Blear

Alexei Eremin

The main hero of the short-story is Peter Blear – 35 y.o. professor of Ancient History at American University. Peter Blear is rather shy man, who lives lonely and is despised by his boss Joann. But on his vacation he goes back…

Blear

Alexei Eremin

…and to God the things that are God’s.

© Alexei Eremin, 2020

ISBNВ 978-5-4474-8782-9

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

ChapterВ I

The curtain-veiled window was ajar. A thin ray stretched diagonally through the dim office to the desk. A smoldering wisp rose diagonally following the ray of sunlight towards the window, originating from a square malachite ashtray… rough, as if created by an ancient master. Behind the desk sat Professor Peter Blear. He was thirty five. His reddened eyes peered at the monitor through rectangular horn-rimmed glasses. His right hand slowly dragged the mouse towards him on its mat – lines of Greek text made way for fresh ones. Above the lines were reflected two balding patches surrounded by short black hair. He glanced down and jotted something on a sheet of paper, his neck pricked by sprouting stubble. The sparsely adorned back of his head illuminated the screen.

His autarchic boss Joan, director of the university’s Ancient History Department at the Faculty of History, had gone home long ago. Every wily professor had also cleared out, leaving him with the scientific conference program project. He wrote e-mails to his colleagues until late that evening and toiled in search of new publications on the Internet covering “Economic and Cultural Delian League Member City-State Inter-relationships”. Peter read, wrote, typed. But sometimes, like red wine in an amphora, his body filled with ardent fury. He threw the mouse – it hung from the table by its cord. He threw a pen – it bounced off the staunchly latched door. He pushed off from his desk – his wheeled office chair slammed into the wall. Everyone was off taking care of their own business, once again dumping their workload on him. As usual, he had failed to refuse!

But the tension vanished when he remembered that his vacation begins on Friday. He smiled thinking about this, using his heels to drag the office chair back to its initial location. With a smile that wouldn’t leave his round face, he kept reading about ancient Greece in Greek, English and German.

In the morning, during a break between courses, Joan scribbled all over Peter’s plan while grimacing. She was a tall forty-ish buxom American whose chest was always in her interlocutor’s face, and which students couldn’t help staring at. Her face, when she spoke to him or about him, was always as agitated as the tempestuous sea. It either winced with discontent or displayed a forced smile. Blear found Joan unpleasant; because of her insincerity, her loud voice… but even more because of the sheepishness she inspired in him. He listened to her dissatisfied remarks. He felt uncomfortable that her abrupt barking, like that of a drill sergeant, could be heard in the hallway where teachers and students passed, even though he knew everyone was used to her power over him. Joan, as if on purpose, continued to speak louder and louder. Peter continued to fear telling her to tone it down. More than shame, he felt irritated knowing that the conference plan used in the end will be his. She’ll only shuffle a few words around and change the title. But he kept his irritation under control. He just sat before her like a student, hands on his knees, fingernails lined up in neat rows like the shields mounted along the flanks of a Greek trireme.

Leaving the office toВ get toВ his course, he got aВ sympathetic glance from Liz, secretary at the Faculty ofВ History. It was humiliating.

Peter walked in the hallway – everyone seemed to be staring at him with indulgence or superiority – he looked down as usual. Students often forgot to greet him, or smiled silently while trying to crush Peter with haughty looks – teachers crossed h