Julia seemed to be shaking herself awake from a dream. “What?”
“Why did you provoke him like that? He’s looking for a reason to get rid of you!”
She was only now able to grasp the gravity of her predicament. It was as if she’d been another person, spewing venom and anger, without any thought about the audience. And now that she’d vented she felt deflated, like a lonely and empty balloon left after a child’s birthday party. She slowly began packing her things and tried to steel herself for what she knew would be a very, very unpleasant conversation in The Professor’s office.
“I don’t think you should go,” said Paul.
“I don’t want to go.”
“Then don’t. Send him an e-mail. Tell him you’re sick—and you’re sorry.”
Julia thought about that for a moment. It was very, very tempting. But she knew that her only chance at saving her career would be to woman up and take her punishment, and try to piece her personal life together afterward. If that was even possible.
“If I don’t go to his office, he’ll be even angrier. He could kick me out. And I need this class, or I won’t be able to graduate in May.”
“Then I’m going with you. Better yet, I’ll speak with him first.” Paul drew himself up to his full height and flexed his arms.
“No, you need to stay out of this. I’m going to go and apologize and let him yell at me. And when he has his pound of flesh, he’ll let me go.”
“The quality of mercy is not strained,” muttered Paul. “Not that he would know anything about that. What were you fighting about, anyway? Dante didn’t have a mistress called Paulina.”
Julia blinked rapidly. “I found an article about Pia de’ Tolomei. Paulina was one of her nicknames.”
“Pia de’ Tolomei wasn’t one of Dante’s mistresses. There were rumors of mistresses and illegitimate children, so you weren’t completely wrong. But I’m sorry Julia, Emerson is right—no one believes that Pia was Dante’s mistress. No one.”
Julia chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. “But he wouldn’t let me explain. And I just kind of…snapped.”
“You snapped, all right. If it were anyone else, I’d be cheering you on thinking that he got what was coming to him. The uptight prick. But in your case, I knew he’d overreact.” Paul shook his head. “Let me talk to him.”
“You’re writing your dissertation with him, you can’t have him angry with you. If it’s too much, I’ll leave. And I’ll file a harassment complaint.”
Paul gazed down at her with a very worried expression. “I don’t feel right about this. He’s furious.”
“What can he do? He’s the big bad Professor, I’m the little grad student. He has all the power.”
“Power does funny things to people.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Paul stuck his head outside the door of the seminar room in order to check the hallway.
“Emerson is a twisted fuck. He was involved with Professor Singer and that means that he…” Paul stopped suddenly and shook his head.
“That means that he—what?”
“If he has been harassing you, or trying to get you to do things, let me know and I’ll help you. We can file a complaint.”
Julia gazed at him blankly. “There’s nothing sinister going on here. He’s just a crusty Professor who doesn’t like to be contradicted. I’m going to eat humble pie in his office, and hopefully, he won’t make me drop his class.”
“I hope you’re right. He’s always been professional with his students. But with you, things are different.”
Paul walked Julia to The Professor’s office and without warning, knocked on the door.
Professor Emerson opened the door quickly, his eyes still an angry, sparking lapis. “What do you want?” he spat, shooting daggers at Julia.
“Just a minute of your time,” said Paul mildly.
“Not now. Tomorrow.”
“But Professor, I…”
“Tomorrow, Mr. Norris. Don’t push me.”
Paul gave Julia a very worried look and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”
The Professor waited until Paul had disappeared around the corner before stepping aside to let Julia in. He closed the door behind her and walked over to the window.
Abandon hope all ye who enter here…
The Professor’s office was dark, illuminated only by his desk lamp. He’d drawn the blinds and was now leaning as far away from her as possible and rubbing his eyes with his inky fingers.
Julia moved her knapsack in front of her like a shield, clasping it with two hands. When he didn’t speak, she busied herself by glancing around the room. Her eyes alighted on a chair—the very uncomfortable Ikea chair that she sat on back in September during her first ill-fated meeting with The Professor. The chair had been smashed to bits and was lying in small, bent pieces that were scattered across the Persian carpet.