The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [177]
Bruce, at least, knew how to shake a man’s hand. “Guert.”
“Bruce.”
“Handsome animal you have there.”
Contango scrambled to his feet, ears perked; he seemed wary of their visitors. He pressed his snout into Melkin’s crotch and growled. Melkin edged backward. “He belongs to Tom and Sandy Bremen,” Affenlight explained.
“Who’ll be leaving us soon,” said Gibbs.
Affenlight nodded. “But the dog may be staying with me. This is something of a trial period.”
Contango growled at Melkin again. Gibbs reached down and stroked the dog between the ears, shushed him expertly. “Handsome animal,” he said again. “What’s his name?”
“Contango.”
“A Brazilian husky?”
“Actually it’s an economic term,” Affenlight explained. “A recent coinage. But the word tango, interestingly enough, isn’t derived from the romance languages, as I also used to think—it’s a Nigerian word, which…”
By the time he reached the end of this little lecture, Affenlight knew that something was afoot. Melkin was too twitchy, Gibbs too calm and somber, Contango too suspicious.
Bruce cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we’ve got a problem, Guert. Or what appears to be a problem, from my vantage, unless you have some way of clarifying it that would render it unproblematic.”
Affenlight’s mind went blank. Bruce’s voice seemed to emanate from everywhere: “It’s no concern of mine what a person does with his personal time. I have no particular prejudices in that regard. But as you know the college does observe a strict and carefully delineated code with regard to student-teacher interactions, and administrators fall under that rubric. Especially when that administrator plays a very public role in terms of the college’s relation to the surrounding community.”
“How’d you find out?”
Bruce looked at him. “That sounds like an admission, Guert. We’re not necessarily asking you to admit anything at this time.”
“Just tell me how.”
Melkin opened the folder he was holding. Affenlight hadn’t noticed the folder before. There’s a folder, he thought. Melkin cleared his throat nervously and began to read: “The subject was first raised by Parent X. Parent X was en route to Westish to attend the baseball doubleheader on May first, and stopped for the night at the Troupe’s Inn on Route 50. On the morning of May first, Parent X saw you, President Affenlight, leaving a room at the aforementioned motel with a student. Parent X subsequently phoned me at Student Affairs to report this incident. The report clearly required follow-up through the proper channels. However, I didn’t want to disseminate any allegations that could damage your reputation and then turn out to be false. So I decided to conduct an informal pre-investigation on my own.”
Melkin produced from the folder a photocopied page from the Troupe’s Inn license-plate log. “Is that your handwriting, President A?” He pointed to the name O. Bulkington beside the Audi’s plate number. Affenlight nodded.
“I thought so.” Beneath Melkin’s somberness you could see he was proud of his literary detective work. “Having confirmed that you were indeed at the motel in question, I spoke to the student proctor of the dorm of the student in question, using as much discretion as possible. She reported having seen you enter the dorm on the afternoon of April thirtieth in what she described as an agitated state.
“A few days later, I personally witnessed the student in question leaving Scull Hall via the private entrance early in the morning. At that point I called Chairperson Gibbs.