The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
cisely that: an assumption, without factual grounding. I know that he was
quite a good linguist and that in this department he was considered an expert
in his field, perhaps because there are so few Baltic historians outside of Germany,
Russia, and the Baltics themselves. I know that he was also a remarkably
poor teacher.” Professor Jadid paused, again tapping the toe of his shoe
in thought. Both of his shoes were particularly worn at the toes. I had never
noticed this habit before, but this might have been the first time we had spoken
standing up.
“I also feel that I shall miss him terribly, not because we were particularly
close but because he carried himself with an air of mystery and perpetual
gloom, and I always found that a sovereign antidote—and please, Mr. Tomm,
do not take this as a generational slur—an antidote against the Frisbeetossing
cheerfulness so prevalent here.
“I can see in so many of my students an absolute certainty that nothing bad
will ever happen to them. Wars, plagues, detentions, beatings—all things to sign
petitions about on their way from the post office to the gym. As a fellow immigrant,
I can tell you that it takes more effort than you might think to preserve a
manner such as Jaan’s: generally either we become more American than the
Americans or we develop a hard shell of contempt for everything about our
new home. Jaan was invariably himself, and that is praise of a high order.”
I glanced down at my watch. The professor, sensitive and tactful as ever,
glanced at his and pulled the door shut behind him. “Wednesday afternoons
this semester, I find myself teaching a Hansa seminar, and I fear I shall be
late. Are you rushing away quickly, or might I be able to convince you to stroll
around your old stomping grounds for ninety minutes and then join me for
an afternoon drink at Fitzgerald’s?”
The invitation alone was worth the trip—I felt as though I had just passed
a test of some sort—even if I had to leave. We began walking down to the
lobby together. “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to my office this afternoon.
A two-hour drive.”
He pressed his lips together, shut his eyes, shrugged, and tilted his head to
one side, then the other: a Groucho Marx pantomime of resignation. “Ah,
well. An old man is a ridiculous thing. If you plan to return at all, I should
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