Unshakable Dreams

 

 

UNSHAKABLE DREAMS

 

 

I.    WELLINGTON

 

1.   Alisdair’s Letter 

     My  first meeting with Alisdair Schultz took place during my days at the Victoria University of Wellington.  By then I had spent some ten years in this fair city and consequently considered myself an Honorary New  Zealander.  Alisdair's letter came when I was preparing an important document on behalf of the Professorial  Board.  The Government was seeking to abolish our generous sabbatical leave scheme.  It was thought that a Report in its support, prepared by a professor who had migrated to New Zealand after a successful  career overseas, would sound convincing.  I was expected to say that the leave  scheme had lured me away from thriving Singapore.

            Naturally, the story was more complex than that.  Wellington had offered me a Chair of Law when Singapore, where I had been rapidly promoted from an Assistant Lectureship to a Senior Lectureship, decided quite  understandably that a further advancement could wait for a few years.  I, however, was possessed by the impatience of youth.  Quite apart from this, I felt that a move was dictated by personal circumstances.  Two years after my arrival in this thriving Eastern metropolis I married a local girl from a traditional Chinese background.  When, after the lapse of three years, I had to concede that my wife had remained closer to her family than to myself, I concluded, naively, that the gulf that kept separating us might be bridged if we migrated to a place in which we would have to make a fresh start.  New Zealand  seemed just right.

            So here we were, in windy Wellington, where, after years of  loyal service, I had to come up with the need of making a case in support of an academic interest.   It was a difficult  assignment.  The truth be told, there is little justification for academic leave.   The  argument is that after years of teaching you need a refresher course to save you from boredom and to keep staleness at bay.   But town  planning, primary school teaching and the lot of an accountant are as dull and as demanding as the work in the ivory tower.  Still, my document  in support  of  an  extravagant privilege was making progress.   Even  to  me,  it started to sound convincing.

            Alisdair's letter came like a cold shower. He introduced himself as a Law Professor at Barnes.  An Atlas and a magnifying glass helped me to establish that his college was at a dead spot in nobody's land in California. But he had big ideas.  He said he was going to visit us – no invitation having ever  been extended – in order to discuss an exchange scheme between our two  illustrious schools.  Apparently, his Dean, whose name was as unknown to me  as  Alisdair's own, wanted him to raise the matter.

           There is, of course, nothing wrong with exchange schemes.   If Harvard or Yale had offered to take me on for a few months in exchange for one of their lights, I would have been flattered.  But who would wish to go to a tiny University at the outskirts of the academic universe?

            Naturally, we could listen to Alisdair and say politely that we would let him know.  This would be the diplomatic way.  A sheer "no" would be crass.   The trouble  was that, in the last paragraph of his letter, Alisdair said that he intended to call on the Minister of Education to raise the matter "at an  official  level."   I  could  see  the  Minister rubbing his hands with satisfaction.  He had been kicked out of our University in his youth – having  found some more interesting pastimes than study – and was now in a position to enjoy his  revenge.  He  would simply love to tell us that, despite my convincing Report, he was going to suggest to Cabinet that a set of exchange schemes would be more effective and considerably cheaper than our expensive sabbatical leave programme.

         It seemed best to discuss the matter with the other two senior men in our Faculty - Ron and Jack.  We were a strange triumvirate.  I was the Head of the Private Law Department. Ron, the Head of the Public Law department, specialised in international law.  He was often consulted by the government and occasionally was  sent to attend conferences and conventions on  its  behalf.   After  several encounters with European diplomats, he developed a senatorial manner.  Also, his garrulousness metamorphosed.  Earlier on, as a young assistant lecturer, he had spoken at great length in a manner that had, in the very least, the advantage of bringing complex problems within human grasp.  Now he convoluted the simple facts of every day's life into problems that required a computer treatment.  In addition, his lucidity –  which I thought had been  an admirable asset – was  waning.  Often, you could not tell  whether he was approving or remonstrating.

          Jack - the Dean - was a very different man. After he had finished  his law  course  at our university, he went to the United States.  He soon  decided that North  America was the best place in the world.  His accent became  the  mid-American drawl, his ties became louder and increasingly broader and his taste for contradicting others assumed gargantuan proportions.   If I wanted Jack to say that ours was a good university, I simply ran it down  for ten minutes or so in our Staff Club.  The speech for the defence was sure to follow.  But he was, of course, equally certain to go on the attack if  you uttered a few words of praise.

             Still,  the  three of us ran the Faculty harmoniously.   Whenever we had friction, Jack  and Ron - the two New Zealanders - pretended to themselves that  an Israeli of Austrian origin, like me, was some sort of a savage.  This enabled  them  to  make  allowances. If they quarrelled  -  about once  a fortnight  -  they  generously granted me the privilege of restoring peace.  However, despite Ron’s circumlocutions and Jack’s bark, they had their hearts in the right place.  Indeed, both were aware of my difficult home life and, on many occasions and with  natural New Zealand tact, gave me support when  life appeared too difficult.  I, too, was usually a co-operative  colleague and, despite my eccentricity of persisting in being a foreigner and of speaking English with a pronounced Viennese accent, felt very much at home with both of them.  Between the three of us, we had turned Victoria University’s Law Faculty  into a really  pleasant little place.

             We were now ogling at each other in discomfort.  Jack’s initial  reaction  was predictable:

            "Tell him to piss off!"

            Ron shook his head speechlessly,  took it in my stride.  "I don't have the vocabulary in English."

            "Say  it  in German or Hebrew then" said Jack, who enjoyed  teasing  me about my two foreign languages.

           Ron, finally, intervened. Brushing his thick light hair with his hand, he heaved a mournful sigh, and turned to Jack.  "What's wrong with an exchange scheme?"

            "We don't want to lose our leave."  Jack’s voice became doctrinaire.

          We searched for a suitable formula to fend Alisdair off. North Americans tend to be insensitive to the spirit of a foreign environment.   His meeting with the Minister could do only harm.  Unfortunately, we conceived no plan.   It was difficult to tell an apparently well-meaning colleague from overseas  that he had the plague.

         In  the end, I wrote to Alisdair a warm letter of welcome but took the liberty of suggesting that he might postpone the arrangements for a  meeting with  the  Minister pending his visit to our Faculty.  We were going to  brief him, I said. Alisdair did not swallow the bait.  He sent us another long letter -  with a three page eulogy of exchange schemes - in which he  mentioned  that his interview with the Minister had already been "booked."  It then dawned on me that a North American could not be expected to miss the opportunity of meeting the great.  From remote boyhood, I remembered the American travellers, who visited my father's home in Tel Aviv for business  purposes, and  who  glorified  in making remarks about the pearls of wisdom they had imparted to the Prime Minister, the Chief Rabbi or any lesser luminary who had granted them an audience.

 

2.   Alisdair’s Visit

            We waited for Alisdair with trepidation.  To our surprise, he turned out to be a mildly spoken and patently gentle human being.  He did not attempt to bully us about his idea.  In truth, he steered away from any business during the lunch that we provided for him.

           After lunch, we convened in Jack’s office to discuss Alisdair’s proposals.  Things then took a strange turn. Alisdair repeated the contents of his letter.  He told us all about the importance of academic contacts. Bag after bag of coals was brought to our New Castle.  Only one element was missing.  Alisdair refused to discuss the financial aspects.   As the whole essence of an exchange scheme is the solution of these problems, the meeting started to appear pointless.

            I am an impatient man.  In the end, I threw caution to the wind and turned on Alisdair.  "All this is exciting.  But if you want to take matters further we have to consider the practical side.  For example, who will pay for the travel involved and who will bear the brunt of covering salary differentials?"

             Alisdair was unabashed.  Smiling benevolently, he said with confidence.  "We can settle this later.   This is only a discussion of the principle."

            "We know all about exchange schemes," I said impatiently.  "The question is how to arrange them.  You want to propose one.  What, then, are the terms?"

             Jack smiled approvingly.  My tactlessness suited his own  style.  Ron looked away.  This was not the way in which a  diplomat ought to behave.  Alisdair looked peeved but retained his calm.

            "Perhaps I shall discuss this with your Minister,"  he said.

            Jack tried to explain that our universities were independent and that any scheme would have to be worked out with us.  Despite his mild manner and gentle voice, Alisdair remained adamant.  He was going to act in what  he considered our best interest.  At this stage, Jack lost his temper.

            "We can look after ourselves,"  he said roughly.  "But how about your Dean?   Could we see his proposals. We don't have the time to pursue a scheme that may come to nothing."

            Alisdair looked thunderstruck.  Jack had stepped on his Achilles heel.  I was now convinced that Alisdair was free lancing.  It seemed best to leave well alone.  If the Minister took him seriously, and raised some  embarrassing questions based on his forthcoming encounter with the blither, we had a  line of last retreat.

         Alisdair left somewhat diminished in stature.  We moved to Ron’s room for a cup of tea and a post mortem.  As could be expected, Jack embarked on a tirade.  I was prepared to listen, he had clarified the issues and put Alisdair in his place.  Ron, though, cut him short.  For once, he dropped his magisterial tone and, reverting to his mannerism of days gone by, said:

            "Shit!"

            Jack’s mouth fell agape but, dexterously, he managed to catch the  pipe that  had  dropped from it.  For a minute, he looked bewildered.  The  moment, though, was soon over.  Ron, who was flabbergasted by his own momentary lapse, resumed  his genteel airs.  Soon we joined fronts in an  attempt to find a practical solution.  We searched our befogged brains but came up with a blank.  It was impossible to stop Alisdair's visit to the Minister and only a seer could predict the outcome.  All that was left to us was to wait and see.

 

3.  Investigating Alisdair’s Background 

             Usually, I would have been glad to leave things at that. But Alisdair had puzzled me.  He claimed to be interested in my own area but I had never read a paper emanating from his pen.  My ignorance contrasted with  his familiarity with  my own substantial writings in a narrow area.  It did not make sense.  To satisfy my curiosity, I went to look him up in the bibliographical section of our library.  His name did not appear in the staff list of the Law School at Barnes.  I raised my eyebrows.  I then discovered that he did not have an entry in the American "Who is Who in our Law Schools."  This was even stranger.  Why had this vain little man kept his name out of the directory?

            In the end, I looked up a general biographical  publication.  It threw light on the situation.  Alisdair Schultz was not a law teacher at all.  He was the Law Librarian at Barnes.  Undoubtedly, he was entitled to refer to himself as a Professor.  All American law librarians had the title.  But it seemed most unlikely that his Dean would use him as an emissary.   Law Librarians were considered poor relations of their teaching colleagues.

             I mentioned my discovery to Ron and Jack over morning coffee.  Jack – the staunch egalitarian –  delivered a speech on human rights.  Remembering  his American loyalties, he defended the fellow.  Ron simply grunted.  But he had to admit that my researches had unearthed a weapon against any daydreams imparted by Alisdair to our hostile Minister.

             We  had to wait three months for the Minister's reaction.   It came by way of a strongly worded letter from our Vice Chancellor.   He had lunch with the Minister and was appalled to discover that we had entered into  clandestine negotiations for an exchange scheme and that – without taking the trouble to  consult him – we had avowed a preference for such a scheme over  our  present leave scheme.  It was easy to explain the position to him.  It was less  pleasant to face, at his request, the eagle-eyed Minister of Education.

            Ron and Jack united in conferring the task on me.  Jack’s excuse was plausible.  Although the ruling party had offered him a safe seat, he had recently thrown his lot in with the Labour opposition, from whose back benches he was destined to rise to meteoric heights in years to come.  His appearance would have been a red rag to the Minister's wrath.  Ken's excuse was banal.  He developed laryngitis!

                                      

4.  Meeting the Minister 

             My interview with the Minister was short and to the point.   It appeared that he had not taken to Alisdair.  When his secretary placed the Schultz file in front of him, his dark searching eyes  expressed resentment.  As he went through the file carefully, I studied him.  He was a tall man, who managed his affairs with great agility despite the permanent injury to his right arm, sustained in the Korean War.  To the amazement of  his many friends, he had followed up his distinguished war record by spending some twelve years in running his family's sheep farm in the Wairarappa.  But he was no ordinary farmer.  His lengthy report as the ad hoc Chairman of  a  certain government Committee, written ten years before he became a full time politician, demonstrated that he had settled in the country (away from suburbia) out of choice.

             Eventually, the Minister raised his eyes from the file.  For a few moments he kept seizing me up.  I could read his decision to go directly to the heart of the matter.

            "What really happened?" he wanted to know.  "I take it that Barnes is not Mecca?" he added, with gusto.

            I explained  the  position in simple words, making no secret of our having been fooled into believing that, in the very least, Alisdair was a proper Law Professor rather than a Librarian.  The Minister chuckled.

            "I wondered about his statements.  His assertions conflicted with the views expressed in your Report on Leave."

            He drew the report out of one of the files on his desk and  grinned.  I felt uncomfortable.  This was not rough, it was ridiculous.

            "You really need the leave scheme?!" he asked.

            "We do!" I retorted.

            "We'll see what my colleagues think,"  he said warmly, adding reflectively.  "I thought that Schultz chap was a braggart."

            "That was very perceptive of you, you were not fooled like us.  What made you wise to him?"

            The Minister reflected.  With a New Zealander born and bred he might have maintained his reserve.  With me this was unnecessary.  In the ultimate, I was an outsider.

            "We gave him an excellent lunch.  Best spring lamb from my own farm.  But he left half of it, the beggar. And do you know what he said?  He said American doctors believe lamb is bad for you.  What bullshit.  And he thinks you need an exchange with his blighted law school.  We can look after our own academicians if they need refresher leave."

            I  left the massive stone building with satisfaction.  It was clear that the Minister was going to support our leave scheme.  Alisdair had done us proud.  He deserved a medal for his unintentional service.  But when the Government's favourable decision was published, the laurels went to me.  Everybody praised my Report.  I did not have the heart to reveal the true story.  Late at night, though, I used to blush when I thought about the matter.  It was not altogether flattering that Alisdair's gaffe had been considerably more effective than my elaborate arguments.  All the same, I felt grateful to Alisdair.  Little did I know that he would surface again during my lengthy academic career and that, on  each occasion, his appearance would be of benefit.

 

 5.  Leaving Wellington 

            A few months after Alisdair's visit, I left Wellington for good.   My wife, who had never managed to adjust to New Zealand ways, had been nagging me for years to take her back to Singapore.  This I was not prepared to do.  At that time, I had a phobia of traversing my steps.  Still, it seemed appropriate to seek the counsel of both Jack and Ron.

            Jack’s reaction was plain and, for just one occasion out of his tendency to preach. “Look here, Peter, you ask me to give you an advice based on rational thinking.  Your issue, though, concerns an emotive issue.  You must make up your own mind.  All I can say, we would be sorry to see you go.  Aren’t you happy here?  You do fit in.”

Ron’s reaction was similar.  Just for once he dropped his diplomatic airs and reverted to being the common-sense chap of days long gone.  “Peter,  what you try to do is to sidestep a highly emotional problem by seeking a rational way out.  But can you be sure that Pat would be happier if you take her back to Singapore? Occasionally, you must sort things out by opting for a break and a new start.  You are happy here.  So why leave us?” 

In my heart of hearts, I knew that the two of them were right.  Pat and I had tied the knot because both of us had been lonely.  She would have made a truly good wife to a Chinese businessman.  He would have found her resourceful and reliable and who would have appreciated her loyalty to tradition.  I was not ‘mister right’.  Pat was unable to emphasise with my academic aspirations and intellectual restlessness.  Still, I kept hoping that a move way from Wellington might help her find her feet, or, in the very least, give us a fresh start.

Eventually, I opted for a compromise.  When Monash University in Melbourne advertised a Chair, Pat insisted that I apply for it.  Initially, I was opposed.  Why leave a place where at least one of was a home?  But, in the end, I yielded.  Australia seemed a good place and, also, the salary was higher.  I got the job. 

 

II.      MELBOURNE

 

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.

 

III.         SINGAPORE

1.  Return to Singapore

             My wife - alas - did not like Melbourne any better than Wellington.  She kept castigating me for my having failed to investigate the place properly before I took her there.  The domestic problems, resulting from her  inability to get accustomed to Australian society, kept bringing pressure on me.  Whilst this situation induced me to get engrossed in my individual research work, it also produced a sense of isolation which started to affect my university work and standing in the Faculty.  Eventually, my inability to relax led to genuine disruptions with Ted's successor to the Deanship.  A further change of scenery started to look advisable.  As I was becoming convinced my wife could not find her feet in any place except her hometown, and in close proximity to her large family, there was little room for choice.  The move, she kept nagging me to make, was further dictated by another, rather more positive, consideration.  I was, in reality, approaching retirement, had made my mark in my own field and the University of Singapore, where I had made my start in academic life, was developing a special interest in my main area of work.  The offer made to me, when I sent out feelers, was financially irresistible. After months of indecision, induced by doubts and fears concerning my ability to start afresh once again at this rather late stage in my professional life, we went.

            To my relief, things went well back in the East.  Within three years I developed a consultative practice, which augmented what was, in any event, a handsome salary.  There was only one snag.  In the course of the negotiations I had covered all aspects except my entitlement to leave.  As my contract was an unusual one, it  turned out that under the normal regulations I was not eligible for a sabbatical.  The question became one of gentle manipulations in which my new Dean and I tried to outsmart one another.   On this occasion, however, I  was at a disadvantage.  The Dean was none other than a most admirable and charming colleague from my earlier days in Singapore.  With wit and a twinkle in her eye, she countered every argument and outwitted every clever move of mine.  Left on my own, I would in all probability have given up, and settled for a few stretches of study leave during vacations.   Indeed, I could well understand Mei Ling's approach.  Having secured me excellent employment terms and facilities for work, she felt that my attempt to wrangle out an additional concession was improper.  In the circumstances, it was ungracious to persist.  My wife, though, kept telling me what she thought  of my capacity in a bargain.

            I was getting desperate when, one bright morning, Mei Ling -  who was actually a helpful lady and an excellent Dean - summoned me to the office, with the suggestion that there was a way to solve my problem.  As it was always a pleasure to see her, I came eagerly.

            "Well,"  she  said, after the usual pleasantries, "I think we can solve your  leave problem.  How would you like to go on an exchange to a fine University in California?

            "Berkeley, or Stanford" I asked keenly.

            "Oh, not quite that high up, but how about Barnes?  I just got a letter from the Dean's representative, who is coming over to discuss the subject.  Well?" seeing my expression, she added, somewhat pensively, "What's the matter?  You have heard of Barnes?"

            "That emissary," I said, when I recovered my voice, "his name isn't by any chance Alisdair Schultz?"

            "As I matter of fact, he is the emissary," she said, after glancing quickly at the letter.  "Do you know him? What is so funny?  Why don't you have a look at  his letter?"

            It was the very same letter, except that Alisdair had added a profuse string of what he considered Eastern greetings and compliments.  The word "honourable" was repeated incessantly.

          Mei Ling waited patiently until I was able to control my mirth.  Without any prompting I related my previous experiences with Alisdair, except that in the spirit of masculine solidarity, I suppressed his amorous  advances  to Valerie.

            "He is just batting out on his own, is he?" Mei Ling asked, her flashing eyes made it clear she was not amused.  

            "I am pretty certain!"

            "So, he is after a free meal and some entertainment, a performance to his tune," she said, angry but in control.  "I'll see to it that he gets it.  A good thing I found out in time!"

            She was  relieved that no arrangements had been made for Alisdair's desired interview.  The Minister of Law, a former colleague and her predecessor in the Deanery, was not one to suffer fools lightly.  After a few moments she added, bringing our interview to an end.  "We'll soon get to the bottom of this business.  You better keep this to yourself.  I 'll revert as soon as I have further information."

 

            Leaving her office, I had the feeling that, for once, Alisdair had bitten more than he could chew.  Any doubts on this point were dispelled in about a fortnight, when I received from her secretary a photocopy of a  letter just  received from the Dean of the Barnes Law School.  After the usual polite overtures, in which the Dean thanked her for her communication and gave assured her that, in principle, an exchange could be attractive at  some future time, he came down to business.  He explained that, Alisdair Schultz, to whose letter she had referred, was highly respected for his standing as one of the country's top Law Librarians and that they had  always encouraged him to represent Barnes in  that capacity when he paid visits to other academic institutions.  With patent embarrassment, the Dean added that they had been surprised to hear that on several such occasions that Alisdair, who had a real zest for establishing new contacts, took the initiative of raising the subject of  exchanges with the institutions he visited.  The mere establishment of cordial contacts was, of course, most welcome, but an effective exchange scheme wouldhaveto be considered and approved by the relevant Committee  if and when the Law School was in a financial position to pursue it.  He deeply regretted that this was not the right time.

            At the foot of the letter Mei Ling had scrawled.  "Thanks for warning me off, I think this fixes him, hope you don't mind looking after the fellow when he comes over, and as regards to your leave, don'tworry, we'll arrange something."

            I had to smile to myself but, at the same time, had an awkward feeling.  This was the third occasion on which my path had crossed Alisdair's.  On each I had  done  him  some harm, even if it was only to his ego.  I, in  turn,  had derived a benefit.  I concluded that the score ought to be put right.

 

2.  Alisdair Visits The National University of Singapore

            On this occasion too, Alisdair's eyes widened when the Dean's  secretary beaconed  him to enter my room. For a moment we kept staring and one another.  He had put on weight, looked slightly stooped and his thin  light hair had turned grey.  To my amusement, he had grown a goatee, impressively streaked with salt and pepper. But his blue eyes, though startled and expressing  some resentment, appeared to have retained their lustre.

            Striding towards him, I held out my hand and greeted him as I would an old friend.  He shook hands awkwardly, his eyes still conveying suspicion and a certain unease.

            "Have a seat," I said cordially, but, as I was not certain about the appropriate degree of formality, refrained from addressing him by name.  "Our Dean has asked me to look after you.  She regrets that she is  engaged today;  but I have made some arrangements and hope they will be suitable."

            He kept looking at me fixedly, not knowing what to make out of my speech.  Small beads of sweat were standing on his brow.  To lighten the awkward atmosphere, I went on hurriedly: "I have booked the private function room in the Guild House, and we shall be joined by the University's Chief Librarian, the Law Librarian, the Research Co-ordinator of the Academy of Law, and the Curator of the Books of the Supreme Court Library. In addition, we have the Research Directors of a number of  our leading law firms; most of them are also in charge of libraries."

            He cleared his throat, and, at long last, said:

            "I see ... I suppose ... there is no arrangement with the Minister  of Law?"

            "I am afraid not, although one of his aides, who is in charge of research, is joining us.  But I forgot to mention that today's second guest of honour - I mean in addition to yourself - is Mr Justice C, who supervises the conferences and research programmes of the Academy.  He is one of our Senior Judges and, in terms of protocol, senior to any Minister except the PM and the Deputy PM."

            Alisdair took his time to digest this information.  To my relief his face cleared.

            "That's quite a function, it's very kind of you to have taken the trouble,"  he spoke warmly, but I had the feeling that something was left unsaid.

            "It is a pleasure, actually most of them - including the Judge - know you from your writings in professional journals."

            I mentioned the name of some of the  periodicals in which Alisdair published regularly his book reviews and articles on problems facing law libraries.  I then added quickly: "Incidentally, I read your review of my Modern Banking Law. Thanks."

            "I hope you thought it was fair?" he spoke as a professional, concerned about his objectivity.

            "It was.  Actually,  I thought your observations  about  my style  and approach were extremely helpful."

            He nodded, with satisfaction.  I had the impression he wanted to say something concerning our previous encounters.  But his intention was frustrated by a knock on my door.  Mrs Lim, our Law Librarian, had come to meet him and, after the usual greetings, we walked across the yard to the Guild House.

 

            By any standards, it was a singularly successful function.  Alisdair's writings were well known to all the professional librarians at the table.  His reputation was, I decided, well earned. I had forgotten to mention to him that our Judge, who had once been a part-time member of the Law  School, had published a monograph on local land law.  Alisdair, however, was aware of its  existence and expressed his delight when he was advised that the  young author of days gone bye was the very judge with whom he was conducting a lively conversation. Throughout the entire, relaxed, lunch, our guest was not the vague exchange-scheme-Alisdair but a highly competent and professionally self-assured Professor Schultz, the renowned Law Librarian.

 

            Alisdair retained this impressive image during a short tour of our Library, in which Mrs Lim asked for his advice on some of our problems.  He answered all question with clarity, there was no slack, no prevarication.  To my surprise, he was just as familiar with the confusing Indian and Pakistani sets of law reports as with the materials of North America.

            Only one aspect kept puzzling me. What had induced this highly competent professional librarian, who could expect to be welcomed as a guest of  honour at any Law Library, to have pulled the stunts concerning the exchange schemes? What had made him wish to sail under false colours when his genuine credentials were impeccable?  My perplexity grew when I noticed that, although Alisdair was at ease and in command of the situation, he did not  appear  to savour the red-carpet reception given to him.

 

3.  Alisdair explains

 

            I found no easy overture for raising this subject when I drove  Alisdair back to his hotel. But to my relief he bridged it himself when I  joined  him for a drink in the comfortable lounge.

            "You look somewhat perplexed, Peter", he said, dropping formalities.

            "Well, it occurred to me that we could have had similar functions in Wellington and Monash if you had indicated an interest in meeting our  library and research staff?"

            "You  wonder why I didn't," he paused for a minute, "and instead came  to discuss exchanges."

            "Sort of hiding you light under a bushel," I said, adding untruthfully "I came across your biodata only after your visit to Monash.  You are, obviously, one of America's leading Law Librarians."

            "Well," he said, accepting the compliment unflinchingly, and adding in a matter of fact voice devoid of pomp, "I dare say I stay in Barnes by choice, I have been invited to top schools on the East Coast.  But I like the  fishing, and the free out of doors life."

            Both of us remained silent for a few minutes.  I felt too awkward to voice any further questions.  After all, how do you ask a solid citizen what induced him to act as a humbug.  Alisdair, in turn, was trying to formulate his explanation.  He was, clearly, no fool and comprehended only too well what was on my mind.  Eventually, he raised his head:

            "Look here, you realise that during each visit I was on recreation?" seeing me nod, he added:  "Not on  university service.  I visit universities, officially, as a librarian during term time. When you are on leave, don't  you like to put it all behind you?  You see my point?"

            "Sure," I said quite perplexed, "but I simply don't make professional calls, I'd rather stay at home than attend a function when on leave!"

            He reflected for a moment, as a person does when he seeks to make a difficult point indirectly.  He then said: "But don't you, on occasions, pretend that you are in a sort of different world when you are away. Something perhaps related to a hobby?"

            "Well,  yes," I said, feeling even more bewildered than before.  "But  what has this got to with it?"

            "Come, tell me about it, I'll soon show you.  What is your hobby?"

            "I suppose collecting European porcelain is the closest,"  I said, still far behind.

            "That will do.  How do you get it?"

            "Mainly in auctions when I fly to London or Vienna!"

            "Now, tell me, do you only bid on pieces you expect to get?"

            "Well ...," I started and then saw light.  "Sometimes, but not often, I bid on pieces which are going to go for considerably more than I can afford."

            He looked  at me eagerly, with a plea for understanding, and with a slowly growing twinkle in his eye.  He then asked rhetorically: "And sometimes you go well beyond your means because you know, for sure, that  someone else will raise your bid?"  He stopped for a moment, took in my nod, and added, with conviction.  "You see, you are in dream land, aren't you?  Actually, what do you say to yourself?"

            "Actually," I confessed, shamefacedly, "I pretend, on these occasions, that I'm a wealthy collector from some Eastern country.  As you rightly say, for a moment I sort of assert that I'm not confined to my professional income.  I act as if I were a Japanese businessman or, perhaps, the envoy of some multi-millionaire."

            Alisdair's face broke into a warm, brotherly, smile.  He looked at me approvingly.  Naturally, he realised that I had caught the drift but, all the same, felt it necessary to sum up.  "So  now you get the point. When I call in connection with my exchange schemes, I too am in dream land. I always wanted to be a diplomat, perhaps an Ambassador at Large, but they didn't think I had the right personality for the service.  So, I became a Law Librarian.  My missions," he added with a guffaw, "are your extravagant bids; on my missions, I am his Excellency Alisdair Schultz! I conduct vague discussion on a diplomatic scale!"

            "But  surely,  there is a difference; mine do no harm, you  could have fooled quite a few people and, in Wellington, your visit  may have put a spanner in the wheels of our leave scheme?"

            "Come, come, everything was alright in the end,  perhaps a small complication, and don't pretend your game is harmless.  You and some other enthusiasts can force the price up considerably to the disadvantage of the genuine bidder, you sort of help to create euphoria, I hear that some sales rooms even sponsor such bidding, helps them to get a higher commission."  Stopping for a moment, he added with a touch of religiousness.  "We always  think our own little game is less harmful than the other guy's."

            It was my turn to chuckle.  We had another drink, this time at my expense, and then I was preparing to go. However, just as I was getting  ready to leave, I pointed out to Alisdair that, in a sense, he could have combined the playful with the useful.  If, for instance, he had presented his credentials at Monash coupled with a request to meet some of our politicians, we could have easily arranged to invite the most suitable persons to the function.  This, I pointed out, was what I had done on the present occasion, except that my choice had fallen on a judge.  On such occasions, I added, he would be presented as Professor Schultz but could readily assume ambassadorial airs.  He could, in addition, utilise such functions to further the cause of Law Libraries and law librarians. Initially, Alisdair shrugged his shoulders but, as we walked to the front door, I noticed that he looked rather thoughtful.

 

IV.          A SOUJORN IN HAMBURG 

 

1.  Leave in Hambourg

Another three years passed by since this last, most revealing, encounter with  Alisdair.  During this period I published additional learned articles, won some court cases and was defeated in a number of others.  Also, I lost the remnants of what had once been an acceptable shock of hair.  Although Mei Ling kept her word and  organised a period of study leave, I had to postpone embarking on it as one of my collaborators left the Faculty  in order to pursue a far more lucrative career at the Bar. All, though, ended well.  A famous Institute in Hamburg, which hosted the best comparative law library in Europe, awarded me a prestigious fellowship and, at long last, I departed for four months of a much needed refresher cum study leave.

 

            It was my first lengthy stay in Continental Europe since a sabbatical taken during my period of service in  Wellington.  Although I retained my preference for Austria and Southern Germany, I soon felt at home in Hamburg, sombre town as it is.  I was particularly pleased with the progress made with the project I was pursuing in the Institute.

            In this regard, I was greatly indebted to the constant help given to me by the Chief Librarian.  Löwe, a man in his mid sixties, was one of those devoted and conscientious librarians, who simply love books and who  are prepared to take all the pains necessary to trace unintelligible references in order to unearth obscure publications.  He kept drawing my attention not only to unknown German and French texts but also to rare and little used English monographs, old tracts and textbooks in my field.  I suspect that, in reality, he derived just as much satisfaction out of my poorly concealed embarrassment as from my profuse thanks. We soon started to  have luncheons together in the cafeteria and to converse informally.  In a sense, we were quite at ease with one another as Löwe, who came from a small town in Bavaria and who retained his heavy accent despite his thirty years in Hamburg, had a mannerism and outlook reminiscent of Vienna.  Actually, he even  had some proficiency with the dialect of my family's district.  He, in turn, was rather surprised by my command of the accents of Passau and of the Schwarzwald.

            I came to know Löwe particularly well during a period of  three weeks in which my wife, who had by then developed a dislike for Hamburg, took a trip to the States in order to attend the wedding of one of our  numerous nieces.  Löwe, who I suspect tended to be a loner and who had been a widower for a number of years, was happy to go out occasionally for dinner or to the theatre.  He was, further, not unduly perturbed by some of  my slightly eccentric habits, although, on one occasion, his eyes popped out of his head when I ordered two separate glasses of wine, placing one at the far end of the table with a salute.  On another occasion, he humoured me when I suggested, at the Hamburg carnival known as the Dom, that we take ride on the merry go round.  Naturally, my only motive was nostalgia and the scientific urge to compare the Hamburg wheel with the facility of the famous Viennese amusement park, the Prater.  But I must concede that the bystanders showed natural  mirth at  the sight of the relapse into childhood of two aged gentlemen, me with my sagging shoulders and bold head and Löwe with his huge bulk and pot belly.  Still, in it was all fun.

             It occurred to me from time to time that Löwe was a librarian of the same class and standing as Alisdair Schultz.  But it was only towards the end of my blissful period in Hamburg that Alisdair's name cropped up.  On  this occasion, I called on the Löwe to take my leave, to express my thanks for all his help and to volunteer some assistance in respect of their South East Asian holdings.  As we were talking, my eye fell on a recent issue of a well-known periodical and I noted that its new editor was none other than Alisdair  in person.

            "When did Professor Schultz take over the Editorship?" I wanted to know.

            "Oh, about a year ago; do you know him?"

            "Certainly, an excellent man," I said and then could not resist adding. "He tried to interest us in an exchange."

            Löwe, who had a typical Bavarian sense of humour, grinned knowingly.  "He used to have some odd ideas on the subject, tried it on us too; this is how we came to know him.  But you know, he seems to have had a  change of heart."

            He  paused  for a minute and then, in reply to my inquisitive glance, continued. "I suspect not many  exchanges worked out.  So now he is arranging Conferences or, as he prefers to call them, Conventions.  Last year we had one in Mexico City;  many Law Librarians came, about three hundred, Schultz was the President, the Guest of Honour, incidentally, was the Minister of Culture and Education.  It was a great success, Schultz gave a  polished and, h'm, grand speech."

            The last few words were uttered with a slight touch of irony.  My feeling was one of sheer glee.

            "Are you having another Conference?"

            "Indeed, in this very Institution, in October, all is going smoothly and we have an excellent programme. The only snag is on the ceremonial side."

            Chuckling heartily, he elaborated.  "Schultz insists we invite the Kanzler or, in the very least, the Federal Minister of Education.  But I fear he'll have to settle on the far less distinguished Mayor of Hamburg."

 

            "But the programme in the least is real?!" I said.  "Actually, what has caused him to drop the exchanges and embark on this new ... idea?"

            "I don't know for sure, but, wait, he told me that some eccentric Mendicant Professor of Law, born in Vienna, whom Schultz had originally met in Wellington, put the idea in his head."

            He was about to add something but checked himself with a start, bestowing on me a searching glance. "Any idea who that chap might be?"

            "None whatsoever," I said, trying hard to look puzzled. "I only met this Schultz fellow a couple of times; but that Professor must be quite a guy; almost as remarkable as Alisdair Schultz himself."

            I must have said too much!  A look of recognition or realisation replaced Löwe's startled expression of the previous minute.  Grinning from ear to ear, he nodded his head vigorously.

  

V.             Post Mortem

 

            Back  in Singapore, I have had quite a few occasions to think of this latest development.  Somehow, the slate has been wiped clean.  On three occasions Alisdair had, unwittingly, done me a good turn.  In the end I  repaid my debt to him, even if not quite as innocently.  In some bizarre fashion, our respective careers became intertwined.  I knew my side of the story and was amused by it, although the last laugh was at my expense.  I  often think it would be nice to hear the story as told by Alisdair.  But Löwe, who might  have worked out both tales, is too discrete to disclose to the one party what he gleaned from the other.