Letters To My Mother Page 2

  “So do I. It would be an appalling waste.” The mention of secretarial work reminded Dr. Rosenau why I’d come, and he swiveled around, searching for something in the bookcase behind him. A moment later he glanced over his shoulder and, apropos of nothing, asked, “Do you smoke?”

  “Both my parents smoke and they’ve always assumed I would, but I don’t. It’s a form of teenage rebellion.”

  “Good.” Dr. Rosenau turned again toward the bookshelf, giving me a chance to look around. Bookcases lined three walls of the office; against the fourth wall, and to the right of the door, a glass-fronted mahogany cabinet housed a variety of knick-knacks – a small ship model, a seashell, and some morpho butterflies embedded in plastic. There were two windows, one whose view was covered by a buff-colored window shade, and a second that opened to an expanse of grassy lawn below and Portage Bay beyond. Apparently Dr. Rosenau had been reading when I came in, for a book of German poetry lay open in front of him. Beside the book stood a framed picture angled away from me, and I leaned forward, expecting to catch a glimpse of his wife and children, but I was mistaken. It was a photograph of a sailboat flying before the wind, and I wondered if the boat was his. I settled back in my chair just as he turned to face me again.

  “Did anyone at the employment office tell you the nature of the typing?”

  “They only said the subject matter is biochemistry and it’s in Spanish.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. These are translations of papers I wrote originally in English, and I’m putting them together for publication in Argentina. I’m a terrible typist; fortunately I have a grant to cover the typing expenses, which is why I contacted the employment office. Normally I’d let someone else handle the translation as well, but in this case I’m doing it myself so I can make revisions and bring the work up to date. Since my time is limited, I’ll be giving you the articles piecemeal – that is, I’ll be giving them to you if you’re interested in the job. I can pay you fifty cents a page, which is well above the prevailing rate but, frankly, the material is difficult and it’s written in longhand.”

  “You’re offering me the job?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yes, of course. Why, are you surprised?” His right eyebrow shot up again.

  “At the employment office they told me I’m the first person to apply. I thought you’d interview a number of applicants before making up your mind. I also thought maybe you wouldn’t consider me at all since I don’t have a scientific background.”

  Dr. Rosenau gave me another one of his penetrating looks. “I’ll be delighted if you’ll accept the job; I think you and I will get on very well together. Would you like to see the manuscripts?”

  He handed me a sheaf of papers and I read the titles with dismay: “Influencia de la ocitocina y de la aldosterona en los efectos renales del la renina,” “Influencia de la simpatectomia y de modificaciones de catecolaminas sobre la toxicidad de k-estrofandosid,” “Adaptación de la técnica Gomori-Takamatsu parafatasa alcalina al studio del blastocisto.” The articles might as well have been written in Urdu for all the sense I could make of them.

  “Do you know of a dictionary of scientific terms in Spanish I can use? If I’m unsure about a word at least I can look it up and get it spelled correctly. It’s not that I can’t read your writing,” I stammered, “but I never learned words like this in Spain.”

  “I have one right here you can borrow.” Dr. Rosenau pulled a thick volume from his bookshelf and handed it to me. “I think you’ll find this helpful. There’s one more article I’d like you to type and it’s in English, for publication in the United States.” He leafed through a few stacks of paper. “I must have given it to my assistant. Excuse me for a moment.” Dr. Rosenau picked up the telephone and dialed. “Frank, do you have the monograph on the formation of verdoheamochrome from pyridine protohaemochrome? Would you bring it to my office, please?”

  Like Dr. Rosenau, the young man who brought in the manuscript was wearing a lab coat, but the resemblance ended there. He was in his middle twenties and short, with slightly protruding eyes and dark curly hair already receding at the temples.

  “Miss Collins, this is Frank Caputo, my research assistant. Frank, Miss Collins is going to type those articles I told you about.”

  Frank and I exchanged the usual greetings and I prepared to leave.

  “When would you like me to have these ready?”

  “There’s no rush. I don’t expect you to type all of them at once; do what you can. How about bringing the first batch next Friday? I’m usually in my office after three and by then I should have some new work for you. Just knock. Hard if you hear the radio.” Dr. Rosenau walked with us to the door and held out his hand.

  “I’m very pleased you can do the typing for me, Miss Collins. I know my handwriting’s wretched, so if something’s bothering you that the dictionary can’t help you with, just give me a call and I’ll try to decipher it over the phone.” He turned to Frank, “Does she remind you of Helen?”

  I don’t like being compared to other people and took an immediate dislike to the unknown Helen.

  Frank looked uncomfortable and shifted on his feet. “Maybe, but I didn’t know her all that well.”

  Dr. Rosenau gave my hand a firm shake and we said goodbye.

  Frank walked down the hall with me. “What are you majoring in? I know it isn't isn’t biochemistry.”

  “Are you acquainted with all the undergrads, or am I wearing some kind of sign?”

  “You’re too attractive. When there’s a new girl around here she’s either a biochem major or a horse stepped on her face.”

  I laughed at his compliment. “Don’t you think a woman can have beauty and brains, too?”

  “Not in this department. Seriously, what are you studying?”

  “Anthropology.”

  “Really. I would have guessed English or Education. What do you think of David?”

  “Dr. Rosenau?” I had to be careful of my answer. I could imagine Frank’s going back to the office and chortling, “Guess what? That kid you hired has a crush on you already!”

  “He’s very nice,” I replied cautiously.

  Frank smiled.

  “Isn’t he?”

  “You know the word association game – you say ‘volcano’ and I say ‘lava,’ or you say ‘moo’ and I answer ‘cow’? If you said ‘Rosenau,’ I don’t think ‘nice’ is the adjective that would leap into my head.”

  “What would?”

  “Maybe ‘brilliant’; he’s a brilliant guy, I mean really brilliant. He’s won nearly every prize there is. But ‘nice’?” Frank considered his words for a moment. “David doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”

  “Have you known him long?

  “A little over two years. I’ve finished the coursework for my Ph.D. and passed the orals; the research I’m doing with David is the basis of my dissertation.” A grin flashed across Frank’s face. “I’ll bet he asked if you smoke.”

  “Yes, he did. Why?”

  “David has a thing about smoking. Not the stunt-your-growth sort of stuff. He used to smoke himself, years ago, long before I met him, but then he did some research on lung tissues and got the idea cigarette tar is harmful, so he quit and now he’s kind of an anti-cigarette crusader. David even told me he wouldn’t work with me unless I stopped.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah, but those first two weeks were sure hell. I gained ten pounds right off the bat and I was chewing everything in sight – gum, candy, my fingernails. At least I’m saving money.”

  “Does he always stare at people so intently?”

  “He makes you feel like a bird being charmed by a snake, doesn’t he? That’s just his way. You’ll get used to it.”

  As we passed the open door of the departmental office, Frank lowered his voice and nudged me in the ribs. “Here’s exhibit A of what I was talking about. Take a look.”

  Inside I saw a woman in her late twenties typing at a desk; she was thin to t
he point of emaciation, with stringy hair that needed shampooing, acne, and coke-bottle bottom glasses.

  “Well?” I said as we continued down the hall.

  “That’s Iris Williams. She graduated here eight or nine years ago. Iris is the secretary for the biochem department.”

  “The secretary? She has a Ph.D. in biochemistry?”

  “Not a Ph.D., a bachelor’s. Dr. Jacobs got her the job. She’s his mistress, has been ever since she was his student, or as we say here, ‘he had her in his class.’ He sure did.” Frank laughed at his own joke.

  “Who’s Dr. Jacobs?”

  “A professor in the department. One of the head honchos in these parts. You’ll see him around. He looks like a vaudeville conjurer – short, skinny, black hair glued to his scalp, a waxed moustache and the eyes of a dead fish.”

  Frank was nothing if not informative. I wanted to ask him if Dr. Rosenau was married, but I couldn’t trust him to keep the question to himself.

  As I got in the elevator, Frank waved. “Ciao, Miss Collins. That’s terribly formal; I’ll bet your first name is very romantic.”

  “It’s Catherine, but call me Kate.”

  “Franco, but call me Frank. Are people always saying, “Kiss me, Kate?”

  “Just the men,” I replied, waving goodbye. Only back in my room did it occur to me I’d forgotten to ask him about Helen.

  Chapter 2

  Blaine Hall, Room B102

  University of Washington, Seattle

  Sept. 12, 1956

  Dear Mother and Daddy,

  I got the job typing for Dr. Rosenau! Before going to the

  interview, I checked with the dorm kitchen downstairs and they pay

  95 cents an hour, while Dr. R. offered me 50 cents a page. I figured

  I’d be able to knock out four pages an hour easily, but that was before

  I had a chance to look at the work. It’s total gibberish and, to top it

  off, written in longhand. If Dr. Rosenau’s handwriting were as legible

  as he is good-looking, I wouldn’t have a problem. I spend so much

  time proofreading and retyping that I’m probably making 10 cents

  an hour max. Honestly, factory slaves in China who are shackled

  to their machines are earning more than I am! I shall persevere,

  however. When I give him the first batch on Friday, it will be

  impeccable.

  On the positive side, Dr. R. is very pleasant – rather intense –

  but pleasant. He introduced me to his research assistant, Frank,

  who’s a real character.

  Norma and I went to the American Friends Service Committee

  this afternoon…

  I spent the next two days typing and re-typing the manuscripts, checking spelling with the scientific dictionary, centering headings and drawing tables until satisfied the work was perfect.

  Friday afternoon, after much deliberation, I put on a maroon skirt, a silk paisley blouse, and a multi-stranded necklace of small beads and left for the Health Sciences Building, pleased that my appearance was a vast improvement over the previous Monday’s. Not sophisticated perhaps, but at least pretty.

  Promptly at three I knocked on Dr. Rosenau’s door; again the radio was playing, but more softly than before. Dr. Rosenau opened the door himself, greeted me, and turned off the music.

  “Oh, please don’t turn the radio off on my account.”

  “I’m not. I’m just about to leave and I was waiting for you.”

  I wondered if my face mirrored my disappointment. I wasn’t going to have a chance to talk to him. I wasn’t even going to sit down or take off my coat. The skirt, blouse and necklace were in vain, and I might as well have worn the dowdiest outfit in my wardrobe.

  As I handed Dr. Rosenau the typing, I saw a misspelled word on the first page, a mistake which numerous proof-readings had failed to disclose. My initial reaction was to say nothing and hope he wouldn’t notice; but he would notice, of course. Thinking this wasn’t an auspicious beginning to my typing career, I confessed the error.

  “Do you have any correction fluid?”

  He shook his head. “No. Why don’t you ask the secretary? Do you know where the office is?”

  “Frank showed me on Monday.” Mindful of the fact that Dr. Rosenau was going out, I rushed to the departmental office, where Iris was hunched over her typewriter. She squinted up at me, and with her middle finger poked her horn-rimmed glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “Yes?”

  “Do you have some correction fluid Dr. Rosenau can borrow?”

  “Here, take this.” Iris handed me the bottle on her desk. “He doesn’t need to give it back; I’ve got plenty more.”

  I couldn’t help staring at Iris’ teeth; they were abnormally small, like tiny pearls, giving her an odd, ghoulish appearance. Was it possible her permanent teeth had never erupted? I made a mental note to ask Frank.

  I thanked Iris and hurried back to Dr. Rosenau’s office. An upright typewriter covered with a plastic sheet was sitting on a metal table beside the mahogany cabinet. After whiting out the offending word, I put the paper through the roller and made the correction, praying there were no more typos in the manuscript. As I stood up, several strands of my necklace caught in the keyboard, the strings broke, and hundreds of tiny glass beads cascaded down my blouse and on to the floor, scattering in all directions.

  “Oh, no!” I exclaimed, putting my hand to my mouth.

  Dr. Rosenau glanced up from his reading. “Your necklace … oh, I am sorry. Well, don’t worry, we’ll get them picked up in no time,” and with this he bent over the rug and started collecting the beads.

  I flushed red with embarrassment. “Please don’t bother,” I stammered. “You said you’re going out and my typing mistake has already made you late. If you’ll give me the key to your office I can pick up the beads and then I’ll lock the door and leave the key with the secretary.”

  “It’s quite all right; I’m not in a hurry.” He took two envelopes from his desk and handed me one. “Here’s something to put them in.”

  We crawled over the floor collecting the beads; after several minutes on his knees, Dr. Rosenau stood up. “I think we found them all, don’t you?” He offered his hand, helped me up beside him and reached over to the remains of my necklace. I was acutely conscious of his presence and hoped he couldn’t hear my heart pounding. When he lifted the broken strands, I kept my eyes fixed on the rug.

  “These are only cotton; they were bound to break sooner or later. You should have them restrung with nylon.”

  My eyes met his. “Yes, that’s … something I can do myself.” He looked at me for a moment, then turned away abruptly and walked over to his desk where the typing lay.

  “This is excellent work,” he said leafing through a couple of the pages. I know your first name’s Catherine, but Frank tells me you’d rather be called Kate. May I call you that?”

  “Yes … certainly.”

  “I can tell you’ve taken great care with this, Kate. Do you do much typing in Spanish?”

  “Some. I’m taking one Spanish literature course, on the Generation of ’98. The last thing I typed was a paper about Ramon del Valle Inclán. Your work is radically different, to say the least.”

  “Have you read Valle Inclán’s Sonatas?” He gave me another one of his piercing stares.

  “All four of them; he’s one of my favorite Spanish authors.”

  “Mine, too. His Sonata de Otoño is a gem; it’s a pity Valle Inclán’s not better known outside Spain.”

  He took a sheaf of papers from the corner of his desk and handed them to me. “Here’s the next installment, far less interesting than the exploits of the Marqués de Bradomín, I’m afraid. I’d like you to observe,” he added, “I’ve made a concerted effort to write more legibly." Unlike the first batch, each page was neatly and laboriously printed.

  Dr. Rosenau removed his lab coat and hung it on a peg. I
nstead of the suit I expected under his professional exterior, I was surprised to see he was wearing a sport shirt and a blue v-necked sweater.

  “Are you going back to the residence hall now?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I have some business in Bagley Hall. I’ll only be a minute. Will you join me for a cup of coffee afterwards?”

  I hoped my reply sounded as pleased as I felt. Dr. Rosenau put on an overcoat, picked up his umbrella from a stand, and we walked to Bagley, where I waited for him outside. A few minutes later he rejoined me and we continued in near silence toward the Husky Union Building or “HUB.” I was too awed by Dr. Rosenau to say much of anything, but if my monosyllabic conversation made him uneasy, he didn’t show it. I glanced at him once and found him staring at me, but instead of turning away, as I expected, he gave me a long, slow smile, the kind of smile which passes between two people who share a happy secret, and it was I who turned away, blushing.

  We were reaching the HUB when Dr. Rosenau broke the silence. “You know, I never eat young ladies on Fridays. Only on Tuesdays.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Do I look that apprehensive?”

  “Yes, rather.” He opened the door for me. “But I have just the cure for you. It’s David Rosenau’s patented shyness remedy, strawberry shortcake garnished with whipped cream, to be taken at least once weekly in charming company. Doctor’s orders.” Dr. Rosenau brought the cakes and coffee to our table on a tray and sat down, facing me. His lighthearted air gave me the courage to meet his eyes and to smile back at him.

  “Thank you,” I said, “for this and for your… kindness.”

  Perhaps it was his shyness remedy, or more likely it was Dr. Rosenau himself, but whatever the reason, my usual reserve melted away and I found myself talking to him as if we’d known each other for years. He asked me to tell him about living in Turkey, an ideal choice of subjects, for there was no time in my life so happy as that. I told him about walking through the tall grass on the banks of the Kizilirmak River, scanning the treetops for nesting storks; of sneaking away to “old city,” built in a fortress overlooking Ankara, where I used to eat wild onions and chat with Ahmed, the caretaker of some derelict Roman ruins; I told him about Fikret, a hunch-backed egg seller who saved his best eggs for me, and how he would reach deep into the folds of his clothing to extract, seemingly from under his armpit, one exquisite egg, a specimen, he assured me, of consummate freshness; I told him about taking the bus to the zoo and eating simits, pretzel-like pastries, piping hot and sprinkled with sesame seeds. Dr. Rosenau listened attentively and responded with stories from his own childhood in Argentina.