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. I 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 ben 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, at wealthier 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 reappears.

 

            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  would have to 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 your leave,  don't worry; 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 P.M. and the Deputy P.M."

            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.