The Sonnet Lover by Carol Goodman Read Free Book Online Page B

lemons. And if we take the limonaia as a synecdoche—”
    “Oh, I know what that is,” Zoe calls out. “It’s when a part of something stands for the whole thing, right?”
    “Very good. So here the limonaia might stand for the whole villa. In which case, the poet intends to make a gift of the entire villa to the beloved. If Shakespeare had inherited an Italian villa, I think we would have heard about it.” A few people laugh and I’m glad to have diffused the situation with a joke. Glad, too, to see that Mark has managed to intercept Orlando and is talking to him now—until I see Robin’s expression. His pretty lips are curving downward and he looks stricken—just as he had when I’d accused him of plagiarism. And yet in this case I’m not saying that I don’t believe he wrote the poem. In fact, I suddenly realize that the opposite is probably true, that Robin wrote the last poem of the film and is claiming that it’s a poem he found. In our little talk about plagiarism, the focus was all on taking credit for someone else’s writing, not pretending something you wrote was written by someone else. Is that what Robin’s up to—presenting his own poems as the lost poems of Shakespeare’s Dark Lady?
    “Did you write the poem?” I ask Robin gently. “I’d like to see a copy of it.”
    Robin stares at me for a moment, his eyes glassy, his skin an unhealthy color. He takes a step toward me and stumbles. I reach forward to catch him and he presses something into my hand. “Here it is,” Robin says, beginning to stutter, “w-w-watch.”
    The envelope he presses into my hand is thick and lumpy. I realize it must be my watch that he went to fetch for me. I start to thank him but then he leans his face against mine. For one terrible moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he only whispers, “I need to talk to you alone.”
    “Well, tomorrow’s Saturday,” I say, slipping the envelope into my purse. I feel somehow ashamed of the transaction, as if Robin were passing drugs to me. “But if it’s really important I could meet you in my office.”
    “‘Tomorrow,’” Robin says, rearing back on his heels, his eyes full of disappointment, “ ‘and tomorrow, and tomorrow / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.’ ” His speech is no longer stuttering, now that he’s reciting Shakespeare’s words. When he turns away from me, he sees Or-lando. He suddenly looks as if he’s going to be ill. Orlando tries to approach Robin, but Mark has a hold of his arm.
    “Lascia me,” he says, wrenching his arm out of Mark’s grip. “I only came to get what belongs to me. The last poem in the film…he stole it—”
    “I-I-I-,” Robin stutters.
    “Any accusations of plagiarism will be taken into due consideration,” Mark tells Orlando in a loud, firm voice, “but this is not the time and place for it.”
    The word “plagiarism” echoes around the room as it’s taken up by students and faculty. There’d been a messy plagiarism scandal last year that had resulted in a student’s expulsion. Robin looks at me and I imagine he’s afraid that I’ll bring up the incident of the Oscar Wilde paper. “Dr. Asher,” he says, “I swear—”
    “President Abrams is right,” I say. “This isn’t the time or the place, Robin. Maybe you should get some air—”
    “That sounds like an excellent idea,” Gene Silverman says, putting one arm around Robin’s shoulder and the other around Zoe’s and steering them both toward the balcony door. Leo Balthasar follows them, taking a cigar out of his pocket. As they pass me I hear the Hollywood producer ask Gene, “Are you sure there’s not a problem with the script?” I expect Mark to tell them that the balcony’s off-limits, but he’s got his hand clasped firmly onto Orlando’s arm and is trying to steer him toward the elevators. I notice that Orlando winces and I feel an unexpected pang of sympathy for him. I consider following them to make sure