Mountain of Gods, Valley of Men

"Dean Williams will be with you in a moment," Gretta said. "He's on the phone. You must remember that Deans are always on the phone. Would you like a coffee?"

"Ah, no, thank you. I'll just sit out here." Joseph Christopherson, Professor of Philosophy, pointed to a row of lounge chairs outside the glass cage of Gretta's office. He leaned on her door, about to speak further, hesitated, then sat down. He picked up a copy of the Dean's newsletter, scanned the headlines, and laid it down. Tenure disputes, university financing, enrolment projections, no longer interested him. Less than one year ago Joseph followed these matters carefully. They were part of human reality to which he felt a duty to bring leadership undergirded by philosophy. Philosophy gave them perspective, placed them in the larger order of things. Seeing their order, he could endure the tedium of practical life, and the clash of powerful egos in the acrimony of wills. The university was not an ivy tower of stillness and meditation. It was a battlefield. He had been a Dean, a commander in the field, an administrator. He had been near too many explosions. He had shell shock. He wanted peace.

"How are Jack and Jenny?" Gretta asked, her raised voice penetrating the glass panel separating her from the outer office. Joseph liked Gretta. She was tall, slender, with a scholar's hunch, brought about by twenty years at this very desk. She had a pretty face with heavy eyebrows, darting brown eyes, and a sharply defined nose that pronounced her square jaw. Usually, she wore a colourful blouse and skirt with knee length socks rolled down a notch from the top. The socks were not attractive but they were warm. Whenever the choice for Gretta was between comfort and beauty she chose comfort. For this reason she refused to wear tight skirts and high heels. Yet, she was consummately feminine, not through her looks, but through gestures of her hands while speaking, delicate movements while writing a note, melodic inflections in her voice, and, above all, patience in listening to people who had stories to tell her.

Gretta was the Administrative Director of the Office of the Dean of Arts and Science. She was the undoubted authority on Senate regulations, application deadlines, faculty committees, all the seemingly insurmountable details of academic life. If you needed immediate, certain, sound advice, ignore the rule books, ignore the Dean himself, and call Gretta.

Lovely, gregarious, smiling Gretta, Joseph thought to himself while watching her. Proof that men and women can be friends. When he was Dean, they had travelled to Learned Societies together. Of course, they maintained separate rooms. However, during the Fish Conference in Montreal, owing to an error in their hotel's reservations, they were forced to share a room together, with separate beds. On that occasion, Joseph retired in the early evening. Gretta returned much later from the Chancellor's reception. "Lucky for you that a hunter never strikes a sleeping animal," she said in the morning. "That's why animals play dead," he replied. They left it at that.

Gretta laughed at Joseph's vacant stare into space. "I said, how are Jack and Jenny?"

"Oh, sorry," Joseph said apologetically, refocusing his eyes. "They are serene and healthy, long-eared and playful." Joseph cleared his throat and shouted to reach Gretta through the glass. The design of the office puzzled Joseph, but Gretta seemed consistently indifferent to it. Immediately outside her office sat the Secretary at her desk with a telephone board, a computer and screen, and a laser printer. Her desk faced Gretta's office, which meant that her back was towards anyone entering the main office. The Secretary would swivel around to face you, ask your name, then swivel again towards Gretta and announce your arrival. You would then walk around the secretary to reach Gretta's door, state your business, and if you required seeing the Dean, Gretta would have you detour the secretary once more, sit in the lounge chairs stationed at the entrance to the main door. And wait. Then, to exchange pleasantries with Gretta you had to speak through the head of the hapless secretary, caught in the middle. It was understood that you never actually went into Gretta's office. It held too many secrets. It was the inner sanctum. You could die there.

Today, the secretary was not at her desk. Joseph allowed the heightened sense of direct communication with Gretta. Which caused him to feel even more shy. And awkward.

"Jenny has a sore knee. She limps. Dr. Jensen is not sure what brought it on. He came by and wrapped it with steroid salve. Now she seems fine. Donkeys are hardy animals. Jensen swears Jenny is pregnant. She maybe showing a tummy now, four or five months into it. Strange, Jack being a stud, has always seemed docile around Jenny. Jacks usually have a great fancy for the spotted female ass."

Gretta broke into laughter. "He just takes after his master, a little slow on the draw."

Joseph laughed with her, knowing what she meant, and turned a light red. "They are such worthy creatures, greatly misunderstood, but--"

Dean Williams appeared in the doorway of his office, motioned for Joseph to enter, and disappeared back to his desk. Joseph rose, waved goodbye to Gretta and started to pass into the Dean's office.