The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [21]
“That remark smacks of speciesism,” the chair sniffed with a significant glance around the table.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” Professor Athol asked of Izzy.
Professor Landes beetled his brows in feigned seriousness. “I think we could ask the students and the junior faculty to come up with something better. Something arousing and yet tasteful. Perhaps we could get the Visual Arts Department involved.”
“The real question,” said Corny Chard, who is always ready for silliness, “is whether the students would get course credits.”
Keeping my voice deadpan, I kept up the badinage with, “You mean give courses?”
“Yes. Something like An Introduction to the Theory and Practice of Pornography.”
Izzy demurred. “No, no. Let’s keep it dignified. More like, The Theory and Practice of the Erotic Arts. Then, Advanced Erotic Technique in Film. The History of Erotica. The Erotic Imagination: A Survey Course.”
“But not a degree?”
“Not at first. More like a specialty in graphic arts.”
“Lots of workshops …”
“With hands-on instruction?”
“Absolutely.”
“A graded course or just pass–fail.”
“Lots of passes.”
Chair Brattle bit heavily into the facetiousness. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for either the student body or the junior faculty to get involved in production of pornography.”
Corny shrugged. “It would prepare them for the real world.”
Professor Jackson shook her head. “I take very strong exception to this kind of attitude. Pornography in any form constitutes victimization.”
“Of whom?” Bertha Schanke asked.
“Of those participating in it. Of those who watch and encourage it. Of everyone.”
“Even if they’re consenting adults?”
“I think we should agree that we need to question the whole concept of consent. Consent is a fiction used by the power elites to maintain their control over all of us.”
Professor Athol said, “Well, these two chimpanzees certainly did not consent to have their … intimacy broadcast to the world.”
“They didn’t complain.”
“Do they even know?”
Professor Jackson held up both of her hands. “We don’t know if they knew. Nor do we know what it might have done to their self-esteem. It is always safe to assume suffering.”
I felt like a stiff drink by the time I sat down in the sanctuary of my office, the more so to find Lieutenant Tracy there waiting for me.
“We’ll have to fetch our coffee,” I said, prematurely cheery, you might say. “Doreen won’t be in until later.”
The officer, in a light, well-pressed chino suit and plaid tie, nodded noncommitally. “Let’s go down and get some.” He added, in a tone that took me aback, “We need to talk, Norman.”
I do not shrug very easily, but tried to indicate the moral equivalent thereof. In fact, his demeanor made me quite nervous, and I grew talkative as we wended our way down through the exhibits.
“As you can see, our Greco-Roman Collection is really quite small,” I pointed out. We were on the fifth floor, not far from my office and just under the delicately ribbed, domed skylight that crowns the atrium around which the collections are arranged both on the overhanging balconies and in the adjoining rooms. Most of the time I am soothed and reassured by the precious and beautiful objects on display from far and near, from recent and ancient times. And I remain proud of how we transformed Neanderthal Hall, the ground floor, into the Diorama of Neanderthal Life.
None of which availed me as we went down the marble, open stairway at a businesslike pace. I feared the worst — that he would confront me with what I had not been frank about.
The somewhat stark cafeteria, which is open to staffers and the public, was nearly empty and thus provided us with a privacy for which, under the circumstances, I was grateful.
For hardly had we sat down with our coffees, when the lieutenant launched right into it, saying, “Norman, we have it on good authority that you were in a bar with von Grümh not