MORNING: "Intensification"
"Something urgent?"
"No." I caught John's eye and realised that he might've grasped that I was frantically putting the phone away when he entered the room. Guilt entered the picture. I forced myself into greater composure. "Something at home. No big deal," I calmed the waters.
A few seconds of hesitation. His eyebrows went down. "Alright." He pulled a chair to sit opposite me. I watched him intently, waiting for the purpose of his visit to be revealed.
He took a break. "Alright. There is no other way to say this. There have been complaints about you."
Dead silence seemed to follow that statement, instantly and temporarily wiping out any memory of the morning rendez-vous and the digital exchanges later. "What? Who?" was all I manged to utter. His countenance was serious enough to suggest this wasn't a minor thing he was bringing up.
"Apparently two students claiming that the content and the manner in which you conduct your lectures denies them, quote unquote, their lived experience."
I would've gone paler on my face. My muscles felt tenser suddenly and I couldn't tell whether this was due to the implications I knew this news would bear for me professionally or because of how angry it was instantly making me.
"Excuse me?" Dead silence again. "Is this a joke?" More silence and attempts at averting looking at me. "What specifically are you talking about?" This was not a question, really, but a counter-attack on my part. "Hold on—Why are you telling me this? You're not my superior."
"The Dean is otherwise engaged at the moment." Ok, so now I had a bullet-proof piece of evidence that this was serious enough.
"I need to know more about these accusations. Who exactly is complaining and what is it about?"
"I don't actually know much about it. I was simply asked to communicate to you—" he hesitated, and it was clear that it brought him no pleasure to do so. "Communicate to you," he went on nonetheless, "that you are required to attend a disciplinary meeting headed by Dean Withers, Dr Cortez and Dr Carruthers tomorrow morning at 9am." He was now looking down at his feet, avoiding eye contact. "You'll receive a formal letter in your pigeonhole by the end of the day."
My mouth went dry and lost the ability to speak for a moment. "I am sorry," he said. "You don't deserve this." However he wished this to come across, it sounded like a death penalty.
He rose without a word and took the steps between the desk and the door. He stopped there and opened his mouth to say something, but visibly changed his mind. I was on my own a few seconds later.
I clenched my fists as the world swirled around me. Rage and confusion reigned supreme. No information, no formal anything, and being informed by a third party nothing to do with anything. Wasn't this just typical of this place! And the idea that I'd be outnumbered 3 to 1 in the meeting on the following day topped it all up.
Some "offended" young mind decided to be "appalled", I was sure, that some part of history of Stalinism, suggesting that others in history before his or her life had suffered more than the life she had, was denying her oppressed life. I had no way of knowing this now, but I was certain some part of the debate was taken in the wrong way by someone, and the university supported them in this. Geez.
I don't know how long I sat there, raging in the empty room, trying to rake my memories for what this could've been, in this mist-like deranged state of mind. It could be 5 minutes or 30 minutes.
"Fuck," I eventually cursed under my breath. It was dawning on me that it would've been one of the group I had just taught who had voiced that "grievance" to the university's authorities. This likely explained the bizarrely good behaviour today during that session. They probably knew already they were about to get their revenge.
I knew the day at work was effectively over. I had no more sessions to run that day and it was quite clear that Mark's dissertation, in the light of this, was not going to get marked. I needed to get out of here, and fast. It was possible to work from home anyhow in such cases, although I certainly did not plan on doing any such thing. It was an unholy whirl of emotions just now and I needed out.
I didn't even collect anything from the room. I didn't pass through the Common Room or any other place. I simply walked out of the door into the street.
* * *
It was a perfectly sunny day, which offered immediate contrast to the bleak nature of the news just received. I walked away from the university buildings, far away to remove any possibility of anyone from there who knew me to speak to me. Walking fast, carried on the raging wave of anxiety, I eventually found an independent café, well-tucked in the shade of a large oak tree, away from the prying eyes of the passers-by.
It was only here, with my cup of cappuccino, that my heart's pounding began to slow down, giving rise to thinking back about Hollie, who quickly and successfully pushed out the anxiety about tomorrow's meeting to the margins of my consciousness.
At first, I was consoled by the mental image of her soft lips and expressive eyes. Then, in a split second, the memory of her last phone message came back. Fervently, I practically ripped the phone out of my pocket.
A long message awaited me there. My heart pounded whilst I was looking at the digital words. Her words took the entire screen and then some more.
Someone interrupted you, Professor? What of mine would you like to kiss?...
[A regular smiley face followed here, taking on a different eroticised meaning. She was taking it further, and fast.]
