Under a Blanket Of Indigo Bubbles

Granted, I care to conceal the details about myself that make me identifiable. Granted, I’m not using real names (I could see your slight head nod when you first came across the surname “sourcil”because, of course, you didn’t overlook its meaning). Granted, I’m writing at home, in complete isolation, so there are no possible witnesses.

But today the possibility that someone I know might find this blog looks even scarier. As a matter of fact I’m going to write about my co-worker Pauline. To put it mildly, I’m risking my neck.

Now, I’ve known Pauline for many years and she’s a perfect co-worker, serious, hardworking, very dependable. She only has one flaw: she has no flaws. She’s practically perfect, she’s a great scholar and a great mother, she dresses sexily but not aggressively sexily, she is fluent in French, she cooks well and has proved helpful on a variety of occasions.

The thing is I find her intimidating. I’m biologically older, but definitely not wiser than her. I have more titles than her so she’s always very deferent, but I strongly suspect she respects my academic achievements more than she respects me. She has all the qualities that will allow her to have a soaring career, and she’s probably more strong-willed and talented than I ever was. She knows what she wants and she is not easily distracted. She doesn’t like teaching and it shows. She speaks too fast for students to follow her, she asks difficult questions, she just doesn’t care. Natalie, my PhD student, is a born teacher instead. I was with her the morning she delivered her first class ever. I had forgotten she was starting a module and I was just chatting casually with her when I noticed that she was playing with her hair – which she never does. I asked her what was wrong and she told me why she was so nervous. I volunteered to go to the room where she was delivering the class with her just to keep her company. She entered and closed the door behind her. I could hear the students’ voices trail away and then quickly fall silent, as their gaze fixed upon her, a skinny brunette who would sit among them only a few months before. Natalie started talking without the aid of the microphone, her voice steady, tranquilising, clear. It could have been her millionth class. I stood outside the closed door until someone started looking at me suspiciously, then I left with the distinctive feeling she was going to be a great teacher and, maybe, a not-so-great scholar, as rarely do the two things go together.

Needless to say, Pauline doesn’t like Natalie. She thinks Natalie doesn’t dress appropriately for her age and position and doesn’t work as hard as she should. I’m pretty sure Natalie doesn’t like Pauline either, but she never really told me. Once we were all in my office organizing a trip to Los Angeles where we would take part in a conference. Pauline said her husband could come at the airport and drive us home. I asked if Pauline was sure her husband wouldn’t mind and she replied “My husband does what he’s told”. I didn’t dare look Natalie in the eye because I was sure that if I had I could have hardly suppressed a laughter.

Pauline is like that, take her or leave her. She’s the last person in the world I’d tell my story to and I’d never tell her about this blog either. If my eyebrow did turn indigo I’m pretty sure she’d say “how trendy” but she’d probably think “he’s completely lost his mind, I knew it was going to happen, I just didn’t expect it to be so soon”.

She thinks I’m an eccentric (I so wish I was but unfortunately I’m not) and she often feels she has to organize my life. She knows my appointments better than I do. It was no surprise that, when David showed up a few afternoons later my phone call with Linda and asked if we could go out to lunch the following Tuesday, Pauline spoke before I could even open my mouth and said: “He’s got meetings at lunchtime on Tuesday and Wednesday, but you can meet him on Friday.”

I felt like a rockstar who’s completely lost control of his life, and David looked curiously at me. He said Friday was fine and added: “I also came here to tell you that Linda has accepted to let Gwen move to Portland. I’m so relieved!”

Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I knew already because Linda and I had discussed about it the night she had phoned me. And the night after. And the one after that.