Free Antiphony by Chris Katsaropoulos Page B

of the campus. Both walls of the cloistered space are lined with towering bookshelves, two lines of perspective that pull him towards the far end of the room, where Victor crouches behind the hulking mass of his desk. A series of high, lozenge-shaped windows on the left wall above the bookshelves is darkened byblinds drawn tight to disallow the sun from casting any shadows. It could be nine o’clock at night in here.
    Theodore has lately been picturing in his head a number of ways he could redesign this office, to make it his own. It is another one of his favorite thought projects, an enjoyable way to while away the last lazy forty-five minutes before five o’clock arrives and it is late enough to venture out of his own office for the hour-long drive home. He would remove a lot of these books and clear out most of the bookshelves; open the place up a bit. Maybe add more comfortable furniture, possibly a couch where he could lie back and think—he does some of his best thinking at home in his study when he lies down and closes his eyes for a few minutes, something he can’t presently do here in the office. And also, add several more pieces of framed artwork—he has been spending an occasional lunch break recently at a frame shop in the gritty neighborhood west of campus, eyeing the art prints and European advertising posters they sell there, savoring the process of choosing exactly which ones he will invest in to liven up this room. Another thing would be to take the blinds off these windows and let in some light here—why Victor insists on spending his days shuttered in darkness has always been beyond him. He could do away with the blinds altogether. The slanting rays of sun would make a stunning effect against his new prints lined up on the opposite wall, a kind of art gallery where his own appreciation of beauty can be on display for the many visitors he will receive and entertain here.
    That has been the plan, at least, until a couple of days ago.
    Victor raises himself to his full height, which isn’t so much, and Theodore sees now why he was hunched over: in his lefthand he has one of his stumpy cigars he likes to puff on, the lit end of it glowing in the gloom.
    â€œI have to hide it from her,” he says, his bushy eyebrows pinching together, like two timid furry animals scurrying to meet each other. “She pretends she doesn’t know, but if she sees me, she gets a little mad and tells me to put it out. Rules are rules, you know.” He motions for Theodore to come over and sit down, in one of the leather chairs opposite his desk. “I don’t like to get her upset.” He nods his head vigorously as Theodore sits. “She does a nice job for me.”
    Theodore agrees with him. “She’s excellent.” Theodore has been hoping that Amanda will remain on board during the transition period, providing some much-needed continuity and helping him get up to speed with the day-to-day routine of Victor’s job. All of these things he has been planning, rehearsing, in preparation for what he has hoped would be nothing more than a formality: the Board Meeting on Wednesday, when he will be voted in as the new Research Director. All of these things that may turn out to be only a fantasy.
    â€œSo,” Victor says, waving the cigar at him, sending coils of fragrant smoke into the dusky air above his head. “Tell me what this is about.”
    Theodore doesn’t know what to say, even though he has churned it over in his head throughout the past weekend and on the plane home and late into Sunday night, when the jet lag coming back from the West Coast kept him up much later than normal. He knew he would have to speak to Victor about it sooner or later—probably this morning. And here he is, facing the man who has treated him more like a son than anything elsethroughout the bulk of his career, encouraging him, guiding him, grooming him to be the next leader of