Professor Emerson thought with some regret of the Armani trousers he had disposed of after the flight back from Pennsylvania. He couldn’t bear the notion of wearing something that had been soaked in urine, even if it had been cleaned, so he’d just thrown them out. But the money Paulina had spent on those trousers would have paid Miss Mitchell’s rent for an entire month. And then some.
Looking around the small studio, it was both painfully and pathetically clear that she had tried to make it into a home, such as it was. A large print of Henry Holiday’s painting, Dante meets Beatrice at Ponte Santa Trinita, hung to the side of her bed. The Professor imagined her reclining on her pillow, her long, shiny hair cascading around her face, gazing over at Dante before she fell asleep. He dutifully put that thought aside and reflected on how strange it was that they both owned that painting. He peered at it and noticed with surprise that Julia bore a remarkable resemblance to Beatrice—a resemblance that had previously gone unnoticed. The thought twisted in his mind like a corkscrew, but he refused to dwell on it.
He noticed other smaller pictures of various Italian scenes on the peeling walls of the apartment: a drawing of the Duomo in Florence, a sketch of St. Mark’s in Venice, a black and white photograph of the dome of St. Peter’s in Rome. He saw a row of potted herbs gracing the window sill along with a single cutting from a philodendron that she was apparently trying to nurse into a full grown plant. He observed that the curtains were pretty—a sheer lilac that matched the bedspread and its cushions. And her bookshelf boasted many volumes in both English and Italian. The Professor scanned the titles quickly and was but mildly impressed with her amateurish collection. But in short, the studio was old, tiny, in poor repair, and kitchen-less, and Professor Emerson would not have permitted his dog to live in a place like this, had he had one.
Julia reappeared in what looked like an exercise uniform—a black hoodie and yoga pants. She’d knotted and twisted her lovely hair and fastened it near the top of her head with a clip of some sort. Even in such casual garb he noticed that she was very attractive—extremely attractive and dare he say it, sylphlike.
“I have English Breakfast or Lady Grey,” she spoke over her shoulder, descending to her hands and knees in order to snake the plug from the electric kettle back to the outlet that was underneath the dresser.
The Professor regarded her as she kneeled, just as she had in his office, and silently shook his head. She was without arrogance or selfish pride, which he knew was a good thing, but it pained him to see her constantly on her knees, although he couldn’t exactly say why.
“English Breakfast. Why do you live here?”
Julia stood up quickly in response to the sharpness of his tone. She kept her back to him as she located a large, brown teapot and two surprisingly beautiful china teacups with matching saucers.
“This is a quiet street in a nice neighborhood. I don’t have a car, and I needed to be able to walk to school.” She paused as she placed a small silver teaspoon on each of the saucers. “This was one of the nicer apartments I looked at in my price range.” She placed the elegant teacups on the card table without looking at him and returned to the dresser.
“Why didn’t you move into the graduate student residence on Charles Street?”
Julia dropped something. The Professor couldn’t see what it was.
“I was expecting to go to a different university, but it didn’t work out. By the time I decided to come here, the residence was full.”
“And where were you going to go?”
She began to worry her lower lip between her teeth, back and forth.
“Miss Mitchell?”
“Harvard.”
Professor Emerson just about fell off his very uncomfortable chair. “Harvard? What the hell are you doing here?”
Julia smothered a secret smile as if she knew the reason behind his anger. “Toronto is the Harvard of the north.”
“Don’t be coy, Miss Mitchell. I asked you a question.”
“Yes, Professor. And I know that you always expect an answer to your questions.” She arched an eyebrow, and he looked away. “My father couldn’t afford the contribution he was expected to make to my education, so the fellowship they offered me was not enough, and the living expenses were much more in Cambridge than in Toronto. I already have thousands of dollars of student loans from Saint Joseph’s University, so I decided not to add to them. That’s why I’m here.”
She returned to her hands and knees to unplug the now boiling kettle as The Professor shook his head in shock.
“That wasn’t in the file Mrs. Jenkins gave me,” he protested. “You should have said something.”
Julia ignored him and began to measure loose tea into the teapot.
He leaned forward in his chair, gesturing wildly. “This is a terrible place to live—there isn’t even a proper kitchen. What do you eat here?”
She placed the teapot and a small, silver tea strainer on the card table and sat down on the other folding chair. She began to wring her hands.
“I eat lots of vegetables. I can make soup and couscous on the hot plate. Couscous is very nutritious.” Her voice shook a little, but she tried to sound cheerful.