1. Dean O’Flyn
The Dean at Monash was a tall, self-made Irishman, whose parents had left Dublin at about the very time that mine had, out of necessity, migrated from Vienna to Israel. The O’Flyn family was poor and Ted had to pull himself up by his bootstraps. He supported himself right from his teens by working at the docks, got admitted to University and, spurred by the desire to prove his point, finished his law course with distinction. According to the grapevine, he had worked some sixteen hours a day!
Ted had no concept of the limitations of others. He had grown into a powerful, rugged, middle-aged man. Despite his kindly disposition, he sneered at anyone who could not match his own pace. Early in my days at Monash, I realised that I was not up to it. I need my rest and enjoy my hobbies. I also hated the burden of endless administrative duties that Ted, who felt more at ease with me than with the better established Professors, kept heaping on me. I knew that Ted was within his rights as Dean and that he was acting in good faith. I had, actually, promised him support when we had our discussion before the interview for the post. I had, also, to concede that Ted did not spare himself any more than others. He had become a workaholic. But I could not help recalling that things had been much easier in Wellington, where the inadequacy of secretarial facilities had induced us to settle over the telephone matters which, atwealthier Monash, were dealt with by tiresome memorandums. Ted, who was an extremely perceptive and sensitive man, did not take long to realise that I kept yearning after the calmer waters of New Zealand. He was too reticent to ask for the reasons. I, in turn, was too insecure to plead to be released from some of the administrative tasks assumed by me.
2. Alisdair Re-appears
One task which I found particularly unrewarding was the chairmanship of our leave committee. This “body” generated considerable resentment. In a community inclined to view conference leave and sabbaticals as a sign of approbation, such a committee was invariably flooded with applications. Money was limited so that some requests had to be turned down. You never got a letter of thanks from the successful applicants. But you had to swallow the abuse of the ones whose bids had to be rejected. Some of them kept appealing to Ted, who started to make observations suggesting the Committee was not well run.
It was during the hustles concerning this committee, that I had one rather edgy memorandum from Ted, who was about to embark on his own conference leave. He informed me that the problems of our Committee could be alleviated in the future as a distinguished colleague from the United States was coming over to explore the possibility of an exchange scheme between Monash and his institution. He pointed out that, in his absence, he expected me to conduct the negotiations and hoped that I would show our guest due hospitality and would take matters seriously and in the spirit of the communal interest. The guest, incidentally, was one Alisdair Schultz – the representative of the fine Law School at Barnes, Cal.
I looked at the letter in disbelief. Was it possible that Alisdair had really become a somebody? Ted had described him as an “expert on academic exchanges.” Well? To my relief, Ted had enclosed a photocopy of Alisdair’s letter. It appeared familiar. After a careful perusal, I was satisfied that it was an updated version of the letter which he had sent to Wellington a few year earlier on. A visit to the library confirmed that he had remained a law librarian.
I was myself in a foul mood that day and, consequently, my reply to Ted was short and more pointed than necessary. It described my previous experience with Alisdair and my conversation with the Minister. Savouring my revenge, I concluded with a suggestion that, during his forthcoming trip, Ted make a point of visiting Alisdair and that it would be in the interest of both of them to travel together to Disneyland. I added a few suggestions concerning the shows they ought to take in, listing Alice in the Wonderland as priority number one.
Ted’s reaction was explosive. He brushed past my secretary, knocked two books over whilst rushing to my desk and started yelling. It appeared that his secretary – usually a discrete and pleasant girl – called the other typists to her office to have a giggle. I thought that, if we had been of equal size, Ted would have hurled himself at me. As he was a head taller than me, he gave vent to his feelings by means of an impressive deluge of invective. It was clear that the rich vocabulary of the docks had remained fresh in his mind.
When he calmed down, he sank into a Chair and asked for my advice. He had already arranged a meeting between Alisdair and our main contact in the Victorian State government – the Minister of Law. I had to suppress a fit of laughter. It seemed strange that this usually shrewd Irishman had fallen for Alisdair’s confidence trick.
“What did you do that for?” - I wanted to know.
“That Schultz fellow seemed genuine enough!”
I did not quite believe him. Ted was inclined to keep his contacts to himself. During my two years in Monash, he had not effected a single introduction to aid me in my research work. What then had motivated this generous help to a total stranger? It seemed best to wait for a clearer explanation. If you did not push, Ted tended to confide. After brooding for a few minutes, he said with averted eyes. “Also, I wanted a chance for an invitation to Barnes. For a public lecture. I thought he would see the point. I told him I was coming over.”
Obviously, Alisdair had not taken the hint. I thought that, in reality, this must have been due to circumstances rather than to a wish to outmanoeuvre Ted. Alisdair simply lacked the authority and the influence to return a favour.
“What is to be done,” Ted was breathing hard.
“How do I know? In any event, why does it matter?”
Ted kept looking out of the window. It took me a while to work out the cause of his dismay. To the Faculty, Alisdair could do no harm. The Minister was a former colleague, who knew all about academic life. Usually, he would find a mistake like this amusing. Ted, though, blundered at a time at which he considered himself vulnerable. Only a few months had elapsed since an upheaval in his domestic life led some people in town and in the University to ask themselves whether Ted had lost his judgment. He feared that the blunder respecting Alisdair might exacerbate these misgivings.
I knew that Ted was not satisfied with his position in the Faculty. Like myself, he was an ambitious man who had set his sights rather high. But he was also self-conscious and realistic. He knew that the mounting doubts respecting his sense of balance – which he had no means of combating – could harm his chances of succeeding our current Vice-Chancellor who was about to retire. Every additional mistake counted.
Ted was entitled to feel morbid. Usually, I should have felt concerned about his dismay. Despite the minor tensions arising at work, we continued to maintain a friendship that had sprung up when we first met during the job interviews. A few months later, when I arrived in order to take up my post, Ted started confiding in me and often talked to me about his problems. I, in turn, had told him a great deal about my difficult home life and unhappiness. On this personal front, we kept supporting one another. On this occasion, though, I did not feel very sympathetic. Up to a point, I thought that Ted was overreacting. By and large, Melbournians are tolerant individuals, who, in the ultimate, were bound to see the funny side of a minor gaffe of this type. I did not think Ted would come to any real harm as a result of it. There was, however, a further reason for my rather unkind response. By entering into negotiations with Alisdair without advising me, Ted had encroached on my administrative domain. He added insult to injury by sending me an unpleasant memorandum. I could not help feeling that there was some poetic justice in the outcome.
3. Alisdair Visit to Monash
Ted, who left Melbourne a few days later, asked me to take care of Alisdair’s visit. After some deliberations, I decided to ring up the Minister, whom I knew well from his days as Senior Lecturer in the Faculty. As he had maintained his link with the Faculty – as a hot iron for the rainy day in which his party might find itself relegated to the opposition benches – he tried to be understanding. But he could not suppress his Schdenfreude.
“So Ted was keen to go to the States,” he said bluntly; “Wheeling dealing?”
After some wrangling, in which I did my best to defend both the Dean and the Faculty whilst seeking to turn the matter into a joke, the Minister decided to hand Alisdair over, without ceremony, to one of his aides. This took care of the official side. Alisdair was going to be treated as a mild eccentric with apoplexy.
I then made the arrangements for the Faculty lunch. To add spice to the occasion, I decided to invite our redhead virago and to seat Alisdair between her and me. It would be interesting to see Alisdair’s reaction to her sharp tongue. All seemed ready but I had one remaining task. Usually, I familiarise myself with the record of academic visitors before they arrive in my office. The object is to forestall the danger of dropping bricks. In Wellington I had left the task to Ron. Here (in Monash) Alisdair was my responsibility. Also, I was curious to know more about him.
My trouble was rewarded. The librarian’s almanac showed that Alisdair attained many honours and gained a reputation quite above that to be expected of a man in his undistinguished University. He had even been the president of their association for two years. The Law Librarian’s Quarterly revealed that Alisdair had not gained these distinctions by huggery. His short and somewhat curt reviews of new publications were excellent. I was amused to read his assessment of my own recent book. He gave me credit where it was deserved but was equally forthright with his criticism of faults. What surprised me most was that Alisdair wrote in a lucid and concise style. His overbearing behaviour at our encounter in New Zealand could never have been predicted from his approach to academic writings. Did he have a day off in Wellington or was this a case of a split personality? I was soon going to find out. One thing was clear, Alisdair’s review article disclosed that he thought I was still in Wellington. He was going to have a surprise.
Alisdair did give a start when the Dean’s secretary brought him to my office.
“When did you leave Wellington?”
“Some two or three years ago.”
He was wondering whether I had seen his review but, to my delight, refrained from asking. He looked troubled. It seemed fair to tease him.
“Did the Wellington exchange scheme come into life?” I asked.
“Your friends were not interested!”
“Did you follow it up after you saw the Minister?”
He deliberated for some time. Then he explained, with apparent candour, that he had been too busy in recent years to pursue the matter.
“I brought the idea. It was their fault if they did not buy it. What was I to do?”
“You could have asked your Dean to come up with a financially sound scheme.”
“Oh, well!” he sighed with resignation, averting his eyes.
It was becoming clear that once again Alisdair arrived for a philosophical discussion. I thought his Dean knew nothing of his grandiose schemes. Was he simply after a free meal and some entertainment? What could possibly induce an apparently serious scholar to pull a stunt like this?
My red-headed colleague, Valerie, put her head through my door. Soon we marched off to lunch. Alisdair’s expression showed that he was relieved to have some less contrary company.
It did not take Valerie long to discover that Alisdair had spent most of his sabbatical (not exchange leave, if you please) fishing trout in Lake Taupo in the North Island of New Zealand. He then came over to Australia to enjoy some sun and deep-sea fishing at the Great Barrier Reef. He owed it to himself after years of hard work. I noticed that most of our guests looked amused. I alone could testify that Alisdair was no idle boaster.
When the main course was placed before him, Alisdair launched into a discourse on the value of an exchange scheme, such as the one he was proposing that his university arrange with us. His eyes refrained carefully from meeting mine. He was about to conclude replaying the tape which I remembered from Wellington, when Valerie cut in. “So, you know all about exchanges?”
“I hope so will you when ours works out.”
“Uh, I have just come back after a term of exchange with AB,” she mentioned a well-known University in Canada.
“I didn’t know you had exchanges,” Alisdair was peeved.
“We do eventually hear of some good ideas when they become well known, even if we live at the end of the universe,” she explained sweetly.
There were a few suppressed guffaws. Alisdair, who looked forlorn, remained silent for a while. Then, with what appeared a courageous recovery in the circumstances, he reverted to his original discourse, trying to sell us a new exchange with Barnes. But he sounded even more hollow than in Wellington. Eventually, somebody wanted to know all about the financial details. In a desperate attempt to dodge the issue and forgetting his previous Philippi, Alisdair mentioned his forthcoming meeting with the Minister. He wanted to know whether he ought to raise this matter with him.
A few faces turned grim. Australian academics take pride in the autonomy of universities. Government intervention - in any area except the due payment of salaries - is resented. Valerie saved the occasion by turning the subject into a joke.
“Are you seeing a Catholic or a Protestant Minister?” she wanted to know.
Alisdair looked as if he had swallowed a broomstick.
“The Minister of Law of Victoria,” he said without patent assurance.
The party broke up shortly thereafter. Alisdair had made a fool of himself. In Australia all matters of university education and funding are dealt with at Federal level. The State Government had no interest in our budget, expenditure or sabbaticals.
Back in my office Alisdair was belligerent. He was going to tell the Minister that our colleagues had been quite indifferent to his proposals. It was the moment to pounce.
“I am afraid I have bad news. The Minister cannot spare you more than a few minutes. Your interview will be mainly with one of his attaches.”
Alisdair swallowed hard. Despite his healthy tan, he went pale. For a moment, I felt sorry for him. When he recovered he asked for details. His eyes showed that he suspected me of being responsible for this humiliation. After a short exchange of pleasantries, and forgetting to thank me for the lunch, he left. He was going, incidentally, to write to Dean O’Flyn.
Alisdair, though, must have cooled down. His letter to Dean O’Flyn never arrived. From my point of view, his bizarre visit turned out to be beneficial. On his return from overseas, Ted made my life easier by offering a substantial reduction of the administrative burden. I suspect that, having given me the opportunity to turn him into a laughing stock, Ted appreciated my reticence. In the event, the only person at Monash who was favoured – or rather flooded – by Alisdair’s further communications was ginger Valerie. Alisdair tried hard to tempt her to come over to Barnes for “a spot of fishing”. Valerie, whose abrupt mannerism and sharp tongue camouflaged a kindly heart, tried to express her refusal gently so as not to hurt his feelings. Alisdair was undeterred. The poor girl got so fed up with his barrage of letters, that, in sheer desperation, she came to seek my advice. On my part, I failed to see why she denied herself a free trip to California, somehow Alisdair seemed harmless enough.
“But I have told you before I am chronologically monogamous” she said, angrily using one of her notorious punch lines, “and just now I have a good relationship with Jack.”
“But you said chronologically' not chronically’,” I reasoned, trying to repay Alisdair for his involuntary help back in Wellington and in Monash. “Surely, there is nothing wrong with an intermezzo?”
“But I don’t fancy him,” she explained, adding emphatically, “and I’m really fond of Jack, and as always you just don’t listen, I am definitely chronologically monogamous!”
“You mean, monoandrous,” I corrected pedantically for want of something better to say.
“Mono - what?”
“Monoandrous, opposite of polyandrous, the latter describing a woman having several husbands or paramours contemporaneously,” I said, garbling a definition I once read in the Oxford Dictionary.
Valerie burst into peels of laughter. She tried the new phrase out a few times. Then she walked gingerly to the door, turned round and, still laughing, said, “Monoandrous just doesn’t sound right, big shot. I’m still chronologically monogamous; and,” with her hand on the handle, “bulls to you!”
Giving me a lady like smile, she closed the door solemnly and with pointed gentility. I was far too startled to throw an ashtray at her.