His timing was perfect. When he had shown them the resistance equation and had solved a problem with it, he assigned them twenty similar problems from their textbook, and another chapter—a whoppingly huge assignment—and smiled at them. Then, as if he had it too on cue, the bell rang.
Some of the students seemed to leave almost reluctantly—as if that could be possible. She looked at them, wondering if any of them would ever forget E = V/S as long as he lived. But one of the students, passing near but not noticing her, nudged another and said, jeeringly, “Boy, Kronny really eats that electrical junk up.” It was Joe Banks, a stupid, lazy student, and for an instant she felt she could slap his insolent face. But she remained silent.
And then, when the students were gone, Mr. Kronsteidt came back, smiling and wiping his forehead with a huge purple hankerchief, and sat on the desk top next to her.
For a moment she was embarrassed and did not know what to say. But he grinned at her disarmingly and spoke first. “I’m glad you come to my class, Miss Dodd. An honor. I hope I didn’t bore you too much with the electricity.”
“No.” Suddenly she felt nervous. She glanced away from him, and saw his hands. The fingernails were clean, impeccably. “No. On the contrary, it was…fascinating.” She wondered, somehow, if the fingernails were always clean like that; if it were only something unavoidable that had made them dirty before. “You’re a…remarkable teacher, Mr. Kronsteidt. Remarkable.”
He laughed gently. She looked up at his face for a moment, closely. He wasn’t greasy looking. Only dark. And fat. And his hair was oily—but only because he probably didn’t know better than to grease it down, as Europeans probably never did. Somehow, ridiculously, she thought of Adolf Hitler and his patent leather hair. That kind of thing could be shampooed out. Napoleon had curly hair. So did Caesar. My Lord, she thought, what’s making my mind wander?
She pursed her lips together, for strength, looked at him and said, as precisely as she could, “Mr. Kronsteidt, I think it only fair to tell you that there will be a little meeting downtown, at Superintendent Morton’s office, today at four. To discuss your…pupil relations. I think you should be present.” By the time she had finished, her voice was in control again, and she could look at him squarely.
But he only smiled. “Sure,” he said, “I’ll come.” And then, not pausing between, but softly, gently, “But you must not be so stern, the way you tell me of it. Just a minute ago you were so soft, and confused.” He laughed quietly. “Just a little confused, like a young girl. Very charming.”
She tried to make her voice firm, matter-of-fact. But somehow it hesitated, nervously. “I only came on school business, Mr. Kronsteidt.” She began to get up from her seat.
“My name is Emil,” he said, softly.
She spun to look at him. “I know what your name is, Mr. Kronsteidt.”
“That’s good.” He was smiling gently. “But why must we be so formal, Miss Dodd? And ‘Emil’ is a much nicer name than ‘Kronsteidt,’ don’t you think?”
“I’m not an expert on names.” Why was her voice trembling? Why couldn’t she make this man ashamed of himself, or embarrass him? Where were all her years as a principal, a woman of authority?
“Really?” His voice was so gentle, persuasive, that she seemed unable to make herself leave the room. And there was that sense of strength in it, and of youth and vitality, yet almost hidden by the quiet gentleness. “And I think that ‘Anita’ is a lovely name…for a lovely woman.” He grinned at her. “Or for a woman who is very lovely when she forgets that she is my…boss.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “So lovely.”
His—what was it? Insolence?—gave her courage. She turned towards the door. “Act your age, Mr. Kronsteidt.”
“Emil. It’s Emil, Anita. And I am acting my age, alas. The age of a lonely, middle-aged man who wants a lovely woman to talk to. And such a lovely one you are, and so intelligent. And such fine eyes.”
It was ridiculous. It was weird and frightening. She knew he was thinking of her as a frustrated old biddy, but she could not seem to move. Something in her was fluttering, something going loose and soft. It was childish. Adolescent. But he kept talking and she stood where she was, listening. “You frightened me at first, you know, that day in the faculty room. The way you looked at me. And how grimy, how uncomfortable you made me feel. And you were such a fine woman, so neat, so sure of yourself. But I liked you, because you were intelligent and I could see in your eyes that you could laugh. Could laugh, maybe, even at yourself.” And then, amazingly, he reached forward and took her hand. “I would like to hear you laugh sometime Anita.”
He held her hand only an instant, while she stood transfixed, unable to think or move. And then she jumped back from him as if she had touched an insect. She had thought of Laurie Williams. What kind of man is this?
She turned from him suddenly, her mind a confused whirling motion, and walked quickly from the room, not turning back. She could feel her face burning; and her hand trembled where he had held it.
She hardly noticed the two students, staring at her, entering as she left the room. She walked purposively down the hall, clicking her heels firmly, as if for reassurance, on the linoleum floor. In her dark office, she closed the door, and sat down at her desk, suddenly dizzy. She shook her head to clear it, gritted her teeth together, and began staring at the clock on the wall in front of her. Ten after two.
* * *
—
At four o’clock there were five people in Mr. Morton’s office, all of them sitting in ancient oak chairs. Anita Dodd, Mr. Morton, Laurie Williams, her mother, and Emil Kronsteidt. No one was smiling, not even Kronsteidt.
Mr. Morton, promptly at four, began talking. He started slowly and hesitantly, as long-winded men do, and continued, uninterrupted, until four-thirty. Actually, he said little; but everyone present seemed to follow his vague allusions about “the honor of the profession” and “the opinions of our school board” except Mr. Kronsteidt, whose face seemed to show nothing but polite puzzlement. And, perhaps, Laurie, who had a strangely petulant expression on her overrouged features.
And then, finishing off his speech, with a confidence and forthrightness that it had taken him a half hour to work up to, Mr. Morton looked at Kronsteidt, cleared his throat, and said, “For these reasons, Mr. Kronsteidt, the school system of this county—and Mrs. Williams, feel that you should make an account of yourself.”
Anita watched Kronsteidt’s face, and for the first time she had ever seen it, he seemed to have lost his poise. His face was a mask of bewilderment. He tried a smile, and then said, “How do you mean, Mr. Morton? An account?”
Morton colored slightly. Then he said, “About what you said to Laurie Williams. This morning.”
Kronsteidt stared at him a moment, then at Laurie, without comprehension. Then he said, to Laurie, “But…but what did I say?”
Laurie shifted her eyes from his face and stared at the floor. Her voice was whining, trembling slightly at first. “You made me stay in after class and said things about my…my…underthings. In class you’re always saying crazy things, Mr. Kronsteidt, and then you said all those crazy things to me about things that are…private and all…” Her voice ran out abruptly and she turned her face quickly up to her mother’s. Mrs. Williams looked at her comfortingly and then stared at Kronsteidt, her face now a mask of disgust and hate. “She cried all morning, Mr. Kronsteidt.” And then to Mr. Morton, “Everybody in town knew something like this would happen. Everybody knows how peculiar he is, with his funny way of talking and those little, smart-alecky eyes of his…”
Anita looked at his face. The eyes were certainly not “smart-alecky” now. They seemed very sad, as if he were about to weep. He looked at Mrs. Williams’ face, and then at Morton’s. Morton met his gaze as firmly as Morton could. Then Kronsteidt looked at her, Anita. She turned her eyes away from his. Then, abruptly, he shrugged his shoulders, in a way that seemed resigned and European—the way a tired, middle-aged man from Budapest, Hungary might be expected to shrug his shoulders.
“And you believe, then, that I tried to be…indecent…with this little girl?”
Mrs. Williams cleared her throat. “You tried something with her.”
He smiled, sadly, looking at her—the broad, gray-haired woman with her rouged and powdered daughter now huddled close to her. “And you think that, because she goes all painted and tries to be like a movie person, I, an old lecherous man, was trying to…” Abruptly, he stood up. Then he turned to Mr. Morton. “And you? You think so too?”
Morton shifted his eyes, embarrassedly. “I haven’t heard your…statement, yet, Mr. Kronsteidt. I’m willing to be fair…”
For a moment, Kronsteidt’s eyes blazed. “Oh, sure. That’s why you called all this…” he gestured sweepingly around the room, to the little jury in oaken chairs, “called all this before you could maybe bother to ask me, privately, what I said to this little girl. You look at Emil Kronsteidt and you say to yourself, ‘Now there’s a funny Hungarian fellow and I’m sure he makes indecent remarks to little high school girls’ because he talks funny and he flunks out all his lazy students and he has a funny way of combing his hair and so you say, ‘Well, we got to see that our little girls don’t get mistreated’ so, naturally, you decide to have a little trial. Only you don’t tell Emil Kronsteidt what’s he’s accused of and you already got it figured, all to yourself, what’s he done to all you good people.” He was sweating profusely now, and he pulled out the huge purple handkerchief and mopped his forehead with it. “Well that’s nice. You all had a nice trial, and I’m guilty. I said bad things to Laurie here. Okay, now you give the sentence, and it’s all over.” He looked at Morton, his eyes blazing.
“Well…But, Mr. Kronsteidt.” Morton was beginning to sweat too. “There’s no need to take it that way. Aren’t you being…overexcited…?”
Kronsteidt paused a moment. Then he said, levelly, “Overexcited? Maybe.” He turned his face away. “Only, with just this kind of little trial I lost my brother once.” He wiped the handkerchiefs across his forehead. “Of course I didn’t know what he was accused of either. But in the Hungarian People’s Republic they don’t always waste time with that. They shot him, though. Very efficient.” Suddenly, he turned. “No need to fire me, Mr. Morton. I’ll leave. You been letting me know, for a long time now, I should leave.” He began walking towards the door.
Before she knew it she was out of her seat. “No. Wait…Emil.”
He turned, his eyes wide. She met his look. “Sit down,” she said.
“No use,” he said. “I better go.”
There was a trembling in her voice, but it was sure of itself, and she could feel the ring of authority in it—the authority of more than a high school principal. “Sit down. You’ve made me…ashamed of myself and I want you to stay, at least for ten minutes. Please.”
He looked at her for a moment. “All right.” He sat down.
She looked around her, at the people in the room. Then she looked at Laurie. She knew Laurie Williams well, knew her for a silly-headed, conceited little fraud. A clinger-on, a little, vindictive, brainless thing. “Laurie,” she said, a tight, ringing note in her voice, “Laurie.”
Laurie tried to look at her, but could not. “Yes?”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Miss Dodd.”
Her voice was like steel. “Laurie, what, exactly, did Mr. Kronsteidt say to you this morning?”
Laurie looked nervously at her mother.
“Go ahead, Laurie,” Anita said. “Whatever it is, I think we can stand it. We’ve all been about as thoroughly embarrassed as we can get in here already.”
Laurie said nothing.
Anita looked at Mrs. Williams. “Well, Mrs. Williams, do you think you can make her repeat it?”
Mrs. Williams looked flustered for a moment. “Well…I don’t exactly know if she…should…”
Anita felt her face reddening in anger. “You don’t exactly know? You don’t know? Let me tell you something, Mrs. Williams. Yesterday I didn’t think so, not in the least, but today, just now, I’m beginning to think that this gentleman—this gentleman, Mrs. Williams—whom we have been trying to shame here is one of the finest people I’ve ever been lucky enough to know and work with. And you don’t exactly know if we should hear the evidence against him before we send him away from our school and our town in disgrace.”
She stopped, her head spinning, and looked at Laurie. Laurie was crying. Her make-up was streaking under her tears. For once, she looked her age: fourteen years.
“All right, Laurie. Tell us what he said.”
Laurie sniffed once. Then again. Her voice was a weak, childish whine. “He…He told me I was flirting and…distracting part of his class.” She wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. “He said that a…girl my age shouldn’t be so…forward. That I shouldn’t wear…” she looked at the floor, “…f-falsies.”
Anita stared at her, in disbelief, for what seemed an incredibly long, silent time. Then, suddenly, she laughed. She stood, hands on her hips, and laughed a long while. “Falsies,” she said, laughing, “Falsies. Is that what it was? All of it…?”
Laurie tried to look at her, but failed. “I was never…so shocked in my life.”
Anita stopped laughing, and straightened her face as well as she could. Then she said, “I’ll bet, Laurie.” And then, “Well, do you wear them?”
Laurie looked up at her desperately, silent.
Then Anita looked at Mr. Morton, who was blushing deeply. “Well,” she said. “Maybe Mr. Kronsteidt is abrupt sometimes, but do you think we should call his remarks ‘indecent’?” She glanced briefly at Laurie. “They might be very pertinent—although short on tact.”
Mr. Morton cleared his throat. “Perhaps…perhaps we owe Mr. Kronsteidt…an apology.”
She turned to look at Emil. He was looking at her strangely, but smiling. Then he said, “But I owe Mrs. Williams—and Laurie—my apologies, too. I should be more careful, more considerate. And I must learn more of American ways. So I am sorry.” He smiled at them all, the old, charming, very European Kronsteidt smile…
* * *
—
After the others had left, he seemed to be staring at her, and for a moment some of the awkwardness she had felt that afternoon came back. But then, remembering what had just happened, a flicker of the anger she had felt returned—together with her own shame for what she had thought of him—and she said, not looking at him, “You know why I think we were really all after you? Because for years we’ve all been talking about Education and Learning, so much that when we come against a truly educated, learned man, we can’t recognize him for what he is and we’re afraid of him. I think that’s what it really is.” Her voice was quieter, tired, now. “We were frightened of you, and jealous—snobbish-jealous—because you seemed to know so much, and to love knowing. And teaching.”
His voice was the softest she had ever heard it. “You are too good to say that. I do not deserve it. I was only…strange, to you. And you…” he laughed softly, “I have never seen a woman like you were in here, when you were talking to us. You were…magnificent. And beautiful.”
Suddenly she looked at him and smiled, wryly, but gently. “I’m not beautiful, and you know it, Emil. And neither are you.”
He laughed again, softly. “Ah,” he said, “but don’t say it, please. You are not young,” he smiled, “but beautiful, yes. A fine, lovely woman, yes.”
The thing in her was fluttering again; but she did not fight it this time. “All right,” she said, “I’m beautiful.”
He laughed, and then held his hands, both of them, out to her, his small, delicate, chubby hands. “And lonely? Like Emil Kronsteidt?”
She took his hands, her eyes looking in his, his little, bright, intense eyes—his amused, intelligent, gentle eyes. “Not now,” she said, “not now, Emil.”