Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee Read Free Book Online Page B

withdrawn from the course she takes with you, and you will be expected to refrain from all contact with her. Is there anything I am omitting, Farodia, Elaine?'
              Tight-lipped, Dr Rassool shakes her head.
              'It's always complicated, this harassment business, David, complicated as well as unfortunate, but we believe our procedures are good and fair, so we'll just take it step by step, play it by the book. My one suggestion is, acquaint yourself with the procedures and perhaps get legal advice.'
              He is about to reply, but Hakim raises a warning hand. 'Sleep on it, David,' he says.
              He has had enough. 'Don't tell me what to do, I'm not a child.'
              He leaves in a fury. But the building is locked and the doorkeeper has gone home. The back exit is locked too. Hakim has to let him out.
              It is raining. 'Share my umbrella,' says Hakim; then, at his car, 'Speaking personally, David, I want to tell you you have all my sympathy. Really. These things can be hell.'
              He has known Hakim for years, they used to play tennis together in his tennis-playing days, but he is in no mood now for male chumminess. He shrugs irritably, gets into his car.
             
    The case is supposed to be confidential, but of course it is not, of course people talk. Why else, when he enters the commonroom, does a hush fall on the chatter, why does a younger colleague, with whom he has hitherto had perfectly cordial relations, put down her teacup and depart, looking straight through him as she passes? Why do only two students turn up for the first Baudelaire class?
              The gossip-mill, he thinks, turning day and night, grinding reputations. The community of the righteous, holding their sessions in corners, over the telephone, behind closed doors. Gleeful whispers. Schadenfreude. First the sentence, then the trial.
              In the corridors of the Communications Building he makes a point of walking with head held high.
              He speaks to the lawyer who handled his divorce. 'Let's get it clear first,' says the lawyer, 'how true are the allegations?'
              'True enough. I was having an affair with the girl.'
              'Serious?'
              'Does seriousness make it better or worse? After a certain age, all affairs are serious. Like heart attacks.'
              'Well, my advice would be, as a matter of strategy, get a woman to represent you.' He mentions two names. 'Aim for a private settlement. You give certain undertakings, perhaps take a spell of leave, in return for which the university persuades the girl, or her family, to drop the charges. Your best hope. Take a yellow card. Minimize the damage, wait for the scandal to blow over.'
              'What kind of undertakings?'
              'Sensitivity training. Community service. Counselling. Whatever you can negotiate.'
              'Counselling? I need counselling?'
              'Don't misunderstand me. I'm simply saying that one of the options offered to you might be counselling.'
              'To fix me? To cure me? To cure me of inappropriate desires?'
              The lawyer shrugs. 'Whatever.'
             
    On campus it is Rape Awareness Week. Women Against Rape, WAR, announces a twenty-four-hour vigil in solidarity with 'recent victims'. A pamphlet is slipped under his door: 'WOMEN SPEAK OUT.' Scrawled in pencil at the bottom is a message: 'YOUR DAYS ARE OVER, CASANOVA.'
              He has dinner with his ex-wife Rosalind. They have been apart for eight years; slowly, warily, they are growing to be friends again, of a sort. War veterans. It reassures him that Rosalind still lives nearby: perhaps she feels the same way about him. Someone to count on when the worst arrives: the fall in the bathroom, the blood in the stool.