ARE WE ALL BACK? Does anyone have any questions or comments to make?

Actually, the curfew was more of an annoyance factor. If you could demonstrate persuasively to the police that your reasons for being out were nonpolitical, you were likely to get off with a warning and the instructions to go right home. Unless you were a male with long hair. Later the National Guard brought tanks into Berkeley and stationed them at critical intersections, but even this was primarily for show. Though you must remember that there was real fighting and some serious injury.

Well, cats are one of those topics on which you find only partisans. You love cats or you hate cats; no one is indifferent. I can't explain this. Perhaps these questions are taking us a little far afield. The course is Romance. The point of view is female. Does anyone have a question that is a little more penetrating?

No, no, we will be looking at the romances of older (and younger) women later. Mrs. Kirk will not be a focus, although we will be meeting her. Her partiality for alcohol would make her a difficult subject. Absorption is tricky enough without the added complication of chemical abuse. Let me tell you, though, that on the two occasions when Mrs. Kirk's husband has remarried, his wives have both been thirty-three years of age. He himself was fifty-two and then fifty-eight. Mrs. Kirk herself is now fifty-eight, and in 1969 if she had become enamored of a man of thirty-three, even in Berkeley, this would have been considered humorous or pathetic. Yet Mrs. Kirk at fifty-eight, judging by appearance alone, has aged less than Mr. Kirk at fifty-eight. There may be variables in this situation, the significance of which we have not yet grasped. Keep the issue in mind, though for the purpose of our current case study all the partic.i.p.ants are contemporaries. In the back there?

He was not really a Count. Yes?

Those changes are s.e.xual. The course is Romance. We will not be discussing them this term, although you will find them even more p.r.o.nounced when the subjects are younger and male.

I must mention to you the possibility of sensory overload in this next Encounter. We are going with Linda to the party. The room is smoky and hot; the music is loud and primitive. This will be an exercise in academic detachment. Ready?

GRETCHEN HAD OFFERED Linda gra.s.s before she left, but Linda had refused. She wanted to keep her wits about her, but now, standing in the open doorway to 201, she realizes suddenly that in a couple of hours she will be surrounded by drunken strangers. And she will still be sober. There is nothing to drink but beer, and she finds the taste of beer extremely vile.

The Doors are on the stereo: "Twentieth Century Fox." Linda is glad Gretchen is not there. Just yesterday Gretchen had called Leopold's to ask them to remove records with s.e.xist lyrics from the bins. She had a list of the most outrageous offenders.

"Sure," the salesman on the phone had said. "Anything for you chicks. Why don't you come down and we'll talk about it. Are you a fox?"

"No, I'm a dog," said Gretchen, slamming down the phone and repeating the conversation to Linda. "Male chauvinist pig!"

Linda pa.s.ses Dave on her way in. He is in the kitchen washing some gla.s.ses. Suzette is with him, perched on the countertop. She has dressed for the evening as Nancy Sinatra, short skirt, white boots, mane of sensuous hair. She is leaning into Dave's face, saying something in a low, intimate whisper. Linda cannot hear what she says, doesn't even want to know. Anything Suzette says is rendered interesting and charming by that d.a.m.ned accent she has. Linda doesn't say h.e.l.lo to either of them.

She finds Kenneth and he hands her a beer, which she accepts tactfully. "I was just thinking of you," Kenneth says. "I'm glad you're here. I've got someone I think you'll like." He uses his elbows to force a path through the ROTC. Linda has to follow very closely; it closes up behind them like water. At the end of the path is the living room couch. On the couch is a thin, pale woman with eyeliner all around her eyes. She's done her lashes like Twiggy, tops and bottoms. No lipstick, but she's wearing a skirt and nylons. This surprises Linda, who glances around quickly and sees that a lot of people in the room have legs. She is wearing jeans herself, not Levi's, since Levi's doesn't make a jean small enough to fit her, not even boys' jeans, which are too large at the waist and too small through the hips, but as close to Levi's as she is capable of coming. They should have been appropriate to the occasion, but Gretchen was right. Linda finds herself in the fifties, where it is still possible to underdress. Where did Kenneth find these people?

Next to the woman on the couch is a man, and this is who Kenneth introduces her to. "Ben Bryant," he says. "A writer. Ben, this is Linda Connors." He looks pleased. "A reader," he adds. "She reads everything. She even reads nonfiction." He starts to introduce the woman, his hand is opened in her direction, but he never finishes. "And this is-" he says. "Margaret! You made it! Far out!" and he is gone, a little heat remaining where he had been standing. Linda moves into it.

A man behind her is talking above the music in a loud voice. "But Sergeant Pepper is the best alb.u.m ever made. The Beatles have enn.o.bled rock and roll."

Another man, higher voice, responds. "Enn.o.bled! They've sanitized it. It used to be black! It used to be dangerous!"

Linda smiles at Ben even though she is nervous and he is wearing a thin sweater vest with leather b.u.t.tons, which she doesn't think looks promising. "I don't really read that much," she says. "Kenneth is easily impressed."

"Melanie and I," says Ben, "were just discussing the difference between male and female writers. I was comparing Jane Austen to Joseph Conrad."

"I like Austen," says Linda warningly.

"So do I. What she does, she does well. But you must admit the scope of her work is rather limited."

"Must I?" Linda's uncomfortableness is disappearing.

"The difference between the two, as I was just telling Melanie, is the difference between insight and gossip."

Linda looks at Melanie. Her face is impa.s.sive. "I'm not so sure a clear distinction can be made between the two. Who knows more about people than the gossip?"

"You're playing devil's advocate," says Ben comfortably.

"I'm expressing my true opinion."

Ben settles back in the couch, crossing his arms. "I don't want you to think that I think the differences are biologically determined. No. This is a sociological limitation. Women's writing is restricted because women's lives have been restricted. They're still capable of writing well-crafted little books."

Linda opens her mouth and Gretchen's voice comes out. "You've lived a pretty full life?" she asks.

"I've traveled. Extensively."

"So have I. I was in Indonesia when Sukarno fell. Grown men circ.u.mcised themselves in the hope of pa.s.sing as Muslims." Linda sees Ben shift slightly in his seat. "Circ.u.mcised themselves. Someday I may want to write about the things I've seen." She has won the argument, but she has cheated to do it. Linda has never even been to Santa Barbara. Dr. MacPherson was in Indonesia when Sukarno fell and has described it so vividly Linda knows she can carry it off if she is challenged. She isn't. Ben is looking at his lap. Linda's mood is black. She has been at the party maybe fifteen minutes and already she has betrayed her s.e.x. Worse, she has betrayed Jane Austen. She isn't fit to live. Linda punishes herself by taking a large sip of beer. And another. She holds her breath and swallows and decides she has paid enough. She abandons her gla.s.s by the couch and pointedly directs her words to Melanie. "Excuse me," she says. "There's someone I have to talk to."

Linda shoves her way over to the stereo and Kenneth. "Don't introduce me to any more writers," she says.

"Didn't you like Ben?" Kenneth asks. "Fred, let Linda pick out a record." Fred Zukini is just about to put the a.s.sociation on. It is a lucky thing Linda came along. She asks for Big Pink. She wants to hear "The Weight."

Kenneth turns the music up. He has one arm draped around Margaret; he kisses her on the neck. He smiles at Linda, but it is definitely a get-lost kind of smile. Linda responds, spotting an empty chair in a corner and retreating to it.

She sees Dave again, sitting under the Rembrandt, talking with Dudley Petersen. She cannot quite hear their words, though the young man with the high voice who disliked the Beatles is still clearly audible. "No, no, no," he is saying. "We're talking about the complete failure of the dialectic."

Suzette has found Dave again, too, and in the sudden silence between "Tears of Rage" and "To Kingdom Come," Linda hears Suzette ask Dave if she can sit on his lap. Well! Linda can't help feeling this is somehow lacking in subtlety. Her father told her, advice she has never needed, not once, that boys do not like to be chased and he was a boy himself and should know, but there Suzette is, settling herself in, laughing like Simone Signoret, and this appears to be just one more area in which Linda has been sadly misled. The situation is hopeless. Linda looks at her shoes and wonders how early she can go home. In fact, Linda likes Suzette for being so brazenly weird. Gretchen likes her, Julie likes her, Lauren likes her-add them together and it should have been enough to prevent such popularity.

Linda leans back and closes her eyes, listening to the conversations close to her. To her right, two women are laughing. "So he doesn't have a condom," one says. "'I figured you'd be on the pill,' he tells me and I say, 'Listen, bucko, we have a saying among my people-the person who plans the party should bring the beer.' 'Your people?' he asks and I say, 'Yeah, my people. You know. Women.'" The second woman's voice is soft and throaty. "Probably just never heard women called people before," she offers.

Farther from her, Linda hears someone suggesting a party game. Everyone is to lie down with their heads on someone else's stomach and then all laugh simultaneously. Score another one for Gretchen.

She hears Frank Zukini asking some woman what her major is. Penetrating question, Linda thinks. "Drama," the woman answers. "I'm a thespian." There is a long pause, and Frank's voice when he responds betrays shock. "Whatever's right," he says, at last.

And then Suzette's voice, close to Linda's ear, indicates that Dave's lap is unoccupied again. "I have a message for you," Suzette tells her.

Linda sits up and opens her eyes. "For me?"

"Yes. From the Venusians. They're very interested in you, Linda. They ask about you a lot."

"How flattering," says Linda. "Extraterrestrial attention. What's the message?"

Suzette's hair is the color of the knight's helmet and surrounds her face like an aura. "They said not to do anything they wouldn't do."

"Suzette," says Linda, smiling at her, "tell them to relax. I never do anything."

Dudley Petersen pa.s.ses. Linda knows he sees her, but he goes in another direction. Still brooding about his ferns. But Mrs. Kirk joins her, carrying her beer in a pewter mug with a hinged lid and a gla.s.s bottom. "Marvelous party," says Mrs. Kirk. "No hippies. Just a lot of nice young people enjoying themselves."

"I'm not enjoying myself," Linda tells her. "I'm having a terrible time."

"It's because you're not drinking. Kenny! Kenny!" Mrs. Kirk waves a plump hand and her bracelets ring out commandingly. "Linda needs a beer!"

Kenneth supplies one, giving her an empty gla.s.s wrapped in a paper towel at the same time. "The gla.s.s is a gift from Dave," he informs her. "And Dave says not to handle it too much. Would you like to tell me what's going on?"

Linda takes the gla.s.s and her spirits lift ridiculously. But briefly. "It's evidence," she says. She watches Kenneth weave his way back to Dave. Kenneth wants to invite the police department, any off-duty officers and anyone they are willing to let out of jail. He argues with Dave about it. Dave is holding the phone clamped tightly together and refusing to release it.

"Hey, Linda." It's Fred Zukini. "You still haven't seen my car. You want to? I got a tape deck, now, and I put a lock on the gas cap and I put sheepskin on the seats."

Linda takes a long drink of her beer and then sets it and the empty gla.s.s back under the seat where they'll be safe until she can retrieve them. She follows Fred to the elevator, pa.s.sing through a nasty, acrid smell by the couch where Ben Bryant is smoking a pipe. With tobacco in it.

Fred doesn't seem the sort to seduce her in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Too much risk to the car, for one thing, and Linda doesn't like him so she is relaxed and calm, picking her way through the couples who have opted for romantic subterranean lighting. Fred stops at a polished red VW bug and runs his hand over the curves of the trunk. "I got extra locks on the doors, too," he says. "Because of the tape deck. I'm going to get leather for the steering wheel."

Linda leans over, peering into the car's interior. Above the soft and snowy sheepskin, next to the steering column, a set of keys dangles. "You've left your keys in it," Linda tells Fred. "Anyone could take it."

Fred pushes her roughly aside, pressing his forehead against the window. "It's locked." His voice breaks. "It's all locked up. The keys are locked inside."

"Oh," says Linda. She thinks for a moment. "Maybe you could get in with a coat hanger. I've seen that done."

"Linda, the windows are closed. And it's got special locks."

"Oh." Linda thinks again. "I guess you'll have to break a window."

Fred runs a hand through his hair, but it is too short to be disarranged. His face is anguished. "Could you let me think this through?" he requests. "G.o.d, Linda, could you be quiet and leave me alone for a bit?"

Linda makes her way back to the elevator, the heels of her shoes snapping on the cement floor. A white-faced cadet stumbles across her path. He moans once, a pathetic, suffocated sound. "Oh, no," he says. He falls against the first of the washing machines, claws it open, and throws up into it. He looks at Linda and throws up again.

There is a message here, Linda decides. A message from the Venusians. The message is to go home. Go home to her roommates who were so right when she was so wrong, and Linda feels that all she will ever ask for the whole rest of her life is not to forget and wash her clothes in the first machine or spend another second with anyone named Fred or Frank or Kenneth or- The elevator opens slowly, suspensefully, and Dave is inside. "I thought you might need rescuing," he says. "Mrs. Kirk gave me the keys to the penthouse. She says you can see all of San Francisco from there. Want to come?"

"Why not?" Linda answers coldly. "As long as I'm in the elevator anyway." She joins him. They face front. No one's shoulder touches anyone else's. The elevator does not move. Linda jabs the topmost b.u.t.ton. And again. The elevator gives a startled lurch upward. About the third floor, Linda asks where Suzette is. Maximum aplomb. A casual, uninterested question. She is merely making conversation.

"Sitting on Frank's lap. Apparently he's a very old soul. A teacher. A guru, would you believe it? He has a yellow aura. Suzette just about died when she saw it."

"Too bad for you," says Linda. The elevator has stopped, but its door is sticking. Linda has to wedge her foot in to force it open.

"I'm not interested in Suzette." Dave sounds surprised. "Linda, the woman communicates with Venusians." He fits Mrs. Kirk's key into the lock. "You're not drunk, are you? I mean not even a little. You hate beer?"

"Yes."

"Just a lucky guess."

"But I'm working on it," Linda tells him. "I'm growing. I'm changing."

"Oh, no. Don't do that," says Dave. They enter the penthouse and are attacked by a mob of affectionate cats, escaping to the terrace with their lives and a quant.i.ty of cat hair. The evening couldn't be more beautiful, absolutely clear, and the lights on the hills extend all the way to the water, where Linda can actually see the small shapes of the waves, forming and repeating themselves endlessly over the bay. The air is cold, and somewhere below she hears the sound of breaking gla.s.s.

"Did that come from the bas.e.m.e.nt?" Linda asks with some interest.

Dave shakes his head tiredly. "The apartment. That's what I get for leaving Kenneth in charge." He moves closer to Linda, putting his hands around her shoulders, making her shake. She can't think clearly and she can't hold still. The entire attention of her body is focused suddenly on those places where his hands are touching her. "My apartment is full of drunks and it's after curfew," Dave says. "I'm going to kiss you now unless you stop me."

And what Linda feels is just a little like fear, but no, not like that at all, only it is so intense that she is not quite able to partic.i.p.ate in the first kiss. She does better on the second, and by the third Dave has moved from her mouth to her neck and is telling her that he fell in love with her the first time he saw her, that first day in the elevator, when he saw she had Jack Lemmon's chin.

WELL. THERE WE ARE. This seems to me to be a natural breakpoint, and although I can't deny that we could learn a great deal more by going on here and, time permitting, we may return and do this later in the term, for now I want to bring this experience to some sort of close. The course is, after all, Romance and the focus is courtship, not mating, and let me add that the process of absorption is rather-well, untested in situations involving actual chemical changes in the subject's physical system. We don't want to find ourselves as subjects in someone else's lab test, now, do we? Of course we don't. Let's let the lab work this out first.

We did go far enough with Linda to make some final observations concerning women and the physical aspects of romance. These are the sort of concerns which will continue to occupy our attention, as we determine whether or not they are universal, specifically female, or merely manifestations of a particular personality type.

I'm speaking, more specifically, of the body/mind split which occurred at the moment Dave touched her. I thought it was very p.r.o.nounced. Did anyone not feel this? Yes, very p.r.o.nounced. Linda's body began to take on, in her own mind, a sort of otherness. Partly this was inherent in her conscious decision to feel whatever her body was feeling. A decision to be physically swept away is a contradiction in terms even when carried out successfully, and I feel Linda was relatively successful. But this is only the most straightforward, simplest aspect of the split.

Linda's arousal was dependent upon Dave's. Not upon Dave himself. Upon Dave's arousal. Did you notice? In the earlier encounters we didn't find this. Linda responded to his hands, to his face, to his voice, to various secondary male characteristics. She found him attractive. Mentally and physically. But toward the end she was much more aroused by the fact that he found her attractive. I don't want to get into a discussion of evolution or of psychology. I merely point this out; I ask you to consider the implications. We have a sort of loop between the male and the female, and the conduit is the female's body. It has been said-and we will be trying to determine, as we move on to other subjects, different ages, different s.e.xes, whether it has been oversaid-that any romantic entanglement between a male and a female is, in fact, a triangle, and the third party is the female's body. It is the hostage between them, the bridge or the barrier. At least in this case. Let's be cautious here. At least for Linda. I'm ready for questions.

I would imagine that being told you had a nice chin was about as exciting as being told you had nice teeth. But this is just a guess. Linda was hardly listening at this point.

They went to Dutchman, a movie in which a white female seduces and destroys a black male. It made for an uncomfortable evening. Yes?

Well, the Joey Heatherton choice would have been problematical, too. No, I understand your interest. We'll look at Lauren more later. I promise.

n.o.body has a clue as to what the lyrics to "The Weight" mean. I doubt that the man who wrote it could answer this question. He was probably just making it rhyme.

Are there any more questions?

Anything at all?

Then I'm ready to dismiss you. Be thinking about what you've absorbed. Next time we'll begin to look for common themes and for differences. It should be enlightening. The course is Comparative Romance. The point of view is female. We'll start next time with questions. When you've thought about it some more, I'm sure you'll have questions.

GAME NIGHT AT THE FOX AND GOOSE.

The reader will discover that my reputation, wherever I have lived, is endorsed as that of a true and pure woman.

-Laura D. Fair Alison called all over the city trying to find a restaurant that served blowfish, but there wasn't one. She settled for Chinese. She would court an MSG attack. And if none came, then she'd been craving red bean sauce anyway. On the way to the restaurant, Alison chose not to wear her seat belt.

Alison had been abandoned by her lover, who was so quick about it she hadn't even known she was pregnant yet. She couldn't ever tell him now. She sat pitifully alone, near the kitchen, at a table for four.

YOU'VE REALLY SCREWED UP THIS TIME, her fortune cookie told her. GIVE UP. And, in small print: CHIN'S ORIENTAL PALACE.

The door from the kitchen swung open, so the air around her was hot for a moment, then cold when the door closed. Alison drank her tea and looked at the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. They were easy to read. He doesn't love you, they said. She tipped them out onto the napkin and tried to rearrange them, YOU FOOL. She covered the message with the one remaining wonton, left the cookie for the kitchen G.o.d, and decided to walk all by herself in the dark, three blocks up Hillside Drive, past two alleyways, to have a drink at the Fox and Goose. No one stopped her.

Alison had forgotten it was Monday night. Sometimes there was music in the Fox and Goose. Sometimes you could sit in a corner by yourself listening to someone with an acoustic guitar singing "Killing Me Softly." On Monday nights the television was on and the bar was rather crowded. Mostly men. Alison swung one leg over the only empty bar stool and slid forward. The bar was made of wood, very upscale.

"What can I get the pretty lady?" the bartender asked, without taking his eyes off the television screen. He wore gla.s.ses, low on his nose. Alison was not a pretty lady and didn't feel like pretending she was. "I've been used and discarded," she told the bartender. "And I'm pregnant. I'd like a gla.s.s of wine."

"You really shouldn't drink if you're pregnant," the man sitting to Alison's left said. "Two more downs and they're already in field goal range again."

The bartender set the wine in front of Alison. He was shaking his head. "Pregnant women aren't supposed to drink much," he warned her.

"How?" the man on her left asked.

"How do you think?" said Alison.