The Season of the Stranger by Stephen Becker

my fault as yours. You were entitled to a conclusion.”
    â€œSure,” the doctor said, “and the fact that I chose the wrong conclusion reflects on my judgment, not my affection.” He looked toward the window. “Do you know why I wanted to talk to you?”
    â€œSomething about her, I suppose,” Girard said. “The note from the dean probably means the same thing. He saw us romping on a hillside yesterday.”
    â€œRomping,” the doctor said. “The faculty has discussed you in an unofficial meeting.”
    â€œThat was polite.”
    â€œI objected, if you want to know,” the doctor said. “I told them they were being infantile, and that you should be heard.”
    â€œThank you,” he said. “I suppose they disagreed?”
    The doctor sighed and adjusted his spectacles. “It was strange and discouraging,” he said. “They felt that it was important enough to discuss—”
    â€œâ€”but not sufficiently important to have me called in,” Girard finished.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNot too nice,” he said. “What did they have to say?”
    â€œThey were afraid. I don’t know why they were afraid. They have known many such couples. And they wouldn’t look at me, you know?” Girard nodded. “Someone thought that it was a case of bad timing. That the approach of the war somehow made it more complex and important. I couldn’t see his point of view. But the others did, almost unanimously. I have the feeling,” the doctor said slowly, bringing his brows together, “that there is something I don’t know; something that the rest of them do know. So I asked you to come here before you saw the dean. I think there is something in this which hasn’t been explained. Maybe you know what it is and maybe you don’t. If you don’t, I think you should be careful.”
    Girard frowned. “Maybe I should. Can’t you tell me anything else?”
    The doctor shook his head. “That’s all I got out of it.”
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t enlighten you,” Girard said. He shook the doctor’s hand and walked to the door and then turned and said, “Was there anything political?”
    â€œYou mean about the students and the faculty?”
    â€œThat, and the war.”
    â€œNo. Not while I was there.”
    â€œThanks,” Girard said. “I’ll see him now.”
    â€œGood luck,” the doctor said.
    The dean’s secretary was happy to see him. She took a cigarette and told him the dean was busy, but to sit and wait. He did. Officials ran briskly into the dean’s office, waving papers, and shuffled out minutes later, sadness in their faces. The business manager, the registrar, the dean of women (he was a man, and he had a long white cobweb beard and a staff of three women but the tradition of male deans was intact) flowed in and out of the office. Girard tried to decipher the wall scroll and could not. He played with a Chinese typewriter in the corner. He gave the secretary another cigarette.
    At five minutes after twelve the dean came out of his office, just clearing the door jamb. “Girard,” he said. The dean looked at him without curiosity and without blinking. “This place is too crowded. Come to lunch with me.”
    â€œAt your home?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI would be happy to. Let me see my cook first and tell him.”
    â€œOf course. Come in fifteen minutes.”
    â€œThank you,” Girard said. “I will.” He bowed shortly and left.
    Wen-li was not at the house. Girard wrote a note for him, propping it against the grease-dish in the kitchen. He locked the kitchen door and walked toward the library. He was not sure that he had locked the house door and before he reached the library he decided to go back. When he turned he saw Wen-li bicycle up to the kitchen on the other road, the road from the small