It was true, he had been polishing the desk. At least the top. But a pile of her things lay on the carpet where he’d dumped them—memos, papers, pens, a personal letter from a friend in Boston, a two-page letter from the editor of The Meridian saying that he would like to publish her essay but would she consider making certain deletions and adding a few more paragraphs on the subject of . . . Marya’s face burned with shame, that Sylvester could see this; that he should have the opportunity to guess how she might be measured elsewhere, judged, found deficient. (If Sylvester took the time to read. If indeed he could read at all.)

You black bastard, she whispered.

SHE REHEARSED FUTURE confrontations with Sylvester. (“You must stop harassing me or I will be forced to report you to . . .”) She rehearsed an interview with the department’s executive secretary, even with the chairman of the department himself. (“This is a very minor matter but I suppose it might become more serious and so I thought . . . I don’t want to really file a complaint of any official kind but . . .”)

Sometimes, alone in her apartment or, working late, alone in her office, she rehearsed a ghostly exchange: Why do you hate me, Sylvester, what have I done to provoke you? . . . Pro-fessor I doan know what in hell you talkin’ about. . . . But Sylvester why do you hate me when I’m nice to you haven’t I always been nice to you how have I provoked you? . . . Professor I’m tellin’ you I doan know what kind of shit you handin’ me, ain’t I paid to do my job . . . ain’t I paid to do my job . . . ?

MARYA, FOR YEARS so absorbed in her work that she had never had much time for colleagues, fell quickly into the habit of speaking with them—talking, laughing, gossiping, even dawdling—whenever she had the opportunity. If Sylvester observed he would understand that she had companions, friends. She had people to protect her should she require protection.

Their names were Ian, and Florence, and Ralph, and Gregory, and a visiting professor named John from Trinity College, Dublin, whose laughter was gratifyingly loud and warming. On lightless winter days Marya readily consented to invitations for lunch at the faculty club, or a cup of coffee, even a drink . . . even dinner, if she wasn’t too pressed for time. She imagined Sylvester watching her from a darkened doorway or a basement window, taking note, revising his plans.