In Pursuit of Truth

Ricapito

I RACED UP THE STAIRS. IT was important to be on time – something my father had drummed into me from an early age. I cursed the freeway. There had been a wreck, and it had been bumper to bumper for miles. I asked directions for the administrative building. I was pointed towards an edifice that had a tower with a large red ball on top, and In Pursuit of Truth written over the front door. As I passed through the entrance, I heard the carillon playing The Old Wooden Cross.

The building was like something out of the Middle Ages, ivy growing on the walls, with towers and flying buttresses everywhere. Inside everything was woodpaneled. There were pictures on the wall of arrangements of fruit and flowers, hunting scenes, animals of different kinds. Professor Grosso, my mentor at State University, and sponsor, had given me some interview tips: Look around the office. This will give you an idea about the interviewer’s hobbies and interests. When you walk in, don’t drag your feet but walk briskly. Reach out and, while giving him a penetrating look, shake his hand like a man, a real man. Then wait for the invitation to sit down.

Inside an important looking office, I saw a large mahogany desk and, behind it, an elderly lady – dressed in World War II-style, hair bunched neatly up in the back – sat with authority.

Bert Russo. I have an appointment with the President.

She looked down at a large calendar.

Yes, we’ve been expecting you. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. Dr. Smith is in conference. The secretary had pictures around her desk. Framed scenes of young families.

Grandchildren? I asked, still trying to follow Prof. Grosso’s advice.

Yes, aren’t they cute?

They sure are, I said. The kind of kids everybody would like to have. Do they live here in Titusville? Heavens no, she said wistfully. They live upstate, and we don’t get to see them enough to satisfy us. I saw it was a delicate subject. Have you ever been here before?

No, Ma’am, I live near the coast. A real ocean person. Santa Monica.

My husband was in the Navy and, if we never, ever see the sea again, it will be too soon.

Two strikes, I thought. When is this guy going to come out? I’m running out of chit-chat.

Just then, the door opened and out came three Army

ROTC officers, followed by someone I guessed had to be the President. He went back to his office, shutting the door. The secretary looked up over her glasses and said he always waited a bit between appointments because he wanted to be at his best for each person. She added: Everybody is different, and went back to her work.

A few moments later, he re-emerged and reached out for my hand.

William Smith. Glad to meet you.

Getting up quickly I dropped the magazine I was reading and almost tripped over myself as I made my way toward him.

Bert Russo, I said, trying to look him in the eye as per my mentor’s instructions.

I felt that strong hand of the President squeeze mine until I wanted to pull it away.

Did you have any trouble finding the place?

No, sir. I found it all right.

Come on in and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some coffee?

No thanks, I’m fine.

Then I regretted not accepting the coffee. Wasn’t this what Professor Grosso was talking about? Make yourself accessible. Reach out. If he offers you something, take it with grace; otherwise he will think you are a clod. I remembered again to look at him straight in the eye, but I noticed that one of the President’s eyes was slightly skewed. Which one should I look at?

We went into the spacious office. A pad and a pencil were strategically placed across the top of the desk, along with a few books.

May I call you Albert? he said, looking up.

Please call me Bert. That’s what my friends call me. Wonderful. It’s great to reach out to someone and know that we’re already on a personal basis. He laughed lightly. Bert, tell me something about yourself, your background, your education.

The President then sat back in a big leather chair. He could have been a cardinal the way he spread out in the chair.

Well, sir, I was born in New York City, grew up there, went to school there, and then when I graduated from college ...

Please remind me, Bert, where did you do your undergraduate work?

At a small Catholic college. St. Mary’s.

Ah, yes, lots of St. Mary’s out there, he said, chuckling.

I went west to State University for my Master’s and then to the School for Conscious and Unconscious Studies for my doctorate.

Yes, Conscious and Unconscious Studies, the President said. Quite an ambitious program they’ve got there. I once looked over the bulletin and saw courses like ‘Blake and Listening, Touching and Feeling’ and ‘What Was Inside Freud? An Interior Investigation of the Austrian Genius’.

Many courses like that, I said.

You did attend regular classes?

No sir. We met the instructor once at the beginning of the semester and then once at the end. At the first meeting we talked about the course. Then we made a contract for what the student was to do.

What was that?

Because of my interest in literature and psychology, I wanted to get into Freud. How he thought.

Well, how did he think?

Freud was a very complicated man. He usually started with reason, but at some point his inner unconsciousness kicked in, and he had his doubts, his fears and his questions about what he was doing. Sometimes he didn’t even share these thoughts with his wife, who was the person closest to him.

Very interesting, very interesting, the President said, nodding. Bert Russo. Is that French? I once read a fellow, French he was, and he was called Russo.

I wondered what the President’s field of study was. Was he thinking about Jean-Jacques?

No, sir. Italian.

A brief silence.

Had an Italian fellow once at Nebraska State University. Very nice guy, lots of personality. Girls loved him. He chuckled. Of course, he failed my course.

What was the subject?

Medieval history. You would think that being Italian he would have done better. But I guess – and here he gave a Rotarian chuckle – he spent too much time with the girls, ha, ha, ha. He paused. Now, Bert, here’s a question I like to ask, but sometimes people don’t like it. He leaned back in his chair meditatively, rocking back and forth a bit. Then he looked me in the eye and said: Bert, what does Dad do? For a second, I wondered who he was talking about. I didn’t have a dad. It was Papa or Pop. Never Dad. I ask that because I like to know what kind of background each one of my people come from. Their stock, so to speak.

I gave a slight cough.

Dad, I said, pausing, finding it hard to refer to him that way, Dad is a bricklayer.

A bricklayer? Why, I couldn’t think of a better job.

Dad learned his trade in Italy, and then when he came to America he got a job right away, and that is what he does.

A pause fell on the conversation.

Looking at the wall, I asked: Who painted that? Darned if I know, the President said, breaking out into a long guffaw. One of the members of the board gave that to me some years ago, and I knew that I had to put it up somewhere so he could see it, if you know what I mean.

I like hunting scenes. Do you hunt?

I did years ago, when I was growing up in Nebraska. You had to be a hunter or you were thought to be a sissy. Fondled a double-ought shotgun before I could run. Got my first rabbit at three. His face lit up, and he moved his hands as if he had the shotgun in them. Nothing like cradling a shotgun, and then slowly squeezing the trigger and bam, there goes that deer. You must know the feeling?

Not really, I said to myself. Nobody I knew had a shotgun in New York City. Or if they did, they would be members of some criminal gang. I wished Professor Grosso were there to advise me on this.

Yes sir, I think I know what you mean.

Bert, we’ve got a position open, and after seeing your C.V. we thought that you just might be the man for the job.

My legs started to tremble. I wanted that job, any job. I had finished my thesis but there were no jobs. The thought of having a job – money in my pocket – thrilled me, especially after five years of graduate school and downright penury.

I discussed the job and you as a candidate with the Dean – have you met Dean Skouash yet? I shook my head. You’ll get to see him probably after you see me. The Dean has keen insights into character. He thought that some of the courses you had might be what, at this particular moment, the Academy needs. There’s a lot of talk about Existentialism. Now, as I said, I am a Medievalist; we didn’t have that kind of thinking then. An Italian like you should know how St. Thomas Aquinas thought. Isn’t that so? But, times change. He looked at me and held out his arms dramatically. O tempora, o mores! as Aristotle said. Or was it Plato? Well, I am afraid I have been out of contact with that stuff for a while. ‘Existentialism and Freud.’ I can just see that in the catalogue.

Mr. President ...

Call me Billy.

I knew exactly what my mentor would have said. Hell no! Don’t you go presuming with him like that. Thank you, sir.

Bert, we’re going through a bit of a rough time now.

He paused and looked nowhere in particular in the room. Budget-wise I mean. Endowments and contributions are not coming in like they used to. He paused. Used to be a lot easier to visit one of the friends of the college and come back with the money to do great things. I say that because the salary for this job is $10,000. Nine months, of course.

There it went, I thought. No new car, no new hi-fi. My girlfriend Carrie wants to get married, and I don’t have a pot to pee in. And, with that salary, I’m not likely to get one.

Mr. President, I had hoped that the salary could be somewhat higher.

Well, Bert, let’s up it to ten five. How’s that?

Well, not all that much better, but I knew I had no other possibilities except tending bar at the beach or waiting tables.

You know, the President said as he reached over to pick up a full file and started leafing through it. We got all these applications for the job, but we thought that you were the best of the lot.

I had hoped that I could settle into a decent job, give some real thought to marriage, and also do some writing of my own, but there was nothing else. I knew this and I suspected the President knew that nobody was getting jobs now; especially someone who specialized in what Freud was thinking.

I wonder if I could sleep on it?

I have always admired a thoughtful man; it says loads about your character. He paused. But ... Bert, we simply must know...now, or we go on to the next candidate. I want to fill that job as soon as possible. Before you know it the new semester is going to roll around, and I need to have someone at the ready.

Mr. President, you drive a hard bargain. I have been impressed by you and your beautiful campus. It seems like the kind of place where I would like to begin a career. And I stuck out my hand. It’s a deal.

Wonderful, Bert. Welcome aboard. You are precisely the kind of person that I was looking for. You’ll do a great job. Of course, it is subject to administrative approval. He reached over to the phone: Virginia, could you please bring Mr. Russo to the Dean now?

The secretary brought me down the hall to the Dean’s office, which was just like the President’s, except that on the walls were prints and paintings of fishing, rather than hunting.

Once again I waited. Another secretary came out.

The Dean will be with you shortly, she said. Would you want some coffee or tea?

I’m fine, thfank you.

I looked at the prints. In each, there was a picture of a fisherman in hip waders hooking a fish that twisted in anguish and pain. Behind both man and fish there was an Arcadian background of autumnal leaves changing color in a thick grove of trees.

The door opened and a short, rotund man emerged. He exemplified roundness in every part of his body. His head, balding, was a perfect circle, and the rest of his body came cascading down in concentric circles. Even his shoes had a round toe.

Lemuel Skouash. Please come in and make yourself comfortable. He paused and looked up with slight, witty glee. That is, as comfortable anybody can be in a Dean’s office. This was followed by a thick chuckle. Some people call it the Bastille, but we never chopped anybody’s head off. More laughter. Yet!

I thought it best simply to smile.

Mr. Rasso, Keeraho College is a conservative school. Occasionally, we have some – he paused – different people pass through. He made it sound like a hotel. And there may be misunderstandings. He leaned over. We had a tragedy not too long ago. A young professor from Belgium – I won’t mention any names – started out with a Left-Bank philosophy, you know, existentialism. His face soured. Live for the day, drugs, drinking, not to mention the affairs that took place in that building, the International House we call it. Everything against the rules of the College. He nodded slowly. One night a student, a color ... er, a negro girl ... came running out naked in the streets howling that spirits were after her. She had been taking drugs. The kind that makes you paranoid. Finally a campus policeman saw her and bundled her up and brought her to the college infirmary. She still wanted to scale walls and jump out of buildings. He shook his head in disbelief. What I am saying, Mr. Rasso –

Russo.

Russo, yes. Sorry about that. What I’m saying is that we have to be very, very careful about whom we hire to be around impressionable young people. These are unformed minds.

He stopped. I didn’t know how to proceed. My mentor hadn’t told me anything about this possibility. When the silence became oppressive, I said: Too bad about the student who ran out into the street like that.

"Yes, that student had taken an overdose; she died. We now have pending a lawsuit filed by her parents. The Belgian took a powder, and we’re left