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they, along with everyone else, deserted me when there was a real public relations crisis. I insinuated that his toadying to the Wainscott bureaucracy was a form of cowardice, especially for someone as big and strong as he was. It was enough to make him beat a quick retreat, and I nearly felt sorry for him when his secretary, Doreen, an attractive but hard-faced, gum-chewing type, brought me a page of the most pathetic copy. Apparently he had tried to get her to write it. I finally decided to help them. It would have been just like him to put the thing out under my name, and I don’t want to get off on a poor footing myself with Oliver Scrabbe, who must be a brave man, considering Dean Fessing’s fate.
    I don’t really know much about the man. He doesn’t play tennis, as far as I know, and I haven’t seen him at the Club. It would appear from his
curriculum vitae
that he is another scholar turned administrator. The title of his Ph.D. thesis, “Elements of Philo-Semitism in the Writings of Adolph Schicklgruber: A Deconstructionist Reading of
Mein Kampf,”
indicates he is some kind of language theorist. I assume he will be going over the late dean’s files, including copies of my memoranda to Dr. Commer and the Board. Somehow I will have to call his attention to my views on the proposed consolidation in a way that doesn’t sound repetitious. Perhaps I could talk Dr. Commer into a response to the Interim Status Report, which I will write, of course, and in which I will stress our wholehearted endorsement of the late dean’s recognition of our unique status
vis-à-vis
the university. Perhaps I can get to it next week, although I will be spendingmore time with Malachy Morin, interviewing another batch of candidates for the press assistant position. All this busywork. I simply must find time if I am to start work on the history of the museum.
    But I also have some good news. I received by registered mail yesterday morning a miniature Ming Buddha carved in ivory. It’s no more than an inch and half high in a full lotus position, and the ivory has aged beautifully, giving the Gautama’s genial face an old and wise aspect. And while it’s going to cost me a small ransom (I have it on spec from Remstein’s of New York), I have such a perfect place for it that I will simply have to have it. The wonderful thing about collecting is that one can indulge and invest at the same time, although I cannot conceive of cashing in a single one of my precious things before I cash in myself. Anyway, I showed the piece to Esther Sung Lee, whose office is right next to mine. I know it is genuine, of course, Eliot Remstein being who he is; but I don’t think I have seen Esther so enthusiastic about a piece of mine since the white Qing snuff bottle with a dragon carved in blue overlay that I acquired some ten years ago. (Esther also knows that my collection will go to the museum.)
    I left work early and hurried home with my treasure safely tucked under my arm in its packing box. I knew exactly where I was going to put it. For several years now, I have been nurturing a small grove of red cedar bonsai arranged in a semicircle at one end of a redwood planter measuring roughly two by three feet. The sides come up about six inches, giving it the appearance, what with soil, moss that passes for grass, and sand that simulates gravel, of a walled garden. Not long ago I found for it a shallow dish of milky jade that I set into a bed of tiny pebbles so that it looks exactly like a goldfish pool. Well, I cannot tell you how exquisitely my little Buddha fits in, seated just on the lawn in front of the trees contemplating the pool. If only I could find some tiny, tiny goldfish!
    The arrangement is such a success I have placed it on the gateleg table in the window alcove of the living room. I think it calls for a dinner party. On the other hand, perhaps it doesn’t. I already think of my little garden as a refuge, a place in my mind where, serene as