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7. June-September 2005
- University of Michigan Press
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Chapter Seven June–September 2005 Three other people—the gallery curator, the director of special programs and the theater manager—sat in a small circle in Valerie’s of‹ce, ready to plan next year’s season. It was June, so “next year’s season” didn’t mean the upcoming season (which would start in the fall) but the subsequent year’s offerings. Valerie had already e-mailed her idea to the gathered. “So . . . hate,” Leo began uncertainly, the pads of his ‹ngers pressed together for push-ups. The gesture was so un-Leo, even though he made it all the time, that Valerie half-expected him to add a Groucho face and waggle an invisible cigar. “Yes,” Valerie said. “Hate. You got something against hate?” “Me?” Leo said, pretend-defensive. He was the director of special programs and had been at the center longer than anyone else. “Certainly not. I love hate. Hate’s the best. But . . .” “But what?” Though Valerie was the center’s director, Leo was, to Valerie’s mind at least, its heart. He was the smartest of the bunch of them, though suf‹ciently disorganized (or so everyone claimed) that he wouldn’t have made a good director. Valerie, prompt and thorough, knew how to sweet-talk donors, but she had nothing of Leo’s vision. Kaavya—the gallery curator—answered Valerie’s question. “Well, with hate . . . what would we do?” 64 “What would we do?” Valerie echoed, confused. The words sounded inelegant in her mouth. Kaavya spoke English with a strong Nepalese accent, which made her seem, for all her youth, remarkably aristocratic. “What is an art exhibit about hate? I just don’t get it. And what about ‹lms? A lot of ‹lms about skinheads? It will be a pretty dismal year around here.” “It just seems to me,” Valerie began, though she was already unsure about her suggestion, “that hate is the topic of our times. Remember how after 9/11 all these people were saying, ‘Oh, why do they hate us so much?’ as if the answer weren’t perfectly obvious?” “I can see a play about hate, but a gallery exhibit?” “Are you talking about hate?” Leo put in. “Maybe you mean religious fanaticism. Maybe that is the topic of our times.” “No, not really,” Valerie said. “I mean think of all the people we hate. Don’t you hate George W. and Donald Rumsfeld? Don’t you hate all the apologists for their government? It’s been how long, and I can’t get that Abu Ghraib image out of my head. You know, with all the naked men piled on top of each other. Or the man on a leash. How can you not hate the person responsible for that? And just all the bloodshed in Iraq. Sometimes I wonder that there is anyone left over there to get killed. And what can we do? Add our name to an e-mail list? I used to trust my vote . . . that was the way I’d effect change, but this isn’t a democracy. It’s a stupidocracy. It makes me long for Plato’s Republic. You know, we’d agree that we’re all equal, but to vote, we’d insist on an intelligence test . . .” “Maybe a morality quiz,” Leo put in. “Right!” Valerie said, though she suspected Leo was calling her on her self-righteousness. How impossible. When you were the most earnest and upset, you came off as a jerk. “I mean,” she said, but with less passion, “we can’t even get the good guys elected in this country.” Bonnie, the theater director, said, “What good guys?” Leo nodded, though not in agreement. He was processing everyone ’s words. The large windows of Valerie’s of‹ce overlooked State Street. On the sidewalk below, a man palmed a single slice of watermelon, rind and all, into his mouth in one smooth gesture. Christ. 65 [3.15.202.129] Project MUSE (2024-04-18 00:56 GMT) But no, Valerie saw, it wasn’t watermelon; the man was slipping in his teeth “People care about all that,” Kaavya commented, hooking her ‹nger around the spike of one of her high heels and pulling it up under her, as if for a yoga move that required the prop of expensive shoes. Kaavya was engaged to a man back home, though everything about her—today she was wearing a short camel skirt and a tight red shirt over...