the final s.
The deed is done. Two names on the page, his and hers, side by side. Two in a bed, lovers no longer but foes.
He calls the Vice-Rector's office and is given a five o'clock appointment, outside regular hours. At five o'clock he is waiting in the corridor. Aram Hakim, sleek and youthful, emerges and ushers him in. There are already two persons in the room: Elaine Winter, chair of his department, and Farodia Rassool from Social Sciences, who chairs the university-wide committee on discrimination. ‘It's late, David, we know why we are here,' says Hakim, 'so let's get to the point. How can we best tackle this business?'
