Art by Federica Pescini
'Object Study' is the runner-up of the TT 24 ORB Fiction Competition
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We proceed on the assumption that she is so well-represented in reflection that we may find her across any number of fragmentary pieces; we assume that to possess a number of such pieces is to possess a number of facts; and lastly, we assume that she is like anybody, insofar as possessing a sufficient number of facts is to possess her. At least in some part.
Then our work is accumulation. It is a big job. Because she is of such universal interest. We can find her reflection anywhere: and see how she is rendered in perfect relief.
1.
What, then, should we consider? First, most obvious, is the parade of lovers spent and past. Have them as a category. They are distinct from our subject’s pursuers (there are plenty of these – enough to merit their own class). But the ones she takes lack such neat uniformity. Their origins are sundry. We may recognize them only by their trajectories, which share the same character, gentle convergence. Always – a gradual, delicate arrangement of circumstances whereby the two parties draw closer – one presented to the other – and then it is quite obvious. So things unfold.
I think all her lovers must be satisfied. Afterwards, if you were to sit and talk with them: even the stoics would admit that they are sad.
And one more thing to note is that they all are very pretty. It is a whole cast of pretty people; we should take this for granted. Unless you would tar her for the sin of vanity. Would you like to? It is one part of loving her. A wholly natural impulse. Though by the time she is gone, it too will be
quite absent. No – none of them would tar her. She has a whole hoard. A trophy chest, so many spineless conclusions. It is really a wonderful gift she gives. Without fail, she induces an unambiguously substantial melancholy – even in entirely unsubstantial people.
2.
Who else? After her lovers, and excluding her pursuers – for they have generic reasons – we should consider her students. Then it is of note that she is a member of that dubious cohort which claims sympathy for undergraduates. And worse still, she goes to such lengths to demonstrate this philia: even now, she teaches a well-subscribed lecture for them every fall.
I observed her teaching. Once. Some years ago, when she was up for tenure. It was a biggish auditorium; a lectern in the front, which she ignored entirely. She just stood there. Her every motion, gesture, turn of phrase kept a neat synchronicity.
She taught with obvious investment. I could not say why, it was surely not my presence. I know because she is not affected by petty self-interest, nor bowed by the weight of perception (mine or anyone’s). And besides, her performance had a whole momentum. It was clear that she had always and for a long time taught that way. So what could possibly have compelled her?
We should assume that she liked being an undergraduate – she might have even liked being a child – I imagine there is an arrow-straight continuity which runs through every part of her life. And then it struck me just how strange it was. That I had any influence over her fate. (Her wellbeing, really – it was, and continues to be, a terrible job market.)
I sat near the door. When class was done I left very quickly, I thought about what it would be like to spend another morning, any number of mornings this way. She smiled as I went. She had always seemed to me an elemental creature, a pure force – I mean that she could not possibly be subject to the laws and whims of men. Yet here I was. It all made very little sense.
3.
Did I ever contemplate exercising this power? I would need a reason. No, I have left very little mark on her existence. How could I? I could not possibly justify it – for I must admit that despite all endeavors, I do not know her in any fullness. I can only tell you meager things. She is on time for department meetings. She sits two seats down. (Although today she was displaced – this disappointed me.) I normally maintain an ideal distance between us. So that I can see her properly. Because we both loathe these meetings: and though she rarely speaks, her eyes keep a wonderful catalog of obscenities.
Yes, I can only tell you meager little things. Perhaps her life is jagged, irregular, or wanton: but I know her only as a creature of routine. I know that she walks the long diagonal down the middle of the quad. That in autumn she walks fast and hides a thin shiver, that in winter she dons a great pea coat. It is big and fashionably boxlike. And she has a long forward-lean when she wears it.
You can see her hunched under some metaphorical burden. Obscured are her tendons, taut; her coiled-up strength, her ribs and beating heart. I have never watched her peel that coat off. I have only seen her with it, or without it.
What else? I see her sometimes making coffee. It is good to find her then. To discover her – for this reason, I take great care to forget – I have forgotten and remembered her schedule many times. We coincide often. Never perfectly.
4.
I do wonder what it is like to coincide perfectly. I cannot tell you. (Eccentric orbits, whatever else.) Who then inhabits her full existence? I suppose our survey is not done.
There are others left. Of course, her family. Though I have never met them. I wonder what freak circumstances could so intermingle my existence with her private life. Perhaps a tragedy. A wedding, or a funeral.
5.
There are also her friends. Her good-hearted friends. Her bronzed and tuft-haired friends. Sometimes I wonder what I would make of them, if they were not attached to her.
They are the obvious kind of happy (it would take a particularly involved line to explain why they should not be). They do any number of satisfying things. You can see them ordering thoughtfully at a wine bar, setting respectable times at the triathlon, starting families or being very successfully single. They are thoroughly decent people.
And I suppose that as independent creatures, they might fascinate, even compel me. But they are attached to her. Then I am unsure what to do with them. It is because she has chosen them. Because she keeps them. And most of all, because they are entirely lacking in awe.
What I mean is: there is a sense you should get, when you talk to her. Of being surrounded on all sides. Her perception is not invincible. But her capacity to encompass – having nothing to do with sympathy – I mean, to absorb a whole reason – is enormous. How, then, do these people speak with her? (And every day.)
Really I cannot say. I do not know the idle hours that they pass. I think they must possess any number of secrets (someone must keep her secrets).
6.
I do wonder. I wonder what she would be like if she got sick. I wonder what she would be like if she got married. Most of all, I would like to know the things she wants. For her to even ascertain the existence of bare desire – it seems to me wholly inconceivable. (Desire – I mean, something unsated – as she so rarely is.)
Though her friends must know. What does she ask them? It seems to me that she has meager wants, very natural, entirely reasonable. This must be why she is always quite happy.
7.
And I did speak with her. When the meeting was done, we had filtered out into the hall – I asked why she sat elsewhere, not where she sat normally. She said something about why. Then I cannot remember what I said. But I think it was something pleasant. We walked some ways, and if I timed my stride just right, one of mine could match two of hers.
So that we made a pretty rhythm. So that the whole world could understand precisely how the two of us might walk someplace this way. I remember the wind closed us up, I could have told her any number of things.
For instance: how just the other night, I dreamed of her. I found her at my desk. She was reading a draft which I had sent in for review. I would have interrupted. Although she was absorbed. It occurred to me that I had never seen her reading, properly. A certain slant. She spread the sheaf beneath her fingertips, she had the papers splayed out and she moved them pressing gently. Then she began to speak. I sat in a state of easy compliance. Maybe I was on the floor. I was looking up at her. She explained very neatly. Her reasons were complete and dashed all hopes for salvage. I could not recover the contents of her criticism when I woke–
8.
I have contemplated any number of solutions. There is a visiting position in Beijing; the University of Sydney has an interdisciplinary program which needs a new director. I might recommend her. Or otherwise I could go away myself. Though I do not have the patience or social vigor for such postings, I have saved enough; I could stay for a while anyplace. So long as I live modestly.
Of course I am frightened and disappointed at the prospect of such profound geographical separation. I have suffered enough from every other kind: practical separation; temporal separation; emotional separation; spiritual separation. I would rather not subject myself to this as well.
Then what? Perhaps I will find an activity so wonderfully consuming, an object so wholly enthralling, that even she is shamed by it. I am not sure what this consuming thing should be.
9.
And I remember one time. She had just been hired, I’d gotten some reason to see her. We were walking. She noticed that we were somewhere barren. Then her attention was sudden and quite forceful. Soon I was sure that I’d get nothing from her.
I was entirely unprepared when she rounded on me and asked: where do you like to eat around here? We had Thai food. We talked like able people and I exhausted myself and I spent my best reserves. And if I am thoroughly calloused. And if I am the natural product of erosion – if I am the sum of any number of methods by which we understand human perseverance. She’s got no sympathy for me. I think she really likes me. All that vitality. There’s not much room for moral stuff.
10.
If only she had real appetite. But she is not such a creature, not a wanting creature, she is not a spiteful creature. No, if you see those baleful eyes, it is all simply a part of her vast capacity for irony. A perfect quiet across all her features: and beneath it, effortless conviction. (So evident to me. Otherwise unexpressed, no one else seems to notice, and if it were anything less private, I would say it was wasted on this world.) I will not tell you the contents of her conviction. I will only say that they are sentiments which should give rise to emotion in all heights, which should rend and tear, tidal; but stir in her only faint, full-bodied mirth.
NACHMAN KAUL-SEIDMAN is an undergraduate studying philosophy. He was a visiting student at Exeter College in 2023/24.