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says, and Robin doesn’t disagree or make muchof this. The other theorists hum with indignation: the closing of courses will mean a streamlining of outlooks, a lack of choice and the return to the values of a polytechnic, further marginalizing the students of this underprivileged borough, when once widening participation—a university graduate in every home—was the key goal. Knowledge for its own sake.
    “And this is what management think students want?” Mark, reader in cultural theory, says. “From their ‘client satisfaction’ surveys?” he adds, his fingers doing air quotes.
    “‘Key performance indicators,’” says Albert, a professor in visual theories, mirroring Mark’s air quotes. They have been here before—the hardcore old guard bemoaning the MBA managementspeak that has permeated the academy. Edu-business stocks, Robin has been told by Mark, have tripled on the global exchange markets over the last five years. The Epicure waitress is called Katrin. Her lips are like Emmanuelle Béart’s in
Un Coeur en hiver
.
    “As a result, there will be new job roles and titles, and a department structure that reflects the redefinition of how film is studied in the school,” Richard says. This brings grumbling about who will decide what, how will they define “new,” about the lack of consultation. “New job specifications will be posted in the coming weeks, with interviews and decisions before Easter.”
    Interviews? Now the room erupts. Robin resists sitting forward in his chair, the panic too obvious. “Are these new roles advertised externally?” he asks.
    “No,” Richard says, “but they won’t replicate the posts as they currently exist. New job specifications.”
    “But what will distinguish the candidates—among us?” Robin asks, aware that he is the most junior in the room. Richard looks flummoxed, and the others stay silent, underscoring the challenge.
    “You will take the views of the students into account, I assume?” Robin says, and sits back again.
    He pictures what is growing inside Emma. Will his long nose take shape there? Or her blue eyes? He hopes for her hands, not his, but it would be a disaster if the baby were so often as sad and angry as Emma.
    He can’t lose his job.
    “There are key performance measures,” Richard finally says. “Research, teaching, community engagement—you know the deal.”
    “Not everything is measurable,” Robin says without leaning forward, but it’s loud enough to be heard at the front of the room, and Mark slaps the desktop in a right-you-are gesture of agreement, and others offer up “Exactly,” rallying against Richard who was once one of them. Robin wishes he were able to talk like a poet. In school he wanted to write poems, to acknowledge his contradictions, to challenge his own reason. And his own foolishness.

    He hides out in his office at the end of the day again. Image: a child’s booster seat for his piano bench. His groin moves with the wrong kind of excitement. Everything is confused.
    A polite, faint knock on his door. He can’t hide the fact of the light on, so he says, “Come in.” He turns towards the door to find Olivia.
    “Robin, hello, sorry to bother you,” she says.
    It’s her hair and face that make her striking: curls like tangled seaweed, open gaze, features awkwardly set. “No problem,” he tells her and although he hopes desperately that he won’t make her cry this time, he feels grateful for the relief a studentalways offers. Their needs come first from the moment they sit in the chair beside his desk and, oh, what respite not to be engaged with his own petty thoughts, indecision trying to become action. He pushes his glasses up on his nose.
    “I wanted to ask your advice, or maybe your help,” she says as she sits.
    That was his word. You can always ask for help, he said at the end of last year, and she erupted in sobs. She had come to his office about a missed deadline, apologizing, detailing the