Patina and the Fallen Angels- Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO: A GOLDEN PATINA.

It was Monday the first day of March, and it was the first class of the first day of the first semester of Paul's sophomore year at university. For reasons unknown to him, a roll call was carried out in this class but in no other.

After about forty students had acknowledged their called names, the professor asked if there was anyone else who's name had not been called. Only one person was thus affected, so only one hand was raised.

That person was sitting a little to the left of the center of the room--Paul was sitting in the back right corner of the room next to the doorway.

From a distance of twenty feet he felt sure the hand belonged to a female, but, because several students were obstructing his direct line of sight, he was unable to see anything more of her.

His idle curiosity prompted him to attempt to remedy this by raising himself up in his seat almost three inches, from which point of vantage he was then able to make out an abundance of blond hair.

"Patina Van Maanen," said a dulcet female voice, "Maanen with two A's."

Paul noticed several heads turn in the direction of the voice, and smiles of amusement and giggles too. They were covert, surreptitious little giggles.

It wasn't the two A's that inspired this ambient curiosity and amusement--it was Patina's accent. She was an American, and being the only foreigner amidst a group of Aussies, her accent stood out as being very different and even strange. This was exacerbated by the fact that American accents are not nearly so strong on the movies and TV as they are when spoken in person.

"Van Maanen?" thought Paul. "That's a Dutch name and it means: 'from the moons', moons plural, how strange."

When the class was over, Paul decided to remain seated until Patina exited the room. His proximity to the doorway would allow him to observe her at a distance of only two or three-feet, and this would enable him to make a positive identification of her--he wanted to know exactly who this American-Dutch girl was.

As the students rose from their seats and began to disperse, he was able to see the blond-haired figure previously obscured. He kept his eyes on her until she exited the room, so as to exclude the possibility of later confusing her with someone else.

That was made easier by her clothes, which were somewhat of a Hippie style and distinctively unusual by the Australian standards of that time. She was wearing blue bell-bottom jeans that were spotlessly clean and neatly pressed, and embroidered with ribbon on all the seams, like a Hippie of means set apart from the rest.

Immediately prior to making her exit, she looked directly at him. Their eyes met and locked together for just a brief moment. The chance of this happening was great indeed because Paul was staring fixedly at her; and her gaze, which was moving about at random, was sooner or later almost certain to turn in his direction. Paul felt as though an intangible kind of communication had taken place between them.

He was unable to say for certain whether she was beautiful or just pretty; there was something nondescript about her appearance, which made such an assessment difficult. It troubled him vaguely that this should be the case, but he had never laid eyes upon her before, so how could it be otherwise.

Just the same, her accent, her clothes and her natural good looks, had made an instant and enormous impression upon Paul--No, that would be understating the matter. He was actually quite obsessed by it all. Her accent almost addled his brain. He tried to imitate her drawn-out drawl, all the way home in the train.

During his freshman year, Paul had acquired the habit of staying at school until 6:00 p.m.; he did this, whenever possible, to avoid the overcrowding of the peak-hour rush. On this particular evening, his train carriage was almost empty, and this allowed him to talk to himself in a soft voice without attracting attention:

"Pattteeeeeennnna Van Maaaaaaaaanen." he said, stretching the vowels to the utmost limit. "Maa aaa aaa aaaaaaannenn." he giggled with tickled excitement. "Maaa aaa aaaa nen with twoooo aaaaayyyysss." he giggled again all engrossed in puerile amusement.

He was seated and pumping his legs up and down like pistons at high speed while he drummed his fists against his thighs with a synchronized beat. He was possessed of a manic, exhilarated sense of excitement.

"She isn't all that terrific!" he said, softly, but in a tone of surpassing smugness. "She isn't all that terrific!" he reiterated. "On the contrary, there is something faintly ridiculous about her."

Precisely what that was, he couldn't say for certain. He simply felt a vague yet intense subjective sense of certainty that there was something ridiculous about the girl. This was hardly a fair judgement. Her accent was a novelty, but it was northern, educated, middle class, and in no way ridiculous.

Paul thought about her all night. He tried to picture her in his mind, but the glimpse of an impression he had gained of her was by now far too attenuated, far too vague and nebulous to allow him to mentally reconstruct her precise image and appearance. Was she really beautiful or not? He was simply unable to say.

Wednesday saw a social get-together take place in the animal behavior class in which Paul and Patina were both enrolled. The class finished just before lunch, so the teaching staff took advantage of the opportunity this afforded by having the students fricassee and eat the octopuses immediately after dissecting them in their first class of the semester. This would also allow students and staff to get to know one another. The octopuses were small and failed to provide an ample lunch, but it was more or less expected everyone should attend and not leave until the function was over. The octopuses amounted to little more than a snack and were quickly devoured. This left lots of time for socializing.

Patina, however, appeared to have other ideas. She took it upon herself to do the dishes on behalf of the entire class. She opened the cupboard beneath the sink and found everything she would need. There was detergent, a mop, a sponge, and an apron, which she put on. She filled the sink with hot water and rolled her shirtsleeves up.

She gave the impression of having both initiative and resourcefulness in getting all of this organized, and this suggested the possibility of her being an old hand at this sort of thing.

She gave the impression also of having an unusual amount of altruism in her make up, and the extent of this altruism suggested, to a cynic like Paul at least, the more than faint possibility of an ulterior motive.

In the meantime, Paul had located a vacant, comfortable and very special seat. It was a ringside seat. She, the object of his intense curiosity, was standing only ten feet away and three feet to the left of his center of vision.

Thus strategically placed, he could hold her in his near-peripheral gaze at all times, train his direct gaze upon her at random intervals, and no one would be any the wiser: no one would notice the exaggerated and possibly strange interest he was showing her, or even notice he was staring at her at all.

The room was a little too small for the number of people in it, so occasionally someone would bump into or rub shoulders with Patina. They would then also say a few words to her, presumably by way of apology. This, in turn, would elicit a few words by way of reply from her and a bout of intense smiling, which appeared to stretch her face to the veritable limit of elasticity.

The effort required seemed to involve a discernible degree of discomfort, and she looked as if her very awkwardness served as a secondary source of discomfort: that she detested being awkward to such a degree that it produced a strain in her.

"I've got her number," thought Paul, "she's doing the dishes to escape the far more tedious chore of socializing. If she’s not an introvert then I’m Nebuchadnezar. What a scaredy cat!" He felt superior to her. He even momentarily experienced a smug superciliousness bordering on contempt.

There was something vaguely indecent about the manner in which he was observing her: It was so carefully planned and calculated, he was unlikely to be noticed, he scrutinized her for at least half an hour, and he ogled her with the all-absorbed bemusement of a voyeur.

On Thursday, Dr. Alice Berkhart arranged her students in card-game groups of four. Paul was thrilled to find himself seated face to face with Patina. To his left and right sat two self-absorbed young men. Their gaze was directed mainly downward. They were thumbing through a number of psychological tests. They said little, and what they did say was confined mostly to distracted mumbling.

Paul looked at Patina in awe. She reminded him of daffodils. Her hair and skin had a light golden sheen. Even though he felt subdued by a self-conscious timidity, he could not help but stare at her, and in doing so he noticed her head turn toward each person at the table.

He felt she was trying to catch someone's attention in order to initiate a conversation, which might break the ice. The two other guys were too preoccupied to even notice her attempting to do this but she found an attentive listener in Paul.

"The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory." she said, smiling pleasantly and holding Paul's direct gaze. "I guess that's an abbreviation of the Minneapolis Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory." she smiled and giggled. Paul smiled too but in a nervously restrained fashion. "I'm a native of Minnesota," she said, still smiling, "and that can sometimes be an advantage."

Her voice was dulcet, her accent cultured. Paul sat goggle-eyed attending scrupulously to every word she said but could not think of anything to say by way of reply to help kindle the conversation. He felt the inclination to gulp nervously.

"Say something, stupid." said his critical inner voice, but he was speechless. It pained him that she had made the effort to initiate a conversation and now he would mess everything up by not saying a single word to her by way of reply.

The pregnant pause was growing in both size and significance until, in a near sweat, he finally blurted out: "Minneapolis, St Paul, Duluth, St Cloud."

Paul was a student of American geography. Well, more exactly, he watched American movies all the time, and, whenever a place, town or city was mentioned, he would look it up on the map. He knew all of the states, probably all of the cities with a population of half a million or more, and some of the smaller cities as well.

Patina raised her eyebrows in a gesture of both surprise and approval. "You know a lot about the States!" she said. "Before I came to Australia I had only ever heard of Australia and Sydney. I had never even heard of the state of New South Wales or any other place, but it just amazes me how much Australians know about America."

Paul now felt certain Patina was a gregarious and self-confident extrovert, and he felt inferior to her on that basis. He was beset by the nervous constraint of introversion, and an awkwardness, which rendered him hopelessly ineffectual in any kind of social situation. It was his wretched lot in life to be an introvert.

She, by contrast, now impressed him as being relaxed, uninhibited and a skilful conversationalist. His awkwardness had prevented him from uttering as much as a simple sentence. But he could think of nothing further to say, could not keep up his end of the conversation but expected her to carry it almost entirely on her own.

He now felt convinced she was the college cheer leader, the all-American girl next door; whereas he was lacking in all of the finer social graces.

He felt inferior to her also on a deeper level, because it now appeared he was more of a scaredy cat than she was, and this feeling was doubly reinforced by the self-contempt he felt at having blundered so badly in his assessment of her introversion, which had been so carefully considered. Was it projection? Was it wishful thinking? He was so far off the mark it wasn't funny. He felt the error was more likely to be a symptom of insanity than a mere miscalculation.

Paul hated making mistakes. He would lash out at himself for making them, and found them extremely difficult to laugh off.

"Say something stupid, stupid." said his critical inner voice.

"Sydney," she continued, "is such a huge city. If you drive through from one end to the other and continue down to Wollongong, it seems to never end. It must be nearly ten times the size of Minneapolis-St Paul."

Her face was noble in Paul's estimate and it had a slight roundness to it, with a small chin and a small nose. Her eyes were blue. Her arms had a light golden tan and so did her hands, which were very feminine and pretty.

"How do you come to know so much about America?" she asked.

"We get all the American movies and TV here," he replied, feeling much relieved that her question had enabled him to finally enter the conversation. "I've been watching American TV programs since I was a kid. I used to watch Disneyland and the Mickey Mouse Club; I used to watch the serials like Spin and Marty, Corky and The White Shadow--"

Patina listened with apparent total attentiveness to every word Paul uttered, and she smiled effusively on hearing the names of programs she had seen herself many years before.

"--Disneyland had four facets: Adventure Land, Frontier Land, Fantasyland and Tomorrow Land. I used to devour them all." He was coming out of himself quite well now. "We have all the American music here too," he added . . . "What did missa sip through her pretty lips?"

"She sipped a minna soda!" said Patina, by way of reply. "I remember that song. It was sung by Dean Martin, wasn't it."

Paul was enormously impressed with Patina. He felt she was an eloquent listener as well as an eloquent speaker, and this, to him, was a personal characteristic of singular importance. Her undivided attention appeared to be focussed upon his every word, and this contrasted so markedly with his general experience of people--that they were not likely to listen to him but were more inclined to talk over the top of him or just ignore him.

But Patina wasn't like that. She seemed so different in that and other respects too. Her manners were singularly refined--more than that, he felt she was a virtual caricature of politeness and congeniality--more than that, he felt she was one of those very superior, all-American rich girls; the type you see on movies and TV; the perfect all-American rich girl next door. He thought her a surpassing sensation. She was exactly the type to have fun, fun, fun till her Daddy takes the T-bird away.

They didn't have T-birds back in Tattoo Town, but many families did, in fact, own three cars, and could therefore be categorized as three-car families. It's just that the cars were none too nice. One might have no wheels and would be sitting up on bricks in the driveway and dripping oil everywhere. Another would often be sitting on the front lawn with grass three feet high growing through it. A third might be clunking but still running after a fashion, but not registered let alone insured.

And the cars were not the only messy things in a neighborhood beset by endemic alcoholism: Take the clothesline at Ian-the-Ferret's place for example.

Mrs. Ferret was indifferent about clothes falling off the line. Once they were lying in the dirt, she figured they were already dirty, so there was no point in picking them up. They just stayed there and underwent a gradual process of weathering. The rain would spatter dirt all around the edges of each garment, and this process would continue in gradual increments with each subsequent downpour until the clothes became buried deeper and deeper under the dirt. Children's toys suffered a similar fate.

Children’s bedrooms would stink of pungent urine. Kids will wet the bed, of course, but alcoholic indifference aggravates this problem a hundred times over.

Mr. Ferret was a graduate of the alcoholic school of carpentry, where he had received particular instruction in the use of four and five inch nails. These handy and versatile fastening devices can be used for a hundred-and-one projects around the home--from hanging a picture to fixing a sheet of plywood over a broken window.

Mr. Ferret was a foreman, who earned a better wage than Paul’s father, the erstwhile Judge--who was now merely a paint mixer and a newcomer who was obliged to start again at the bottom rung of the economic ladder. But the Judge was nevertheless better off, because he worked the night shift and overtime, and he didn’t drink or gamble.

Alcoholism was endemic to Tattoo Town but it wasn’t the worst thing there by any means, nor was that the obtrusive crudeness of everything in general. What Paul hated most was the threat of violence.

One day when he was about ten, Paul and his big brother, John, who was fourteen at the time, were walking down the far end of the next street down from to theirs. On passing the Badkin residence, Tony Badkin, for no apparent reason, approached Paul and threatened to break a milk bottle over his head. Tony was about twelve, was bigger than Paul but smaller than John.

"You try it and I'll punch your head in!" said Paul's big brother.

Tony ran to his mother.

"Ma, this kid is gonna bash me up!"

"I'll PUT A BOOT UP HIS FUCKEN ARSE!" screamed Mrs. Badkin. Her voice was extraordinarily powerful. She might well have become an opera singer had circumstances been different, had she not been lacking in couthness, had she not been so rough around the edges, had she not been as rough as guts, had she not been as rough as the rough end of a pineapple.

Paul contrasted the crude vulgarity of Tattoo Town with the colorful portraits of upper-middle-class California he had seen so often on TV. The influence this had upon his perception of the world was enormous.

He saw Patina in another of his classes on Friday. This meant he was enrolled in five courses with her altogether--a coincidence he perceived as being extraordinary and a very favorable sign. He didn’t, however, get an opportunity to speak to her that day.

Over the weekend, Paul resolved to approach Patina at his next opportunity. He felt she was certain to be snapped up soon if he didn't make a move on her fast. But he had never approached such an attractive young lady before, and if he could do it now it would be a first; but he sensed there was a kindness in her character that would set him at ease rather than try deliberately to poke and prod his awkward sensitivity.

Paul entered his Monday morning class in a most determined mood. He would sit next to Patina and talk to her no matter what. For him this was like a plunge into a fearful unknown. If she didn't respond to him, his words would then quickly dry up and he would be left with an embarrassment, which was downright physically painful to him.

He had come early to class so he might approach her immediately upon her arrival, and, hopefully, before anyone else could get the chance. Upon entering the classroom, Paul noticed there were very few people as yet in attendance but he saw Patina already seated at the back of the room by herself.

He walked quickly toward her and sat down beside her. He was very nervous and dubious of the possible outcome.

"Hi!" he said, trying to sound, and appear, bright and cheerful.

She turned toward him smiling effusively and returned his greeting.

"How are you finding the course?" he asked.

"It's very interesting," she said, with her head twisted round to face Paul directly, "but I wonder just how necessary all of this animal experimentation is?"

"We fatten them, we eat them, we make leather goods out of them, we view them as commodities; when we ought to be vegetarians." said Paul, sympathetically.

Her face lit up with a beaming smile, which suggested emphatic agreement and approval.

"This is your second year but I didn't see you here last year?" he asked changing the subject.

"No, I did my freshman year at the University of Minnesota."

"Well, isn't that great that you can just transfer to a university in another country without a whole lot of fuss and bother and red tape."

"Well, actually," she said, beginning a new sentence but then pausing a moment. She drew her head down into her shoulders in an enacted cringing fashion, and she had a cheesy, Cheshire grin on her face which stretched from ear to ear. Her facial expression and cringing posture were feigning the anticipation of blows, or some other dire form of disapproval, which might result from her daring to disagree with Paul.

"Well, actually," she continued, "it isn't that straight forward, because I only get half credit for my freshman year, which means I'll have to complete an extra semester to get my degree. Then there's another problem in that our academic years are out of phase. We have our end of year break roughly in June, July and August whereas in Australia it's December, January and February; so after my three-month vacation, I had to wait another six months before I could resume my studies over here. So after a year of study, I'm ready to start off again from scratch, from square one . . . do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars."

"That's absolutely terrible . . . Worse than that, it's a violation of human rights; worse than that, it's nothing less than racial discrimination--seeing that you're a member of the American race."

Paul was almost kicking himself for having said something so unbelievably stupid, but was quickly relieved to see she was all smiles and even laughing as if he was some kind of brilliant comedian.

"Oh what lovely, beautiful teeth you have my dear," he thought, "and aren't you just as cute as hell!"

By this time Dr. Alice Berkhart had arrived, so their psychology class was ready to begin. She wanted to hand back questionnaires the class had filled out the previous Monday, and she wanted to hand them back one by one in person. This procedure would enable her to attach names to faces--supposedly, and would allow her to get to know the students.

Paul felt a little uneasy about this because some of the questions had been quite personal. While completing the questionnaire, he had no idea he would even be asked to put his name on it. But things had now gone even a step beyond that, and he would soon find himself face to face with his 'father confessor'.

The questionnaire consisted of a long list of personal epithets. Most of these were innocuous and even childishly self-congratulatory: terms like 'kind', 'considerate', 'friendly', 'helpful', 'generous'--things no one would balk at admitting to whether they were true and accurate or not. There were actually only three words with a significant emotive content. These were 'proud', 'ambitious' and 'inferior.'

Paul was consciously aware that all three attributes applied to him; therefore, not admitting to them would be tantamount to telling a lie, so he bit the bullet and ticked them.

But he thought this might now be his time of reckoning. As a consequence, he was growing increasingly nervous in anticipation of Alice's prying scrutiny, and his nervous discomfort finally reached a maximum, at which point he finally said to himself: "To hell with it, who cares!" And, with a little willpower applied, he was able to worry no more about it.

The students gathered around Dr. Alice and approached her as their names were called. By the time she called Paul, he just happened by coincidence to be standing right next to her. He and Alice were almost rubbing shoulders.

"Yes!" he said, in acknowledgment, and Dr. Alice was struck by a sudden panic. She glanced quickly and furtively in his direction and then back to the pile of papers she was holding. Her face flushed bright red with involuntary embarrassment as she clutched and grasped awkwardly in an effort to get a grip on his questionnaire.

"Well, that's an unexpected turn of events," thought Paul, "it seems she's more scared of me than I am of her. Blushing is a highly emotive thing, isn't it, and such a dead give away. Perhaps Dr. Alice feels guilty about spying on me, or perhaps she is shocked that such a handsome guy could feel inferior?"

When all the students had returned to their seats, Alice described a somewhat complicated experiment, which would be the subject of their next assignment. Having repeated her description carefully and twice over, she asked: "Is there anyone who doesn't clearly understand what I've just said?" Paul, for one, didn't understand the instructions, and, because he was now on a binge of honesty, he raised his hand without the slightest feeling of embarrassment. Even when he noticed he was the only person in a class of forty to do so, he still felt serenely and surprisingly at ease.

"Well, at least there's one honest person in the class!" said Alice.

Paul felt she was alluding to more than the matter at hand: that her remark conveyed an additional message of personal approbation that only the two of them were party to.

"What I described to you, in so much detail, was an experiment with a deliberate mistake built into it. Don't be overly embarrassed though, because I usually catch most of the students in every new class.

The point I am trying to make is this: you cannot just accept something on faith, without understanding it, just because a Ph.D. tells you it's true. You shouldn't necessarily believe anything I say; you shouldn't take it on faith. You should understand it. You should think about everything I tell you, and decide for yourself whether you agree or disagree."

There were surely some red faces in that class, and some yellow ones too from the egg she had rubbed into them, though I guess she tried not to rub it in to excess, because she moved quickly to another and quite different subject.

She hung a picture on the wall for the class to ponder. "What is it?" she asked. "That's the question. What is it supposed to be?"

It was just an abstract drawing of a coffeepot to Paul's way of thinking, but it was also a test of analytical perception. Paul didn't bother to raise his hand to let Alice know he knew what it was, because he took it for granted everyone else would know what it was as well. But after a while he wasn't so sure about that.

Finally Alice asked the class: "Is there anyone at all who knows what this is?"

With no one else responding, Paul finally raised his hand and said: "It's a coffee pot."

About half the class turned around to look at Paul with smiles and gestures of amazement on their faces. Patina was also within their field of focus, was within their direct line of sight.

The look on her face suggested self-conscious uneasiness at suddenly and unexpectedly finding herself placed in the limelight, and yet there was also a hint, a subdued smile of pleasure and pride in evidence on her face--to Paul's wishful way of thinking at least.

But it was Paul's day, to be sure. It was like he could make no mistakes. No matter which way he turned, he was making a good impression on Patina--a far better impression, in fact, than he would normally be capable of.

This, their Monday morning class, went from 10:00 a.m. till noon. When the class had finished, Paul asked Patina if she was going to lunch, to which she answered in the affirmative, and the pair set off for the cafeteria together.

Their conversation was taken up again so effortlessly from where it had left off before class. Paul found Patina amazingly easy to talk to. In that respect she was like no other girl he had met before.

They talked again about Patina's impressions of Australia and about Minnesota. Much to Patina’s delight, Paul was able to recite the beginning of Longfellow’s Hiawatha. He chose this particular piece because of its geographical connection with Minnesota’s Lake Superior:

By the shores of Gitche Gumee,

By the Shining-Big-Sea water,

Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,

Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.

But he was not consciously aware of the lunar connection between Nokomis and Patina until after he had recited those words-- Patina’s surname, after all, meant ‘from the moons’. Paul thought the lunar connection quite uncanny and the manner of its coming to him even more so. It was as if something else had selected those words on his behalf, something extraneous to himself--his subconscious mind perhaps, or intuition or even serendipity.

At about the halfway point on their journey to the cafeteria, they passed through the main hall, where the Physics Department had set up a display of electronic gadgetry.

The largest and most impressive of these was an apparatus consisting of two heavy metal rods about twenty feet high, which were standing vertically and eighteen inches apart.

A very high frequency alternating current was passed between these two rods (electrodes) and would form what might be perceived or thought of as a single rung on a ladder; an electric rung that would move, starting from the bottom and finishing up at the top. After that, a new rung would be formed at the bottom and the process would repeat itself over and over.

"What is it?" asked Tina.

Paul was a student of physics, amongst other things, and was familiar with the device.

"It's a Jacob's ladder."

"Ah, I see, a ladder that goes up to heaven, or at least for those people who believe in heaven."

Tina was a fast walker indeed and Paul would have to break his stride every now and again in order to maintain his place exactly abreast of her. They reached the steps to the cafeteria in no time at all and began their ascent.

"There's a lot more to that Jacobs ladder than meets the eye." Said Paul, thoughtfully. "There's quite a bit of physics involved in it and philosophy too."

He turned to look directly at her, and was surprised to find just how close her face was to his. She was smiling more effusively than ever, and she said:

"I just fell over! But I did it with such skill and finesse that probably no one even noticed. I fell down on my left knee on the step and bounced straight back up again without even skipping a beat."

Such a pretty face so close to his and smiling like that, Paul could scarcely believe his good fortune.

"My goodness. I didn't even see it happen. I didn't notice it at all."

They made their selections for lunch and located a table for two in a quiet corner.

"You were telling me about the philosophy behind the Jacob's ladder," she said, "it sounds like an interesting subject."

"Well, I think it is, but there are probably thousands who would disagree; so I hope you're not easily bored, because it's a fairly long story, so tell me if you want to change the subject . . . Anyway, when I was at night school I studied Bohr's theory of the hydrogen atom--"

He felt a disquieting twinge of fear, a vague fear that she might start laughing at him. But no such laughter was forthcoming.

"--Bohr was an advocate of the Chinese Yin Yang philosophy."

"Oh, I've heard of that all right. As a matter of fact, I've been meaning to study up on it, but somehow I just haven't found the time, so tell me more by all means."

"Well, it's the idea that the universe is entirely symmetrical, that everything is divided into positive and negative, and that these two qualities in conjunction make all things possible."

"Do you have any examples of this," asked Tina, "that might make it a little easier to understand?"

"Well, physics is full of examples that say "Yin Yang" so unmistakably loud and clear, and that's what led Bohr to investigate the subject already back in the nineteen-twenties: Matter can be converted into energy but energy can also be converted into matter. When a sub-atomic particle is created--let's say an electron--a positron is always created simultaneously.

These particles have numerous characteristics and are symmetrically opposite in each and every one of them; and each of these symmetrically opposite characteristics has led to the discovery of a new law of physics.

Take the law of conservation of electric charge, for example: it says you cannot create or destroy a net electric charge. The electron is negatively charged, the positron is positively charged. You start with nothing, you add a positive and a negative, the two cancel out, and you still have nothing."

"I know what that's like; you could add my academic career to your list of examples." said Tina, giggling. "But go on, it's intriguing. Being a Buddhist, I have an interest in Eastern philosophies in general . . . so you can't create something out of nothing, except by following the rules."

"That's right, if you start with nothing, you can only create pairs of things, which are opposite to one another in every respect so that they balance out to equal a net sum of nothing even though individually they amount to something. In that way, you can create something out of nothing, which is a handy system to have if you need to build a universe."

"And what are some of these other laws of physics that relate directly to Yin Yang philosophy?" she asked, staring thoughtfully at Paul.

"Well, if we continue to look at the electron/positron pair: an electron has mass and rotation; therefore, it has angular momentum. As you might already anticipate, the positron spins in the opposite direction, which makes it equal but opposite, and it has to be in order to satisfy the law of conservation of angular momentum."

"Wow, that sounds really heavy, doesn't it, but I can understand it just fine."

Paul felt it fortuitous indeed that he had studied religion for five years, and had made a particular study of eastern religions. He was largely self-taught but had read a plethora of books on the subject, and had digested their contents with the energy that intense interest brings with it. He was the kind of high school dropout who could never stop learning.

After the elapse of all of two hours, the requirements of academia brought their lunchtime conversation to an end; it was time for Tina to go to her next class and for Paul to go to the library.

"I'll see you tomorrow then!" he said, smiling pleasantly.

"Yes, tomorrow." she reiterated.

Alone now and walking through the campus gardens to the library, Paul felt struck by the sheer beauty of his surroundings. The lawns were manicured to perfection, many of the trees were rare and exquisite specimens, and then there were numerous flowering bushes and plants; and all were basking, like himself, in rays of golden sunshine.

He looked back upon his lunchtime conversation with an extraordinary sense of satisfaction and accomplishment:

"What a rare day it's been. Today has been my day like no other day I can remember. Everything has gone my way, and at lunch I could hardly believe my own eloquence. I could hardly believe my ears. It was so good, so perfect. The words just flowed as smooth as silk. I didn't get tongue-tied and I didn't stammer. Isn't it wonderful! I couldn't possibly have made a better impression on Patina in a million years."

But on reaching the foot of the library stairs, a disturbing question sprang seemingly from nowhere into his consciousness. It was a question he had never asked himself before:

"Why do I stammer at some times and not at other times?"

Darker thoughts were now entering the picture in the form of a memory from the recent past: It was lunchtime at his place of employment during the previous summer. He had a civil service job, but only worked there during the school holidays. He was seated with work mates at the lunch table. One of the guys made a comment to the effect that vitamins made his urine turn a bright yellow.

Paul felt a strong impulse to comment on the matter and was all set to do so. He was going to say:

"That's caused by vitamin B2, riboflavin--flavin is from the Latin word for yellow."

That's what he intended to say, but, as he came closer and closer to starting the sentence, he became increasingly anxious until his hands began to shake so badly he had to quickly sit on them through fear the others would notice and think he was a weirdo.

Beginning his ascent of the library stairs, and in apparent response to his present train of thought, Paul starts to succumb to a growing weariness, which causes his pace to slacken--not in proportion but in exaggerated disproportion to the intrinsic gradient of the steps, and he continues to slow more and more. His legs feel as if they are held in the grip of a steadily increasing inertia, which is induced by friction perhaps or even invisible strings. Whether real or imagined, the forces resist his efforts at forward motion and quickly induce a profound torpor: a torpor portending an impending paralysis.

While he experiences this constraint as being physical in nature, even stronger and stranger sensations produce a simultaneous weariness in his head: a numbing of the skull, a blunting of the sensibilities, the overpowering stupefaction of being reduced to a semi trance-like state . . .

Or a dreamlike state . . .

Yes, it was like a dream to be sure. He could see it now; it was exactly like the very familiar dream, which had played a constant, nocturnal accompaniment to the countless unproductive days he had wasted in school.

He was unable to discern even the trace element of a wish secreted within the dream, which merely inspired feelings of anxiety and helplessness in him. The simple story line was always the same:

In the company of his entire family, he would be traveling somewhere by train--probably into the city for Saturday shopping. Typically, he would be lagging behind; would just be entering the platform to find the train (with most passengers already boarded and disembarked) standing waiting to receive the last of the stragglers.

His entire family was also already aboard, all dressed in their Sunday finery, and gathered standing together, about, and just inside, one of the train’s wide doorways. They had left the double doors wide open to receive him, as though he was deemed an honored family member, and they were beckoning to him. Paul would need to take at least another thirty steps in order to reach them, but at about this point his walking pace would begin to slow at a rate, which was inversely proportional to the square of his distance from the train. Effectively, this would cause him to come to a complete standstill well before he could reach and board the train.

The time for departure would come and go, his mother in particular would be calling out to him, telling him to hurry, to catch up, to not be left behind; but he couldn’t move . . . or perhaps he didn’t want to. That thought now came to him, came percolating up from out of the depths and floated to the surface, where it was deposited like flotsom as a question in his mind: Was his paralysis inspired by fear or was it his own choice? He was eager, almost desperate to know. Was it perhaps a stubborn, rebellious recalcitrance? But why would it be that? He had no good reason to think so. It was just a guess, just the wildest kind of speculation. And yet, it had caused him to conclude, tentatively at least, that he might be a rebel.

Paul’s intense preoccupation with these thoughts had a further retarding effect upon his already decelerating rate of forward motion. As a consequence, he was now completely stopped and standing in the middle of the landing at the top of the stairs.

After an unknown period of time, a man came up behind him, placed his hands on Paul's shoulders and said:

"Excuse me, but you are blocking the path . . . are you okay?"

The stairway was in fact part of the main path, so that blocking the stairs, or the landing to the stairs, was the same thing as blocking the path. Paul was shocked and startled, and turned to see a middle-aged man, who was probably a faculty member.

"Oh, I'm sorry." he said, moving quickly away and over to a portion of the library wall that was free of pedestrian traffic, where he might stand a moment without bothering anyone. He was eager to maintain his present train of thought, which he sensed was leading to something important.

He found himself standing in front of one of the library's large plate glass windows. These were darkly tinted to increase privacy as well as reduce heat and glare. They were much harder to see into than regular windows. The dark glass was almost black and was about as reflective as it was transparent--the ratio was about 50-50.

"A rebel." he thought. "Yes, perhaps so." But how could he be a rebel if he was so timid and subdued? Perhaps he was a subdued rebel--but that would be a contradiction in terms.

His desperation to learn the meaning of the dream stemmed from his conviction that it was important--that the dream had to be important if only for the sheer number of times it had been replayed inside his head.

Seen from that perspective, it amounted to a large slice of his psychic life. It was almost certain to be an intimately personal part of himself, as personal as his own flesh and blood, like a twin separated from him at birth. His being alienated from something such as this: his anima, his inner essence; could cause (as well as explain) the vague sense of disquiet he so often felt.

He was so eager in fact to solve this conundrum, he focussed all of his powers of concentration upon it, but his frenetic efforts proved ineffective and even counterproductive because they had caused him to strain his brain past the point of overheating. This had the dysfunctional consequence of leading him to yet another disappointing dead end.

His brain felt ready to shut down, felt like it was at the very point of melt down. He stared stupidly, gawking and gaping into the thick black glass. His mind couldn’t help but choose the soothing escape of descent into blankness and oblivion.

A somnolent feeling as restful as sleep was accepted, welcomed, surrendered to. Then it happened, right after he had stopped thinking, right after his conscious mind had shut down: he was struck by an intense flash of brightest light. It was insight. It was like a glimpse of the veritable light of heaven, like a message sent from another place. It came to him suddenly, as if emanating right out of the thick black glass: "I never stammer when I talk to women."

Paul's thoughts were now racing once more: "This is so amazing! No, this is doubly amazing! Why is it I don't stammer when I'm talking to women but only with men? And why was I never aware of something as strange as this until right this very minute?"

He felt stupefied and confused, and then the words to a nursery rhyme entered his head: "Georgie Pordgy, pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry. When the boys came out to play, Georgie Pordgy ran away."

"Is it something to do with cowardice?" he thought. "Oh no, I hope not . . . but could the unpalatable nature of something like that explain why I was never aware of it until now: because I didn't want to know?"

He was now staring so fixedly through the library window as to be almost mesmerized, and oblivious of someone else inside who was staring back at him. That person had become annoyed by Paul's obtrusive staring and was now staring back at him in angry defiance.

"God, he'll think I'm weird!" thought Paul. "I didn't mean to stare. I didn't even realize I was staring."

Paul averted his gaze timidly and walked away, having failed to recognize his own reflection.

The morning of the following day saw Patina arrive early for class once more--which was her habit in any case. Paul had made an extra effort to arrive early again himself--the size of his reward for having done that the previous day would see to that.

As a consequence, there were barely half a dozen people as yet in attendance. Paul found her seated to the left of the center of the room, and made a beeline for her.

He reached her quickly enough but he remained standing alongside her for a few seconds, because she appeared too distracted to notice him, and was staring fixedly out of the window to her left.

He placed his hand on the back of the chair immediately next to her for the purpose of dragging it out and seating himself beside her. She still didn't notice him standing there until she heard his chair being dragged across the floor. At that point she turned suddenly and looked up to see him.

In the fraction of time it took her to recognize him, it seemed as if her body responded on her behalf, automatically and involuntarily, by discharging a pinprick of electricity. It was shock enough to unsettle her, and it was quickly followed by a change of color. Her face went from light golden to bright red in less than a second flat. It was the red tomato, the love apple of embarrassment.

Although Paul remained outwardly quiet and composed, inside his head there was ranting and screaming and the reckless abandon of trampoline jumping. He deliberately maintained a poker face in the hope it would leave her unaware of what he had just seen, because he thought such a disclosure would certainly cause her embarrassment.

He felt gut certain of her feelings toward him because his inner euphoria had arisen, not as a response to conscious mental calculations, but as a spontaneous reaction to an assessment of the situation his feelings had made on his behalf.

This should also perhaps have prompted him to trust those same feelings and ask her for a date without further ado, but Paul was never one to rush into things.

He would have to first think the matter through, and down to the last detail. That was his way of trying to control an uncontrollable world, and it was his way of dealing with matters of even an ordinary and everyday importance. But Patina was different: she was at the highest and unprecedented extreme end of importance, and so this matter would require a great deal more thought and consideration than usual.

Surprisingly, however, he went totally against this general trend. It took him but an hour or two of actual thinking, and it was that same night, just before he went to bed, that the task was completed.

Immediately following the blushing incident and for the remainder of that day, Paul had felt a serene sense of comfort and well being. He felt Patina would be his, and it was just as simple as that. But that night, when he began to think further on the matter, he was suddenly struck by the disturbing realization that something was strangely amiss. It was simply too good to be true.

"You talk to her for two hours," said his critical inner voice, "and she is so impressed she falls instantly and madly in love with you. Well, it's just not believable. This can’t be right. It can’t be true!"

In his bedroom that night, Paul began pacing the floor until he had hiked a mile or more. Up and down the room he traipsed and a hundred times around his bed, and, in the process, he quickly worked himself into a frenzy of nervous agitation.

"This cannot be right! This is simply impossible! This could never be right! This can’t be happening! There were girls not half as good looking as Patina who wouldn't give me as much as the time of day, so how can she be romantically interested in me at all--let alone fall for me after a two-hour conversation? Do you have that sort of effect on women? Hell no! Have you ever had that sort of effect on women? Hell no! It makes no sense.

But if she blushes before you, then, she loves you . . . Yes, but not if there is something else about you that embarrasses her. If you dare to test reality, just ask her for a date, and she will look at you as if you are certifiably insane to even be suggesting such a thing.

The idea that she is madly in love with you, after hearing two hours of your mouthing off, has got to be some form of delusional megalomania on your part. It is simply, totally, one-hundred-percent unbelievable!"

After an unprecedented briefness of critical thinking, Paul was no longer able to take the incident at face value. His logical thinking (be it plausible or destructive) had poked and prodded the evidence until, by attrition, there was nothing left of it.

"She blushed before you. So what! It was an aberration. It was just a glitch."

His head had said an emphatic 'no' but his heart had said a resounding 'yes' from the outset, and, deep down and in spite of everything, it continued to cling desperately to the hope that a 'yes' might somehow still be possible.

His head and heart were opposing forces pushing Paul in two different directions at once. It was like trying to drive a car with one foot applied to the brake and the other foot pressed against the accelerator. It was a most dysfunctional state of affairs, it was gridlock, it was an almost total shutdown, but Paul would somehow keep on going. He would continue his relationship with Patina at school; he just wouldn't ask her for a date, not for the time being at least.

That Paul and Patina were enrolled in five subjects together was made all the more unusual in that the combination of subjects themselves constituted an unusual choice. No other students were enrolled in so many of their common courses.

That was a fortuitous state of affairs indeed, which placed the pair together in classes, and at lunch, for a total of twenty hours during this, the second week of their sophomore year, and over subsequent weeks this arrangement would become their established routine.

In spite of Paul's decision not to ask Patina for a date or his decision by default to procrastinate on the matter, a close community had nevertheless developed between them, and this left so few gaps of opportunity for any other guy to make a move on her.

"Step on a crack, break your mother's back!" said Patina quietly to herself while walking along one of the many campus footpaths. Her briskly athletic stride allowed her to step on half a dozen or more cracks, and without cheating by taking more than one step per crack.

"I wonder why he doesn't ask me out?" she thought. "Perhaps he's too shy. Perhaps I should ask him out. I mean, after all, if men can ask women out on a date then it's only fair that women should have the same right. It's a simple measure of reciprocity . . . and this is the era of Women's Liberation. He's good looking and he's really smart, so why shouldn't he be fair game. Why don't I just invite him to go see a movie or something."

"But have you forgotten," said a voice in her head, "have you forgotten everything. An invitation is a request, and a request is subject to the same laws of reciprocity. If you make a request of a person, and they accede to that request, it becomes fair for them to make a request of you; and by those same rules of reciprocity, you are then bound in turn to accede to their requests.

Now a request is an insidious form of coercion, and that makes it highly dangerous because, once initiated, it can set off a destructive chain of obligations and entanglements--you know that only too well. You have always been warned to be on your guard against such things.

This guy could end up deciding where you should go and what you should do. He could easily become domineering, a tyrant, a control freak."

"But Paul isn't like that." said Tina, by way of reply to her own inner voice. "He's sensitive, shy, and deeper than a wishing well."

"But have you forgotten?" said the voice once more. "Have you forgotten absolutely everything. You must never use his first name. You know what kind of bad luck that can bring."

"I didn't say it out loud." she said, defensively.

"No, but it seems you've forgotten everything nevertheless, because you should have known, you should have remembered that you can’t think it, write it or say it--and especially not in the same sentence that includes the words 'wishing well' . . . I really don't know what's gotten into you."

In their next psychology class, Alice Berkhart was up to her old tricks. This time she was getting the students to answer questions on a blank sheet of paper, which, she assured the class, did not have to be handed in.

One question went as follows: 'Who is the most intelligent person you know?'

Paul instantly wrote down ‘Patina’ and then looked across at her paper to see what she had written. He was hoping to see 'Paul' written there, but it wasn't. She had written: ‘Mr. Van Zandt.’

"But she has never met my father." thought Paul, who was momentarily confused, but then the penny finally dropped and he realized she was referring to him. But he was still surprised by the deference implied in the title of ‘Mister’ applied to a peer.

He was four years her senior but she didn't know that, and he had such a baby face he didn't look at all older than the nineteen to twenty-year-olds who constituted the bulk of the class.

He thought it was a little over the top. He thought it already quite enough to be regarded as the most intelligent person she knew. That she might see him as such an exalted personage as to require a formal title, was something he couldn't quite come to grips with.

It seemed queer, it seemed so strange, but after giving the matter some thought, he was unable to see it as anything other than a sign of her holding him in high esteem.

This re-kindled his forlorn wish to ask her for a date, which, in turn, intensified his anxiety on that score.

It was on the following day while they were sitting talking together in class waiting for the lesson to begin that Tina took a newspaper clipping out of her shoulder bag and handed it to Paul.

"They're showing some good movies right here on campus." she said. "I didn't know about it until I saw this."

Paul perused the clipping. It was an advertisement for their varsity theater, which was screening movies on Friday nights. Admission was only half the price of a regular theater, and they were showing Alfie, starring Michael Caine, this coming Friday.

Paul was lost for words. "Oh yes," was all he could think to say as he awkwardly handed the clipping back to her. His "Oh yes" conveyed a distant, academic-type interest. He felt a little confused--why was she showing him this clipping? Why had she bothered to cut it out of a newspaper and bring it to school? Why didn't she just tell him about it? Why didn't she just mention it in a casual way? What did she expect him to say?

It was characteristic of Paul to be slow in reacting to any event which was unforeseen. Spontaneous reactions were something to be avoided. To act on impulse seemed to him like a kind of recklessness, which would always entail the grave possibility of making an error in judgement.

He did not set store in spontaneity whether it concerned feelings, impulses or reactions. No indeed, he would have to think things over very carefully before making a decision and hazarding a course of action.

One of the things Paul disliked about extroverts was their tendency to act without thinking. He perceived them as being thoughtless and insensitive. But Paul had his shortcomings too: being a true introvert, he had a pronounced tendency to think without acting.

And yet, halfway through the lesson, it struck him that Tina might well have been giving him a hint regarding the movies. It seemed possible, it seemed likely--but was it an absolute, Cartesian certainty?

He felt a sense of foreboding. He felt as though he was sinking in a quicksand of indecisiveness, an all-encompassing head-in-hands type indecisiveness from which he might never extricate himself.

The professor's words were buzzing without meaning in the background. There was now but one thought in Paul's mind, one thought which emerged from his aimless arguing back and forth, one thought only which held conviction: if he didn't ask her out immediately after this class, he never would.

This terrifying prospect forcibly instilled in him a sense of urgency bordering on panic, which temporarily overshadowed his fear of rejection and served to strengthen his resolve.

Their class ended at 2 p.m. With no further classes that day, they were both heading home. She was walking home, and he would walk with her as far as his bus stop, which was situated at the southern edge of campus.

Just prior to reaching that point, he finally began to put an invitation into words. He spoke in a slow, deliberate and almost mechanical fashion:

"Patina . . . I was wondering . . . whether . . . you might like to . . . take in a movie?"

That was all he needed to say.

"I'd love to!" she said, with force of conviction, with a smile, and even the suggestion of an expression of surprise on her face.

Paul had the fleeting impression her surprise was enacted; that she was allowing his male ego to be credited with the masterful initiative which had brought about this entire sequence of events.

He felt a sudden sharp irksome pain at just how far this was from the truth, and this realization in turn provoked in him a momentary sense of his own ineffectualness; but it was only a fleeting one, because glad tidings were at hand. He was emptied of all bad feelings and vibes, and he was re-inflated with a scintillating, exhilarating optimism. He felt light, he felt buoyant, all his senses were rising, he was high as a kite.

"I can pick you up at seven. I can call for you at your place--where exactly do you live?" he asked, in a tone of manic, electrified excitement.

"I live at 30 Arbutus Drive, but it's quite a long walk. There's no real need for you to go all the way up there and then walk back to school again. I could just as easily meet you outside the theater."

Paul's sense of chivalry was unable to entertain such an idea for even a moment. "Oh no." He said, almost horrified, "I'd like to call for you, it's no trouble at all."

"Well, you go up this main street and take the second on your left, you follow that down to the bottom of the hill--that's where Arbutus Drive runs across, perpendicular--it's about a mile I guess. My place is on the left near-side corner."

"Well, great!" he said.

"Yes, okay!"

"That'll be super!" he said.

Their parting gestures were a little clumsy and a little self-conscious, but their smiles were effusive.