The Mechanical Muse

Chapter 2 (Part 2)

Beyond the edge of campus, the austere concrete titans gave way to sun-dappled mansions on tree-lined streets; when the sunlight faded, rose-tinted streetlamps took their place. There were no seagulls here: it wasn't their natural habitat, and those who entered left quickly, knowing it wasn't their place. It was only natural Prof. Rubinowitz lived in a place like this, where every house had its own uniquely decorated fence to keep visitors out, and I hoped for something fancy on tonight's menu proportionate to the property values.

The streets here had mythological names, so that evening I crossed the street Styx and walked down Elysium Lane to find his house, which had a delicate but well-maintained garden that seemed to take pride in its diminutive size—what was there grew robustly. I walked past the shadows of great things past and to the front door, and knocked once, then once more, letting each knock resonate like a church bell. I heard shuffling from inside, and then the door opened, out of which peered an age-worn man who was undoubtedly Mr. Rubinowitz.

"Come in, come in!" he gestured, and I crossed the threshold.

Prof. Rubinowitz's living room was shrouded in dust, except for the few things I imagine he had cause to use frequently: the hauntingly ebony Steinway, the end table by the sofa, the coffee table with sheet music scattered on top. The walls were lined with bookshelves, all packed precisely with books without dust jackets; a generic painting of a Tuscan landscape hung above the fireplace, and these two elements provided the only color in the room.

"The salmon is in the oven and I've yet to make the salad," Mr. Rubinowitz explained, pointing me toward the sofa. "I am a most terrible host, but you see, it has been a while since I've had a guest. Sit, sit! Make yourself at home."

"Thank you again for inviting me to your home, Professor," I said.

"Pah, don't call me Professor! I am done teaching students. Young people are so obsessed with titles and names, when it is all the same in the end! Call me Misha. Do you drink? Help yourself to some brandy."

"I don't. Not anymore," I assured him.

"You are wise. They say in vino veritas, but they forget the second half: in aqua sanitas. In water there is health."

Prof. Rubinowitz (he was still a venerable professor in my mind and would be regarded as such) returned to the kitchen, humming a melody I didn't recognize and leaving me to my own devices in the living room. There was an overhead light to supplement the lamp, but no amount of light could possibly make the space feel warm. I perused the shelves: the music books were placed closest to the piano, with the rest of the shelves being dedicated to the classics, primarily Russian but with enough diversity to prove he was a citizen of the world. I took one and looked at the inside cover: the first English printing of The Master and Margarita. That had to be worth something. I immediately put it back out of respect.

Before I could grow too adventurous, Prof. Rubinowitz tottered out of the kitchen holding a salmon filet far too big for two people, and I took the still-hot plate to the table. He returned with the salad, and we sat down. Old people always ate early.

"You are an English major, yes? How come?" Prof. Rubinowitz asked.

"I think the best way to understand someone is through what they read. A good book captures a slice of reality, and like a prism reveals the colors inside."

"You would not like me then! Look, look around at what I read. I read biographies, or the same classical literature that comforted me as a boy. I am a very empty and unadventurous person."

"Why, Misha, I don't think there's anything wrong with that. You can't judge someone's character through what they read—"

"One of my old students—I remember every student, even when they forget me—would always bring a book to our lessons. And one day I open it when she isn't looking, and it is some trifle about a boy magician. It is fun, but not what she should be reading when studying Schumann. She should have been reading the German literature, and I told her this, but she did not listen..." Prof. Rubinowitz's meager voice raised with passion, almost spitting out the syllables.