Visiting Professor by Robert Littell Read Free Book Online Page A

good flicks for the occasion.”
    “Maybe.”
    “What does ‘maybe’ mean?”
    Suddenly defensive, she says, “ ‘Maybe’ means maybe not.”
    Lemuel hefts himself into the barber chair.
    “Like you must be new in town, right?” the lady barber comments. “So did you take my advice and score something to keep the
     supermarket honest?”
    Lemuel has been hoping she would recognize him. Flustered, he answers, “I tried to score kvass, but I could not find any on
     the shelves.”
    The sardine thief shrugs. “It’s a good thing I scored enough for the both of us.”
    With a laugh, she deftly slips the striped sheet over his head, tucks the end under his collar. She stares at him queerly
     for a moment, then leans forward and gently peels the patch of dried toilet paper away from his chin. Her face is so close
     to his he can smell her lipstick. Once again he has the impression he has looked into her eyes before.
    He brings up an embarrassed grunt. “I cut myself shaving.”
    “I didn’t think you cut yourself dueling.” Brandishing the scissors in one hand and a comb in the other, Rain surveys the
     tangle of gray hair on Lemuel’s head. “So what do you want?”
    “A haircut.”
    “No kidding. What kind of goddamn haircut? How do you want to come on? Intellectual? Academic? Athletic? Woody Allenish? Rhett
     Butlerish? I do a Renaissance man that’ll have you beating off the Renaissance women.”
    ‘There is a faculty lunch,” Lemuel says stiffly. “I am supposed to look like a
Homo chaoticus
, as opposed to a
Homo sovieticus
.“
    “I know what a homosexual is. But a
Homo chaoticus
…”
    “It is man in his role as chaoticist, which means a professor of chaos.”
    “Yo! I get it. You must be one of the suits from the goddamn Institute tucked away in that dilapidated building behind the
     library. Hey, if you want to look like a professor of chaos, you ought to go and leave your hair like it is.”
    Using her fingers as a comb, she struggles for several minutes to untangle his hair. At one point Lemuel winces.
    “Sorry about that.” She unfurls the half-defiant, half-defensive flag of a smile he saw on her face in the E-Z Mart.
    Tentatively at first, then with growing confidence, she snips away at his hair. “Like you must have a name.”
    “Falk, Lemuel.”
    Rain stops cutting and talks to Lemuel’s reflection in the mirror. “L. Falk. You’re the Russian dude from the talk show last
     night. I remember you said something about randomness being ignorance. I wasn’t sure what you meant, but it sure sounded goddamn
     cerebral. Hey, check it out—it’s a small world, right? I mean, I was the person who called in right after you.”
    “You were saying about a G-spot …”
    “So you heard me?”
    “What in the name of God is a G-spot?”
    Rain positions Lemuel’s head and continues snipping away. “I suppose it was discovered by S. Freud and Co. It’s an extremely
     sensitive spot about the size of a fingerprint on the face inferior of the …” The scissors hesitate. “You’re pulling my leg,
     right?”
    Lemuel understands that he is not even touching her leg, which means that “pulling someone’s leg” is another idiom he has
     to reckon with. He also understands that “G-spot” is a sexual term. He tries to recall if his mistress back in Petersburg
     had one, decides the subject is a mine field and tiptoes around it.
    “Is Rain your first name or your family name?”
    “First. My family name’s Morgan. I happen to have the same name as a dude you’re probably not familiar with, you being Russian
     and all. J. P. Morgan? No. I didn’t think so. He had something to do with money, which is what I want to have something to
     do with.” Pursing her lips, she peers over Lemuel’s head at his reflection in the mirror. Apparently satisfied, she begins
     trimming the other side.
    “How did you acquire a … handle like Rain?”
    “I was named after the weather the morning I