He met Lianhui in the library. She had been circling the stacks on medieval Chinese folklore as Harold circled her. She smiled and asked if he needed some help. In Mandarin. Harold answered in kind, and thus passed his first test. She marveled constantly over his grasp of Taiwanese culture while ignoring his clumpy hair and awkward gait. After all, he was American. And she discovered Harold’s values aligned neatly with her own: she wanted to marry an American, he wanted to marry a Taiwanese. She wanted to move to the States without struggling as a lonely immigrant. He wanted to avoid confronting his romantic potential with other Euro-American women. Together, they formed a bond of unified purpose rooted in mutual denials. The additional element of bilinguality added mystique to their relationship. It was indeed quite romantic that Lianhui and Harold could speak in different languages depending upon circumstances. It lent their communication an air of cultural superiority based upon relative exclusivity.
When they returned to the States, Lianhui applied to a graduate program involving Mandarin. For, although she may have left her homeland, she still wanted to remain intellectually loyal. Nary a flaw could be found in her plan, but this was not so for Harold. He began to experience another cognitive disjunction. This time it was located in a more abstract arena which, he concluded, originated with his name. That which was bestowed upon him was unfit for a man of such a learned, dignified stature. Or at least, it would be once he had attained his doctoral degree. Besides which, his wife couldn’t quite pronounce it. It always sounded like “Harrow.”
“Honey, do you like my name?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I was thinking, perhaps I require a name that is more distinguished. More fitting of a professor?”
Lianhui thought for a moment. “But they’ll be calling you ‘Professor’ won’t they?”
“Not my colleagues. Besides, I need every edge I can muster to get tenure. You know what they say about presentation.” This was all communicated in Mandarin. It distanced him from the anxiety surrounding his problem, manifesting as it did as a twinge in his left eye.
As he thought more on the subject, Harold decided he needed a name that conveyed a touch of class. Moreover, he wanted a one that suited the bowties he had begun sporting in the classroom as a TA: his current name undermined the mild flirting with co-eds:
“Um, Mr. Smith?” She was an exquisite creature, not earthy like his wife, but instead ethereal. Dressed in a corset blouse paired with a miniskirt, she looked quite delectable.
“No, please don’t call me that. We’re practically the same age. Ha ha ha. Call me Harold.”
And while this young thing may not have noticed his name, Harold cringed at its pronouncement. He was certain that, with a proper name, women would respond to him not simply with need, but awed desire. Yet it’s a serious matter to name oneself. One must consider one’s present condition, rather than merely resigning to the projections of one’s parents. It involves a subtle hand combined with a good measure of role-playing, which Harold secretly enjoyed. He had already given himself a rather grand Chinese name: Gu Long, or Old Dragon. He needed an English name with similar proportions. So, Harold turned to English literature for a solution. One night, during a frenzy of page flipping through his Norton Anthology of English Literature, Volume One, his eyes set upon a possibility: Samuel Johnson.
The man was a paragon of the tortured, misunderstood, but brilliant artiste. Not unexpectedly and in the style of a great writer, he had turned his early experiences into several incisive tracts. Validation of his superiority was cemented by James Boswell biographical work. Surely, this was a model that reflected Harold’s own, as yet unrealized brilliance.
Before leaping into this prospective name wholesale, Harold thought first about his given name. First off, there was no depth. His name projected an image of either a second-rate shoe salesman hustling wares out of a dilapidated corner shop (“Harold, we need these orthotics in size 9AA”). Alternatively it conjured himself: a gawky, be-freckled, be-spectacled young man trying to fulfill the promise of a debonair, bow-tie wearing intellectual.
So, he tested the name in his mind. “Johnson Smith.”
“Johnson,” he said to himself. “Johnson, good to see you, old boy! We’ve missed your presence in the club.”
“Professor Smith…”
“No, no, no, deah young lady. Please, call me ‘Johnson.’ Or even ‘J.S.’ After all, ‘Professor’ does sound so pretentious. Let us keep things informal. We are, after all, colleagues alike in this quest for knowledge, are we not?”
Harold smiled. He rather liked these imaginary conversations. Truth be told, he rather liked young women too. His success had been so limited in the States, rejection still piercing insistently from his memory. It was not until he had traveled to Taiwan that he had experienced something of what he felt was his due.
*
“Johnson, my boy, glad to have you aboard,” was the first greeting the new Johnson Smith, Professor, heard. Admittedly the school wasn’t Ivy League, but it was ranked in the Top Twenty. Unfortunately he had had to move Lianhui and their firstborn daughter, Madison, to the outskirts of the smoky industrial town—he hadn’t been able to afford anything more. Not on his salary. But the hail-fellow-well-met atmosphere of the all-Euro-American faculty boded well for Johnson’s ambitions. Especially this older man of the nautical greeting, Professor Will Dukworth the Second. He was of the old school of East Asian Studies, the forthrightly colonial type, that is, and he validated every fear-driven sense of superiority Johnson Smith harbored. Their friendship was cemented over clandestine tipples of Scotch after class, in the privacy of Professor Dukworth the Second’s office.
Said alliance was particularly useful because it sanctioned the cavalier, almost grandfatherly flirtations Johnson engaged in during class. For, according to Will, this was what those Orientals wanted, someone to lead the way through their own history and culture. They couldn’t do it themselves, lord only knew. They made a hash of it. But the Western Academic mind, now this was the leader of the faith. The women, especially, wanted, nay, needed this kind of guidance. Johnson found these private tirades a bit offensive, and because of this, it excused his more artless flirtations.
Indeed Johnson resorted to classroom flirting quite frequently, satisfying his libido with the knowledge that, at last, these young, nubile women with skin that did not yet sag and voices fresh with naïve sexuality, were beholden to him. He had discussed this with a colleague, once:
“Do you know, Ah once worried about being attracted to my female students. Ah wondered what Ah would do because it is an issue of integrity, don’t you agree?” Johnson knitted his brows for emphasis.
Professor Lange backed slightly away from his breath, “Yes, I do. What do you think about it?”
“Well, Ah thought about it at length and my conclusion was that it is a normal response. That over the course of one’s cahreah, one will meet students whom one finds attractive and that amongst some of them, this feeling will be reciprocated.”
“I see.”
“Ah’m sensing a bit of doubt, but let me explain further. It is normal to flirt at work, correct? Moreover, if my work involves adults, albeit younger adults, it would be natural to flirt with them, as well. Theah really is no harm. So long, of course, as that is the extent of it.”
Professor Lange objected, “I’m assuming you wouldn’t flirt with any of your male students, so what about the perception of impropriety, not to mention unfairness, that would develop in the class? And what about the inherent power imbalance? These aren’t colleagues, these are students who need your assistance and guidance. And they also need grades. If they think that flirting will help in these matters, the consequences could truly be dangerous, both for you and for the students. Whether they are men or women.”
From that point on, Professor Lange deliberately avoided Johnson. Johnson put it down to close-mindedness, that Professor Lange could not be open to her feelings. One of which, he was certain, was a secret attraction to himself.
*
And so it was that one day Professor Johnson Smith was laboring in class over a particularly thorny translation with one of his duller students. His TA, Lena, was feeling similarly dulled by the lecture and was nodding off discreetly in the back of the classroom when they were both interrupted by a singular occurrence: Professor Smith’s jaw dropped. Lena reflected that she had always thought such a description was strictly a literary cliché. Until now.
Class had begun fifteen minutes earlier, but Janice was constantly late. After all, she already spoke Mandarin. But as most Taiwanese who grew up in the States, she was illiterate. This class was an easy way to pad her ailing GPA. No one in the Department had banned her from it. The Euro-Americans in charge were just grateful that students were willing to take classes taught by white people like themselves.
Janice wore an outfit of gossamer silk, at least, what there was of it. To some jealous types, the skirt may have been mistaken for a wide belt, but it was found in the dress section so we must allow for the name. It was a sleeveless affair, with a scarf tied at her throat to match. A fetching ensemble which reached her toes, decked in authoritative sandals.
Johnson swallowed and then found his voice once more. “Janice, nice to see you.”
She nodded in reply and sat down. In the front row. She crossed her legs gracefully, pulled out her notebook from her shoulder bag, poised a pen over the page and gazed up at him.
*
Let us draw a veil over the ensuing scene because in the end, the boy didn’t get the girl. He already had one. One who was becoming progressively more rotund with a new vegan diet. It seemed that she was hungry all the time because she was not actually eating a balanced diet. And this was not simply because Lianhui was pregnant again, for it turned out that she was only six weeks along. The weight gain had preceded this by two months.
Johnson thus retreated often to both his office and Professor Duckworth’s, the one for the quiet, the other for the alcoholic refreshment. Home was only a two-bedroom apartment. A house was at least five years distant and with another baby in less than eight months, privacy was Johnson’s one constant solace. For he had found that these flirtations, these encounters he had anticipated with more than a little relish, often came to naught. Once they left his classroom, he left their minds.
The fact was that he was old. It is a cruel judgment wrought by eighteen-year olds towards anyone over twenty-one. None of these young women wanted an affair with him, they simply wanted better grades. And if that required more than an idle flirtation, the price was too high. Besides which, Johnson Smith was not that attractive. Oh, he had outgrown the tufted hair, it was of a uniform, if rather thin, consistency. His bowties, like the pocketwatch, were affectations he had read about in English novels, meant to signify his learned and awe-some status. True, these accoutrements were assessed by his young female students. They were thought to be intriguing clues to his character—cultured? moneyed? affected?--discussed at lunch, right before class and in between dating revelations or the latest shopping coup.
