Читать книгу The Professor - Charlotte Stein - Страница 6

He tells me to bring him something new the next time I come. ‘If you have the time,’ he says, but I think he already knows I do. He knew everything else, after all. He knew things I had no idea about myself. I thought I was absolutely fine going on as I did before. Pretending to smile when people told jokes I didn’t find funny. Holding my tongue when I wanted to say something weird. Always sensible of my clothes that are just a bit wrong and my hair that never quite looks like everyone else’s, full of stories I tell myself I don’t want to share, even as they press against the seams of my skin.

But he exposed it for what it is:

A ridiculous sham, created by a coward.

Even after all of that I still try to pull the wool over his eyes. I take him the tamest story I have, full of hints instead of flesh-and-blood descriptions and characters hiding behind high collars. There is nothing graphic or full-bodied about this one – though I somehow convince myself that he will like it anyway. That this one is better, tighter, cleaner.

It’s almost a shock when he lashes me with a sharp look, two minutes into reading. He hasn’t even gotten to page three. There are twenty more to go, but he stops, one eyebrow quirking up at the very outer edges, a certain sort of feigned confusion all over his face.

‘Would you mind explaining what this is?’

‘You said to bring you a story. So I brought you one.’

‘I think you will find that what you have brought me here is a slice of white bread. And saying that, quite frankly, is an insult to bread.’

‘I thought you’d like it more than the other one.’

‘Now you’re just intentionally lying to me.’

‘I’m honestly not. This one just seemed less inappropriate.’

‘I see. And what did you think was inappropriate about the first one?’

‘You know what was inappropriate about the first one.’

‘I am afraid I don’t. Please feel free to elaborate for me.’

The worst part about him saying that is not the words themselves. It’s the gestures that accompany it. The way he sits back in his chair, as though settling in for this imaginary show. One hand poised on the arm as though holding a non-existent marking pen, the other spreading and splaying in a sort of flourish that almost seems familiar now.

I’ve seen him do it before, at least. He does it when he wants a student to make an utter arse of themselves – which I am absolutely not going to do. I take a deep breath and grit my teeth, then just lay it all out for him in as clear and practical terms as possible. No obfuscation. No fluttering. Straightforward and firm, as though I am a different person who understands the word ‘poise’ and the word ‘practical’.

‘All right. All right. I would just really rather not hear you say “penis”. I feel mortified that I even said “penis” in front of you. I can barely call you anything but Professor and you refer to me as Miss Hayridge. Every time we talk it feels like we’re meeting for the first time at the Netherfield ball, which just makes penises seem really, really not OK to discuss.’

I sit back, satisfied that I’ve made my point.

Only he has this other one to raise, that I didn’t even think of.

‘Did you just reference Pride and Prejudice in a conversation about penises?’

‘What? What do you –’

‘Netherfield, from Pride and Prejudice.’

‘It was just the first olde-timey event that came to mind.’ I pause then, suddenly very aware that I have to make this seem like the height of reason, instead of what it is already becoming in my head. We made a pass at him, somehow, my mind whispers frantically, and I am not sure I can call my mind wrong. I can only cover it all over, with another rushed and probably ill-advised comment. ‘I could have used something less romantic like the one from The Way We Live Now, but I think Felix Carbury snogs Marie Melmotte there so that probably seems just as bad.’

‘You believe Carbury’s false overtures to Marie are as bad. That somehow his opportunistic greed and lazy attempts at winning her are on the same romantic level as the greatest love story in the English language.’

I don’t know what flummoxes me more. His astonishingly perfect deadpan or the fact that he admitted something was a great love story. Before today I wouldn’t have thought he knew what love was. I definitely would not have believed he would see it in Austen’s work. He’s supposed to call it ironic. He should talk about it like he did Remains of the Day – though then again those thoughts were just lies.

Who knows what else he makes up on a daily basis?

‘I like the way he woos her, even though it’s all just pretend.’

‘And you honestly tried to argue that duty is more important than passion?’

‘In hindsight that was completely ridiculous of me.’

‘No more ridiculous than thinking I cannot handle a penis,’ he says, and then I have to stop for a second. Aside from the fact that I’m sweating and sort of breathless in a way people only usually get after being swept into someone’s arms, he just said that.

And he said it pointedly, too, in a way that makes me wonder if…

‘Oh. Oh. I had no idea, Professor, I thought –’

‘Lord, I was not admitting my homosexuality, Miss Hayridge. Please refrain from sharing that theory around the canteen – people do that enough as it is.’

‘People share things about you around the canteen?’

‘The latest, I believe, is that I have an insane ex-wife locked in my attic, despite having neither an ex-wife nor indeed an attic.’

‘So you have never been married then.’

Now it’s his turn to look startled.

Only slightly, of course. One side of his mouth twitches, and his eyelashes sort of flicker in a way that could be read as a tiny widening. But the thing is, slight twitches and tiny eyelash flickers are enough, for someone with a granite face.

‘I am not sure what relevance that has.’

‘No relevance at all. I was just curious.’

‘And you think being curious about my dull life will serve you well.’

‘Considering this is the first time I ever dared ask anyone so terrifying such a direct question about anything I’m going to say yes.’

‘You find me terrifying, Miss Hayridge?’ he asks, and I honestly can’t tell.

Is he sincerely wondering, or just messing with me?

His slightly raised right eyebrow suggests the former.

But the strange new glint in his eye suggests something else.

‘You’re seventeen feet tall with a chest that could probably deflect bullets and a voice that might be capable of commanding the winds. You know everything about everything – including things about me that I barely even realised myself. And when you get angry, your anger lies in wait like a cobra, then strikes someone dead before they even know there is any danger. Yes, you are terrifying, Professor. But I should probably also say that no one has ever made me feel more like I’m worth something than you did yesterday, so whether I’m still afraid is certainly up for debate,’ I say, completely breathless by the end and half sure I shouldn’t have said it. It skirts way too close to I find you attractive.

Though the fact that it does only makes his next words more unexpected.

‘Perhaps it would not be if you knew why I have never been married.’

He speaks so calmly, as though referring to the weather.

Instead of the secret mysteries of him that no one can ever know.

‘Is it because you’re secretly a werewolf?’

‘What on earth would make you think such a thing?’

The scars and the bursting fleshiness, I think.

But refrain from saying, to my eternal relief.

‘It was just the first silly guess I could come up with.’

‘So you would rather discuss silly things than reality.’

‘I would rather live in silly things than reality. I bet you would too, if it meant you could admit to me that you were a fantastical creature rather than whatever the actual thing is,’ I say, though don’t expect it to hit. No, Miss Hayridge, I am the very model of practical thought, I imagine, and instead get this long silence. This long silence, coupled with a ton of intense staring. Almost like he’s searching me for something.

Some lie or sense of how I came to such a conclusion.

Because I’m right. I’m so right his voice drops to a husky whisper when he responds.

‘Unfortunately, the only world we have is this one.’

‘Why do you think I like writing stories so much?’

‘Writing stories will not change that fact.’

‘No, but it feels like it does, for just a little while.’

‘Perhaps you are merely avoiding the truth.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘It is if you forget to live in the meantime.’

‘I would willingly sacrifice being friends with people who don’t seem to like me anyway and parties at places I don’t really want to go to for worlds I create myself.’

‘And when you wake up at forty and realise that’s all you have?’

‘Is that what you did, Professor?’

He draws back then. Glances away.

Changes the subject.

Oh, God, he changes the subject.

As though the subject sets him on fire.

‘We are both reasonable adults, are we not?’

‘I think I just about qualify as reasonable.’

‘But you are most definitely an adult, and an intelligent and insightful one.’

‘I don’t feel intelligent and insightful when you say things like that to me.’

‘You think I condescend to you. You think this is mockery.’

‘No. I think flattery of any sort turns my insides to jelly.’

‘I assure you flattery was not my intention. I tell you the truth, nothing more.’

‘That only makes it worse, quite honestly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a kind word to anyone, and certainly not when you really meant it.’

‘My regard is hard won and easily lost, I freely admit.’

‘Am I losing it as we speak, Professor?’

‘I wish you were.’

Something happens after those four words escape out of him. He seems to jerk, as though struck, and for a moment the strangest expression dominates his face. It reminds me of the look people get when they wander into the wrong room by mistake, even though neither of us has moved an inch. And when I go to say something more to him, he turns away. He picks up the pages beside him and begins riffling through them, so briskly and professionally I can honestly believe there was nothing more to it.

Even though his voice when he finally speaks is just a little tight.

‘Before we go any further, I want to make one thing abundantly clear. Nothing I do or say will ever be anything other than the rightful attention a teacher may pay a student, no matter what words we may have occasion to say to one another or discuss. Is that understood?’

‘I never thought otherwise, honestly.’

‘Then from this point on we may proceed with perfect objectivity and professionalism? We may look upon your work as work, and not pay undue attention to the acts therein described?’

‘Yes, of course. I never meant to imply we wouldn’t.’

‘No question of impropriety?’

‘None at all.’

‘And you are capable of conducting yourself in such a manner.’

‘I am,’ I say.

Perhaps in that moment I even believe it. I am calm, as he goes through the rules for this. My heart isn’t hammering. My hands aren’t trembling. Everything he tells me seems to make a lot of sense.

Until he speaks, and then all I can think is:

I was right to not want him to say rude words.

‘Excellent. Now then, perhaps we can begin by examining where you went wrong here: “His cock is a tree root, heavy and thick – too heavy in truth for my tightly closed sex. He has to force his way into me, pushing and twisting until I give, his own slickness the only thing easing the way. Still though, oh, still it sings through me, to have him fill me like this. My body stutters with the pleasure of it before he moves, sweet enough that I could call it a climax. Certainly it undoes me far more expertly than anything I have ever given myself.”’

I take my time responding, in part because I have no real answer for him.

But also because everything he says renders me mute. I go to speak and only air comes out of me. All the words in the world fall down inside my body – though that might be a good thing. The ones that occur do not seem appropriate. They seem to focus a lot on the sound of his voice, rather than the point. I keep replaying the roll of his tongue around the R at the start of ‘root’. The almost slick click of his teeth around the C at the start of ‘cock’. It takes me an absolute age to come up with anything.

And when I finally do it’s rubbish.

‘I have no idea.’

‘No clue at all?’

‘Not even a tiny one.’

‘So it is your honest belief that a woman can come through such rudimentary penetration? No attempt at arousing her, no mention of any previous ministrations that might allow her lover to sink in, softly and slowly and smoothly?’

He gestures with his hand, but I don’t see what the gesture is.

I try to avoid looking directly at it.

Or at him.

Or at anything that ever existed since the dawn of time.

‘Well…it…I…that was just…’

‘On page four you describe the following: “I run my tongue over him slow, slow, savouring the taste. It is too bitter to love yet still I am greedy for it. When he bucks into my mouth I welcome it – that sense of him using my mouth to sate himself.” Yet I see no corresponding scenes depicting her being readied for this.’

‘It just seemed more realistic that way.’

‘If realism was your aim then why have her achieving orgasm over so little? You said yourself that you wished for a new world entirely – so take it. Don’t linger in these half-measures, hampered by the tawdry reality of teenage boys who barely care if a woman is enjoying herself or not. Go the whole way. Show me how you believe she might be made to moan. Give me reasons for her cries of pleasure.’

His voice is bold, suddenly. Too loud and big. It swells to fill the room.

My voice when I answer is faint and faded – as if left too long in the sun.

‘What sort of reasons do you think there should be?’

‘To begin with: her clit is her primary sex organ.’

‘I see, so you want me to…’

‘I would like to see him lick it, at the very least.’

‘You would like that. You would like him to lick it.’

‘Indeed, yes. You spend a good three pages lovingly describing a woman sucking cock. I feel some similar attention to her quim might be warranted.’

I have to take a breath, then. A long, deep breath of air that I wish was fresh. As it is I just get a lungful of his book smell, now heavy with an undercurrent of something else. Something that seems suspiciously like deodorant working overtime to mask the scent of a body glossed with sweat – though there are no real signs of anything of the sort, on the surface. On the contrary: he seems completely composed and unmoved. He sits back in his chair with one hand ever so lightly resting on my work. Brow entirely untroubled; eyes as still yet sharp as ever. He could be talking about his elderly grandmother.

No, no, it’s me who is drenched.

Me who is probably filling the room with the sweet-thick smell of something faintly perfumed. Though really, could he blame me if I have? He said ‘clit’, as casually as others would say ‘cauliflower’. He trimmed it down to something you might grunt during a good hard fuck, and followed it with something that sounded like he might personally want it.

He wants to lick, I think.

Then struggle even harder to come up with a response. He’s waiting, now. Tapping his fingers on those papers impatiently, while I imagine his tongue curling around that very thing. Around my clit, around my quim. God, did he really say ‘quim’?

How am I supposed to cope with him saying ‘quim’?

‘I will bear that in mind.’

‘At the very least show an awareness on the page that it exists. Show me how it feels to have her clit swell at the thought of him taking her.’

‘I could try. I will try.’

‘Give me her fingers sliding through her slippery folds, stroking over herself as he fills her and fucks her – let me see her dissatisfaction with his attempt at making her climax, when she knows she needs more, so much more. She strives for more, on the page. She aches for it.’

‘Yes. Yes. OK, yes,’ I say – too impatiently, I know.

But what else can I do?

He keeps saying things.

Christ, the things he says.

‘She is no longer willing to accept so slight an offering.’

‘No, of course not. No, why would she ever?’

‘She wants to come hard – with as much abandonment as he does.’

‘That seems reasonable to me.’

‘And when she does it…’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell me how her back arches.’

‘Yes, yes, I will.’

‘Tell me how she tightens around him, how her clit seems to burst beneath her fingertips, how her belly clenches as though a great fist has taken hold of it. Tell me all these things and then begin again, with all the ones I cannot possibly know, as a man. For you see, there is your advantage, Miss Hayridge. You may fully articulate what it is to be a woman, exploring what pleases her best. Never overlook that, in service of realism that is really only a reflection of male pleasure and male desire. The true reality is whatever a woman actually feels, and not what men have been erasing for the last thousand years.’

He has said many arousing things throughout this conversation. Most of which left me speechless, or at the very least unable to say more than a few breathless words. But none have the impact of that. It hits me hard, somewhere deep and low down. For the first time I fully acknowledge that I’m not just warm between my legs, or flushed through the cheeks and throat and chest. I am aroused, fully and completely. My pussy is as wet as it’s ever been; my nipples are two hard points trying to press through my bra and shirt and jacket. Every part of me is trembling, to the point where it must be visible.

But if it is he gives no sign.

He gives no sign of anything. He still looks completely calm about all of this. There is no flush in his cheeks. No tremble to his hand. I know there isn’t, because when he abruptly hands me a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover I see how firm and steady his grip is. And his tone when he next speaks is almost offhand.

Like it just occurred to him that we should finish up here.

Rather than it being a necessity, as it currently is to me.

‘Now, for next time I should like you to read some of the sex in this and note down all the ways where it goes completely wrong. Both because I want it to be absolutely clear that even great writers can fail on the details, and because I believe you are perfectly aware of what may be missing from your story – you simply have not had occasion to address it. Does that seem acceptable to you?’

It shouldn’t, considering the state I am now in. I should stop here, I know. Tell him that I have other engagements; explain that I feel I have learned enough now. The chance of me embarrassing myself is getting too close. Who knows what I will do during our next meeting, if the word ‘clit’ puts me so on edge?

Yet when I open my mouth, all that comes out is this:

‘Of course, Professor.’