36 Arguments for the Existence of God - [51]

“I thought we’d have our lunch in here instead of going to the Faculty Club.”

“That’s fine,” says Cass. “Perfect.”

The whole outer wall of Shimmy’s ground-floor office is glass, looking out on the Plotnik Quad. Shimmy goes to the window and stands quietly, his arms awkwardly behind him, as if manacled in cuffs.

“You saw the situation we have out there?” He casts his eyes at Cass. It’s extraordinary, but their color seems to have changed. They’re no longer those cold marbles of blue, but have muddied into brown and are rimmed with shadows that make them appear bruised. His jaw looks slacker, too, and there seems to be more room in the shoulders of his suit.

Cass nods at Shimmy’s question.

“So what do you think?” Shimmy asks lugubriously.

“I can’t imagine it’s anything to take too seriously.”

“No?”

“I wouldn’t think so. The kids are just having a good time. It’s a beautiful day, and they’re using this as an excuse to play outside.”

“They were playing outside, too, in May of 1970, when they broke down the door of this very building and occupied the president’s office for three weeks. They smoked his Havanas, and then wrote a letter to the Weedham Town Crier claiming that he was a secret Castro supporter.”

“With all due respect, Shimmy, I don’t think today’s protests have attained quite that level of seriousness. This is hardly the Vietnam War that they’re protesting.”

“Larry Summers thought he had tsuris? Believe me, I have bigger tsuris.”

Shimmy lets the venetian blind fall with a clatter, blocking out the sunlight that had been streaming in. He indicates a seat at the table for Cass and then sits down himself. Bunny appears as if by telepathy and soundlessly removes the domes from the serving platters. There’s poached salmon, asparagus, wild rice. The wine is chilled and white and from the Golan Heights. Shimmy indicates that Cass should begin, though he himself just stares gloomily at the salmon on the serving plate.

“It’s a volatile situation. A powder box. A tinder keg. It can get ugly fast.”

“I don’t know, Shimmy. I just walked across the campus, and I didn’t pick up anything ugly. If anything, it’s impressive that the kids are putting the issue into some sort of historical context. You can look at it as a triumph of our educational policies.”

Shimmy’s reaction is baffling. At nineteen, he’d been among the legendary paratroopers who had made their way into the Jordanian-held section of East Jerusalem in 1967 and had fought their way to the Wailing Wall. In 1973, Shimmy had led a battalion of soldiers across the Suez Canal and established a bridgehead that had allowed the Israelis to push on toward Cairo. And in 1976, he had helped plan the daring raid (it was always called “a daring raid”) at Entebbe in Uganda that freed one hundred hostages from a hijacked jetliner that had been on its way to Israel. What were a few frolicking students to a warrior like Shimmy Baumzer?

Still, Cass is feeling increasingly uneasy about Shimmy’s distress. The president’s face seems gaunter, and an elegiac line in his upper lip is emerging. His accent no longer sounds incongruous. Instead, it’s the custom-tailored suit that seems the anomaly.

“Deedee feels strongly about bringing the Greek system to Frankfurter. What can I say? Deedee feels strongly.”

Cass nods. If Shimmy doesn’t know what to say, then he, Cass, certainly doesn’t know what to say either.

“I’m being squeezed. Do you know what I’m saying, my friend? Squeezed between a hard place and a firing squad. I can talk to you like this. You’re an ally.”

Cass nods.

“You know, we have in common a good mutual friend. Mona Ganz.”

Again, Cass nods. The truth is, he and Mona are no longer as close as they used to be. There’s been a cooling off since Lucinda and he have been together. Mona’s attitude toward Lucinda hasn’t softened. It’s one of those mysteries that Cass is content to leave unsolved.

“I wouldn’t say that Mona has ever been indiscreet. Such a mindful friend would always be mindful of the loyalties of friendship. But from the little she’s told me, I think you understand the situation I’ve got here.”

Now, what’s that supposed to mean? Better not to think about Mona’s exact words.

“Do I think, my friend, that Frankfurter needs fraternities and sororities in order to be a real college, like, say, the University of Texas? Not necessarily.”

Shimmy sighs, while raising his two hands, the palms open and upward, and his shoulders rising in a shrug: the eternal gesture of the existential resignation of the Yid.

“To have first-rate faculty, faculty that can hold its own against any in the world, including in snooty Cambridge, Massachusetts, that has been my dream, waking, sleeping, day come, day go, morning, night, and noon. Nobody is going to set up tables and hand out flyers demanding that the administration explain itself if we are trying to make here a first-class faculty, with the Jew in the crown-no, what’s the expression? the jewel in the crown, the internationally celebrated author of The Illusion of the Varieties of Religion