'Here is a young African-American lady,' explained Monty, bringing his signet-ringed right hand down solidly on the arm of the Victorian chair, 'who has 110 college education and 110 college experience, who did not graduate from her high school, who yet believes that somehow the academic world of Wellington owes her a place within its hallowed walls -and why? As restitution for her own -or her family's -misfortunes. Actually, the problem is larger than that. These children are being encouraged to claim reparation for history itself. They are being used as political pawns -they are being fed lies. It depresses me terribly.'

It was strange being spoken to like this, as if in an audience of one. Kiki wasn't sure how to reply.

'I don't think I ... what was it she wanted from you, exactly?'

'In the simplest terms: she wants to continue taking a Wellington class for which she does not pay and for which she is entirely unqualified. She wants this because she is black and poor. What a demoralizing philosophy! What message do we give to our children when we tell them that they are not fit for the same meritocracy as their white counterparts?'

In the silence that followed this rhetorical question, Monty sighed again.

'And so this girl comes to me -into my house, this mOming, without warning -to ask me to recommend to the board that she be kept in a class that she is illegally attending. She thinks because she is in my church, beca use she has helped with our charity work, that I will bend the rules for her. Because I am, as they say here, her "brother"? I told her I was unwilling to do that. And we see the result. A tantrum!'

'Ah ...' said Kiki, and folded her arms. 'Now, I know about this. Ifrm not mistaken, my daughter's fighting in the opposite corner.' Monty smiled. 'So she is. She gave an extremely impressive speech. I fear she might give me a run for my money.' 'Oh, honey,' said Kiki, shaking her head the way people do in church, 'I know she will.'

Monty nodded graciously.

'But what about your pie?' he asked, affecting a heartbroken face. 'I suppose this means the houses ofKipps and Belsey are once again at war.'

'No ... I don't see why that should be so. All's fair in love and ... and academia.'

Monty smiled again. He checked his watch and rubbed a hand over his belly. 'But unforrunately it is time, not ideology, that comes in the way of your pie and me. I must get to college. I wish we could spend the morning eating it. It was truly thoughtful of you to bring it.'

'Oh, another time. But are you walking into town?'

'Yes, I always walk. Are you going that way?' Kiki nodded. 'In which case, let us perambulate together,' he said rolling his r magnificently. He put both hands on his knees and stood up, and, as he did, Kiki noticed the blank wall behind him.

'Oh!'

Monty looked up at her inquiringly.

'No, it's just -the painting -wasn't there a painting there? Of a woman?'

Monty rurned to look at the blank space. 'As a matter of fact there was -how did you know that?'

'Oh, well -I spent some time with Carlene in here and she spoke about that painting. She told me how much she loved it. The woman was a goddess of some kind, wasn't she? Like a symbol. She was so beautiful.'

'Well,' said Monty, turning back to face Kiki, 'I can assure you she is still beautiful -she has simply moved location. I decided to hang her in the Black Studies Department, in my office. It's... well, she's good company: he said sadly. He held his forehead for a moment in his hand. Then he crossed the room and opened the door to let Kiki out.

'You must miss your wife so much: said Kiki zealously. She would have been shocked to be accused of emotional vampirism here, for she meant only to show this bereaved man that she empathized, but, either way, Monty did not oblige her. He said nothing and passed Kiki her overcoat.

They left the house. Together they walked along the thin strip of sidewalk the neighbourhood's snow shovels had collectively unearthed.

'You know ... I was interested in what you were saying, back there, about it being a "demoralizing philosophy": said Kiki, and at the same time carefully scanned the ground before her for any black ice. 'I mean, I certainly wasn't done any favours in my life nor was my mother, nor was her mother... and nor were my children... 1 always gave them the opposite idea, you know? Like my mamma said to me: You gotta work five times as hard as the white girl sitting next to you. And that was sure as hell true. But I feel tom ... because I've always been a supporter of affirmative action, even if 1 personally felt uncomfortable about it sometimes -1 mean, obviously my husband has been heavily involved in it. But I was interested in the way you expressed that. It makes you think about it again.'

'Opportunity: announced Monty, 'is a right -but it is not a gift. Rights are earned. And opportunity must come through the proper channels. Otherwise the system is radically devalued.'

A tree in front of them shuddered a shelf of snow from its branches on to the street. Monty held a protective arm out to stop Kiki passing. He pointed to a runnel between two ice banks, and they walked along this into the open road, only rejoining the sidewalk at the fire station.

'But: protested Kiki, 'isn't the whole point that here, in America -1 mean I accept the situation is different in Europe -but here, in this country, that our opportunities have been severely retarded, backed up or however you want to put it, by a legacy ofstolen rights -and to put that right, some allowances, concessions and support are what's needed? It's a matter ofredressing the balance -because we all know it's been unbalanced a damn long time. In my mamma's neighbourhood, you could still see a segregated bus in 1973. And that's true. This stuff is close. It's recent.'

'As long as we encourage a culture of victim hood: said Monty, with the rhythmic smoothness of self-quotation, 'we will continue to raise victims. And so the cycle of underachievement continues.'

'Well: said Kiki, holding on to a fence-post so she could hop heavily over a big puddle, 'I don't know ... I just think it stinks of a kind of, well, a kind of self-hatred when we've got black folks arguing against opportunities for black folks. I mean -we don't need to be arguing among ourselves at this point. There's a war on! We got black kids dying on the front line on the other side of the world, and they're in that army 'cos they think college has got nothing to offer them. I mean, that's the reality here.'

Monty shook his head and smiled. 'Mrs Belsey -are you informing me that I am to let unqualified students into my classes to prevent them from joining the United States Army?'

'Call me Kiki -well, OK, maybe that's not the argument I want to pursue -but this self-hatred. When I look at Condoleezza, and Co-lin -God! I want to be sick -I see this rabid need to separate themselves away from the rest of us -it's like "We got the opportunity and now the quota's full and thank you very much, adios." It's that right-wing black self-hatred -I'm sorry if I offend you by saying that, but I mean ... isn't that a part of it? I'm not even talking politics now, I'm talking about a kind of, of, of psychology.'

They had reached the top ofWellington Hill and now heard the various church bells ring in the midday. Laid out beneath them, tucked up in its bed ofsnow, was one ofthe most peaceful, affluent, well-educated and pretty towns in America.

'Kiki, if there's one thing I understand about you liberals, it's how much you like to be told a fairy tale. You complain about creation myths -but you have a dozen ofyour own. Liberals never believe that conservatives are motivated by moral convictions as profoundly held as those you liberals profess yourselves to hold. You choose to believe that conservatives are motivated by a deep self. hatred, by some form of... psychologicaljlaw. But, my dear, that's the most comforting fairytale of them all!'

Zora Belsey's real talent was not for poetry but persistence. She could dispatch three letters in an afternoon, all to the same reCipient. She was the master of redial. She compiled petitions and issued ultimatums. When the ciry ofWellingron served Zora with (in her opinion) an undeserved parking ticket, it was not Zora but the ciry -five months and thirry phone calls later -which backed down.

In cyberspace, Zora's powers ofperseverance found their truest expression. Two weeks had passed since the faculry meeting, and in that time Claire Malcolm had received thirry-three -no, thirryfoure-mails from Zora Belsey. Claire knew this because she had just got Liddy Cantalino to print them all out. Now she shuffled them into a neat pile on her desk and waited. At exactly two o'clock, there came a knock on her door.

'Come in!'

Erskine's long umbrella entered the room and rapped twice upon the floor. Erskine followed, in a blue shirt paired with a green jacket, the combination of which did strange things to Claire's vision.

'Hi, Ersk -thanks so much for coming. I know this is not your problem at all. But I really appreciate your input.'

'At your service,' said Erskine, and bowed.

Claire threaded her fingers together. 'Basically, I just need back-up -I'm being lobbied by Zora Belsey to help this kid stay in class, and I'm willing to lend my voice, but ultimately I'm powerless here, really -but she simply won't take my word for it.'

'Are these they?' asked Erskine, reaching for the printouts on the desk and then sitting down. 'The collected letters of Zora Belsey.'

'She's driving ine crazy. She's totally obsessed with this issue and, I mean, I'm behind her. Imagine what it would be like to be against her.'

'lmagine: said Erskine. He took his reading glasses from his top pocket.

'She's got this enormous petition going that the students are signing -she wants me to overtum the rules of this university overnight -but 1 can't create a place for this kid at Wellington! 1 really enjoy having him in my class, but if Kipps gets the board to rule against discretionaries, what can 1do? My hands are tied. And I just feel like I never stop working at the moment -I've got unmarked papers coming out ofmy ears, lowe my publishers three different books now -I'm conducting my marriage through e-mail, Ijust -'

'Shhhh, shhhh: said Erskine and laid his hand over Claire's. His skin was very dry and puffY and warm. 'Claire -leave it with me, will you please? 1know Zora Belsey well -1have known her since she was a small girl. She loves to make a fuss, but she is rarely very attached to the fuss she makes. 1will deal with this.'

'Would you? You're a darling! I'm just so exhau.sted.'

'I must say, 1 do rather like these subject titles she uses: said Erskine whimSically. 'Very dramatic. Re: Forty Acres and a Mule. Re: Fighting for the Right to Participate. Re: Can Our Colleges Purchase Talent? Well: is the young man very talented?'

Claire scrunched up her little freckied nose. 'Well, yes. 1mean he's completely untutored, but -no, yes, he is. He's extremely charismatic, very good-looking. Very good-looking. Carl's a rapper, really -he's a very good rapper -and he is talented -he's enthusiastic. He's great to teach. Erskine, please -is there anything you can do here? Something you can find this kid to do on campus?'

'I have it. Let's give him tenure!'

They both laughed, but Claire's laugh slid to a whimper. She ptopped her elbow on the desk and rested her face in her hand.

'I just don't want to kick him back out on to the street. 1 really don't. We both know the likelihood is that next month the board is going to vote against discretionaries and then he'll be out on his ass. But if he had something else to do that ... I know I probably should never have accepted him into the class in the first place, but now I've made this undertaking and I'm feeling like I've bitten off more .. : Claire's phone started to ring. She held up her index finger in front of her face and took the call.

'Can I ... ?' mouthed Erskine, standing and holding the printouts up in the air. Claire nodded. Erskine waved goodbye with his umbrella.

Erskine's great talent -aside from his encyclopedic knowledge of African literature -lay in making people feel far more important than they actually were. He had many techniques. You might receive an urgent message from Erskine's secretary on your voicemail, which arrived simultaneously with an e-mail and a handwritten note in your college box. He might take you aside at a party and share with you an intimate story from his childhood that, as a recently arrived female graduate from UCLA, you could not know had already been intimately shared with every other female student in the department. He was skilled in the diverse arts offalse flattery, empty deference and the appearance of respectful attention. It might seem, when Erskine praised you or did you a professional favour, that it was you who were benefiting. And you might indeed benefit. But, in almost every case, Erskine was benefiting more. Putting you forward for the great honour of speaking at the Baltimore conference simply saved Erskine from having to attend the Baltimore conference. Mentioning your name in connection with the editorship of the anthology meant that Erskine himself was free of one more promise he had made to his publisher, which, due to other commitments, he was unable to fulfil, But where is the harm in this? You are happy and Erskine is happy! Thus did Erskine run his academic life at Wellington. Occasionally, however, Erskine came across difficult souls whom he could not make happy. Mere praise did not pacify their tempers or ease their dislike and suspicion of him. In these cases, Erskine 37'

had an ace up his sleeve. When someone was determined to destroy his peace and well-being, when they refused to either like him or to allow him to live the quiet life he most desired, when they were, as in the case of Carl Thomas, giving someone a headache who was in rum giving Erskine a headache, in situations like this, Erskine, in his capacity as Assistant Director ofthe Black Srudies Department, simply gave them a job. He created a job where before there had been only floor space. Chief Librarian of the Afiican-American Music Library had been one such invented post. Hip-Hop Archivist was a narural progression.

Never in his life had Carl had a job like this one. The pay was basic admin wage (Carl had been paid a similar amount to file papers in a lawyer's office and to answer calls on the desk of a black radio station). That wasn't the point. He was being hired because he knew about this subject, this thing called hip-hop, and knew much more about it than the average Joe -more maybe than anyone else in this university. He had a skill, and this job required his particular skill. He was an archivist. And when his pay cheques came to his mother's apartment in Roxbuty they came in Wellington envelopes printed with the Wellington crest. These Carl's mother left in conspicuous spots around their kitchen for guests to see. And he didn't even have to wear a suit. In fact, the more casual he looked, the better everybody in the department seemed to like it. His workplace was a closed-off corridor at the back ofthe Black Srudies Department with three small rooms leading from it. In one of these rooms was a circular desk, and this he shared with a Ms Elisha Park, the Chief Librarian of the Music Library. She was a little fat black girl, a graduate srudent from a third-rate college way down South, whom Erskine had met on one ofhis book tours. Like Carl, she felt a mixrure of awe and resentment faced with the gtandeur of Wellington, and together they formed a gang oftwo, always steeled for the contempt of the srudents and faculty, but equally appreciative when 'they' treated 'us" kindly. They worked well together, both quietly industrious, each on their own computer, although, while Elisha beavered away at her'context cards' -earnest vignettes of black music history that were to be filed next to the CDs and records themselves -Carl barely ever used his computer for anything except Googling. Usefol Googling -part ofhis job was to research new releases and buy them in if he thought the archive should include them. He had a certain amount to spend each month. Buying records he loved was now part of his job. Within one week ofbeing thus employed he'd already spent the greater part of his budget for the month. Elisha didn't bawl him out, though. She was a calin, patient boss and, like most of the women Carl had come across in his life, was always trying to help him out, covering for him when he messed up. She kindly fiddled the figures a little and told him to be more careful next month. It was amazing. Carl's other task was to photocopy, alphabetize and file the covers from the older part of the archive, the 45S. There were some classics in there. Five guys with big afros in tiny pink shorts, hugging themselves, posing by a Cadillac that was being driven by a monkey in shades. Classics. When Carl's boys from the neighbourhood got to hear about Carl's new job, they couldn't believe it. Money for buying records! Getting paid to listen to music! Dog, you stealing they dollars from under they noses! Damn, that's sweet! Carl surprised himself by getting a little pissed at this kind of congratulation. Everybody kept telling him what a great gig he had, getting paid for doing nothing. But it wasn't nothing. Professor Erskine jegede himself had written Carl a welcome letter that said he was part of the effort to 'make a public record of our shared aural culture for future generations'. Now: how is that nothing?

The job was three days a week. Well, that was what he was expected to do, but actually he came in every day of the week. Sometimes Elisha looked at him a little worriedly -therejust wasn't enough work for him to fill five days. That is, he could photocopy the backlog of album covers for the next six months, but this had begun' to seem pOintless work, work they were giving him because they didn't think him capable of anything more. In fact, he had all kinds ofideas on how to improve the archive, how to make it more student-friendly. He wanted to get it set up like the big record stores, where you can walk in, pick up a pair ofearphones and have access to hundreds of different songs -except in Carl's archive, the earphones would be attached to computer equipment that automatically clisplayed the research articles that Elisha wrote and collated about the music in the archive.

'That sounds expensive,' said Elisha, upon hearing this plan.

'OK, sure, but somebody please tell me what the point of a library resource is if you can't even access the resources? Ain't nobody gonna borrow the old records -most kids don't even know what a record player is any more.'

'Still sounds expensive.'

Carl tried to get a meeting with Erskine to cliscuss his ideas, but the brother was never available, and when Carl bumped into him by chance in a hallway, Erskine appeared confused as to who Carl even was, and suggested he address all queries to the librarian what was her name? Oh; yes, Elisha Park. When Carl retold this story to Elisha, she took off her glasses and said something to Carl that resonated deeply with him, something he grasped and held to his heart like a lyric.

'This is the kind of job,' said Elisha, 'that you have to make something offor yourself. It's all very well walking through those gates and sitting in the lunchroom and pretencling that you're a Wellingtonian or whatever -' Here, if Carl's skin could blush, it would have. Elisha had his number. He did thrill to walk under those gates. He did love walking across the snowy quad with a knapsack on his back or sitting in that bustling cafeteria, for all the world as if he were the college student his mother had always dreamed he would be. 'But people like you and me,' continued Elisha severely, 'we're not really a part of this community, are we? I mean, no one's gonna help us feel that way. So if you want this job to be something special, you got to make it something special. No one's gonna do it for you, that's the truth.'

So, in his third week ofwork, Carl started to get into the research end of things. Economically and time-wise it clidn't make any sense to do this -no one was going to pay him more for the extra work.

But for the first time in his life he found he was interested in the work he was doing -he wanted to do it. And what was the point, after all, of Elisha (whose area of expertise was the Blues) always asking him this and that about rap artists and rap history, when he had a brain in his head and a keyboard at his disposal? The first thing he sat down to write was a context card on Tupac Shakur. All he meant to do was write a thousand-word bio, as Elisha had asked him to, and then pass it on to her so that she could notate it with one of her mini-discographies and bibliographies, pointing students to further listening and related reading. He sat down at the computer at ten in the morning. By lunchtime he'd written five thousand words. And all this without even getting to the bit where teenage Tupac leaves the East Coast for the West. Elisha suggested that instead of taking whole people as subjects he could take one aspect ofrap music in general, and make a note of all incidences of that aspect, so people could cross-reference. That didn't help. Five days ago, Carl had elected the subject of crossroads. All mention of crossroads, imagery on album covers of crossroads, and raps based on the idea of a crossroads in someone's life journey. Fifteen thousand words and counting. It was like suddenly he had a typing disease. Where was this disease when he was in school?

'Knock, knock: said Zora pointlessly, as she stuck her head into his office and tapped his door. 'Busy? I was just passing by, so.'

Carl pushed his cap offhis face and looked up from his keyboard, . annoyed by the disruption. Certainly, his intention was .always to be nice to Zora Belsey, for she had always been nice to him. But she did not make it easy. She was the kind of person who never gave you enough time to miss her. She 'passed by' his office pretty much twice a day, usually with news of her campaign to keep him in Claire Malcolm's poetry class. He hadn't been able to tell her yet that he no longer gave a damn ifhe stayed in that class or not.

'Hard at work -as always: she said and stepped into the room.

He was taken aback by the large amount of cleavage he was confronted with, pushed up and together in a tight white top that could not quite contain the goods it had been entrusted with. There was also a silly shawl-like thing around her shoulders instead of a coat, and this Zora was forced to keep rearranging, as the left side slipped down her back.

'Hello, ProftssorThomas. Thought I'd pay you a visit.'

'Hey: said Carl, and instinctively pushed his chair a litde further from the door. He took his ea!phones out. 'You look kinda different. You heading somewhere? You look very... aren't you cold?'

'No, not really -where's Elisha? Lunch?' Carl nodded and looked at his computer screen. He was in the middle of a sentence. Zora sat in Elisha's chair, and moved it round the desk until it was next to Carl's own.

'You want to get some lunch?' she asked. 'We could go out. I've got no class till three.' 'You know ... It's like 1 would, 'cept 1got all this shit to do ... 1 might as well just stay and do it... and then it'll be done.'

'Oh: said Zora. 'Oh, OK.'

'No, 1 mean, another time'd be cool -but I'm having trouble concentrating-I keep on getting a lot ofnoise from outside. People hollering for an hour. You happen to know what's going on out there?'

Zora stood, went to the window and opened the blind. 'Some kind of Haitian protest thing: she said, pulling open the sash. 'Oh, you can't see it from this angle. They're in the squate handing out leaflets. It's a big deal, lots ofpeople. 1 guess there's a march later.'

'I can't see them, but 1 can heat them, man, they loud. What's their beef anyway?'

'Minimum wage, getting shit on by everybody all the time -a lot of stuff, 1 guess.' Zora closed the window and sat down. She leaned into Carl's body to look at his computer. He covered the screen with his hands.

'Aw, man -don't be doing that -1 ain't even spellchecked it, man,'

Zora peeled his fingers from the monitor. 'Crossroads... The Tracy Chapman album?'

'No: said Catl, 'the motif.'

'Oh, 1 see: said Zora in a teaSing voice. 'Pardon me. The motif'

'You think 1 can't know a word 'cos you know it, is that it?' demanded Carl, and immediately regretted it. You couldn't get angry with middle-class people like that -they got upset too quickly.

'No -I -I mean, no, Carl, I didn't mean it like that.'

'Oh, man ... I know you didn't. Calm down, there.' He patted her hand softly. He couldn't know about the electric whoosh that went through her body when he did that. Now she looked at him funny.

'Why're you looking at me weird like that?'

'No, I was just. , . I'm so proud of you.'

Carl laughed.

'Seriously. You're an amazing person. Look at what you've achieved, what you're achieving every day. That's so my whole point. You deserve to be at this university. You're about fifteen times as brilliant and hard-working as most ofthese over-privileged assholes.'

'Man, shut up.'

'Well, it's true.'

'What's tme is that I wouldn't be doing none of this if] hadn't met you. So there you go, if you're gonna start getting all Oprah about the situation.'

'Now, you shut up: said Zora beaming.

'Let's both shut the hell up: suggested Carl, and touched his keyboard. His screen, which had gone to sleep in the last few seconds, came back to life. He tried to retrace the thread ofhis last half-written sentence.

'I got fifty more signatures on the petition -they're in my bag. Do you want to see them?'

It took Carl a moment to remember what she was talking about. 'Oh, right ... that's cool ... no, don't bother taking them out or nothing ... that's cool, though. Thank you, Zora. I really appreciate what you're doing for me thete.'

Zora said nothing, but audaciously followed through on a plan she had been hatching since before Christmas: the reciprocal hand pat. She touched the top of his hand twice, quickly. He did not scream. He did not run from the room.

'Seriously, I'm interested: she said, nodding at the computer. She inched her chair still closer to him. Carl leaned back in his own chair and casually explained to her a little about the image of the crossroads and how frequently rappers use it. Crossroads to represent personal decisions and choices, to represent 'going straight', to represent the history ofhip-hop itself, the split between 'conscious' lyrics and 'gangsta'. The more he spoke, the more animated and absorbed he became by his subject.

'See, I was using it all the time myself -never even thought about why. And then Elisha says to me: 'member that mural in Roxbury, the one with the chair hanging from that arch? And I'm like, yeah, of course, man, 'cos I live right by there -you know the one I'm talking about?'

'Vaguely: said Zora, but she had only been to Roxbury once on a walking tour, during Black History Month back when she was in high school.

'So you got the crossroads painted there, right? And the snakes and this guy -who obviously I now know is Robert johnson -I lived my whole life next door to this mural, never knew who the brother was ... anyway: that's johnson in the picture, sitting at the crossroads waiting to sell his soul to the devil. And that's why (man, there's a lot of noise out there). That's why there's a real chair hanging from the archway in that alley. My whole life I been wondering why someone hung a chair in that alley. It's meant to be johnson's chair, right? Sitting at the crossroad.