The Indian Clerk by David Leavitt Page B

as glad that Hardy prefers not to share
     with him what Mrs. Chase calls "the gory details." Much easier, if not to defend, than at least to explain Hardy as an abstraction,
     especially when Jackson—the wheezy old classicist whose inexplicable fondness for him Littlewood feels as a sort of rash or
     eczema—puts his mouth to his ear at high table and whispers, "How can you stand working with him? A normal fellow like you."
    Littlewood has a canned answer to this kind of inquiry, which he gets often. "All individuals are unique," he says, "but some
     are uniquer than others." He'll only go further if the inquirer is someone he trusts, someone like Bohr, to whom he describes
     Hardy as a "nonpracticing homosexual." Which, so far as he can ascertain, is perfectly accurate. Aside from Gaye—whose relationship
     with Hardy Littlewood could not begin to parse—Hardy, from what he can tell, has never had a lover of either sex; only periodic
     episodes of besottedness with young men, some of them his students.
    Mrs. Chase—Anne—thinks Hardy tragic. "What a sad life he must lead," she said to Littlewood this past weekend in Treen. "A
     life without love." And though he agreed, privately Littlewood couldn't help but reflect that such a life must not be without
     its advantages—he, a man who often finds himself contending with a surfeit of love: Anne's, and her children's, and his parents',
     and his siblings'. There are moments when all this love chokes him, and during these moments he regards Hardy's solitude as
     an enviable alternative to the overpopulated lives for which his married friends have volunteered; the abundance of wives,
     children, grandchildren, sons- and daughters-in-law, mothers- and fathers-in-law; the murk of demands, needs, interruptions,
     recriminations. Whenever he goes to visit these friends in the country, or has supper with them at their Cambridge houses,
     he returns to his rooms full of gratitude, that he can climb into his bed alone and wake up alone—but knowing that, come the
     next weekend, he will not be alone. Perhaps this is why the arrangement with Anne suits him so well. It is a thing of weekends.
    The first Friday in March, as is his habit, he goes to Treen. Rain keeps him indoors most of Saturday and Sunday. On Monday
     it's still raining; at the station, he learns that somewhere along the line a bridge has flooded, diverting his train, which
     arrives two hours late. This leaves him stuck at Liverpool Street for two hours. By the time he gets back to Cambridge, it's
     too late for dinner, still raining, and he's been traveling all day. He curses, throws his bags down on his bedroom floor,
     picks up his umbrella, and heads over to the Senior Combination room. Shadowed figures lurk in the paneled gloaming. Jackson,
     greeting him with a nod, points with his drink to a corner of the room where, much to his surprise, he glimpses Hardy sitting
     upright in a Queen Anne chair, hands on his knees. At the sight of him, Hardy bolts up and hurries toward him.
    "Where were you?" he asks in a hiss.
    "The country. My train was delayed. What's the matter?"
    "It's come."
    Littlewood stops in his tracks. "When?"
    "This morning. I've been looking for you all day."
    "I'm sorry. Look, what does it say?"
    Hardy glances toward the fire. A small group of dons has clustered there to smoke. Until Littlewood walked in, they were talking
     about Home Rule in Ireland. Now they're silent, ears cocked.
    "Let's go to my rooms," Hardy says.
    "Fine, if you'll give me a drink," Littlewood says. And they turn around and leave. The rain is coming down in sheets. Hardy
     has forgotten his umbrella, and Littlewood must hold his over both of them. It makes for an uncomfortable intimacy, if one
     that only lasts the minute or so that it takes to walk over to New Court. Opening the door to his staircase, Hardy pulls away,
     clearly as relieved to be separated as Littlewood is. He shakes out his umbrella and drops it in