James arrived at the university just before classes started in October and was gone by Christmas. Two or three years later, I saw him twice on separate occasions near Jungmanova Square. He didn't see me, nor was it easy to catch him to have a word. His stride determined. His pace steady. I could have, but thought better of it. I had the same disease, and by that point my symptoms had become worse, yet the opposite of his.
We shared an office, kitchen, and living quarters in a building called simply H. It also had a library down- and classrooms upstairs where we taught.
He arrived with nothing. He said by bus from Prague. He wore the same clothes every day, to the casual eye clean and pressed. His shoes betrayed no surrender to his malignancy. But for a missing tooth or two, he was nice looking, clean and well groomed. He mentioned an abdominal hernia twice, but said he didn't want to spend the money to take care of it. Eating string beans from a can seemed to help somehow. The housekeeper reported, somewhat astonished, that there was nothing in his room when she cleaned once a week.
No books either, no papers. Apparently he had published or was a kind of authority on interaction, a language specialist with experience at home and abroad. At a departmental meeting before the term started, he demonstrated a way to assess students, documented on a folded typewritten paper with nothing on it to identify author or origin. We adopted the technique and clutched copies of his instructions.
He did not prepare for his lessons. Just appeared in the office a few minutes before class, borrowed a book and perhaps a piece of paper, and left for his duties. Afterwards, unprompted, he recounted what had happened with his different groups, and we easily visualized what must have taken place. We were familiar with the materials and the obligatory lessons that supported them. We heard nothing from his students. Apparently he survived classes unscathed, or they did.
It was during the day in the office or in the hallways that he manifested the symptom all could see but none could understand or accept. He talked and talked at length, punctuated now and then by a question that became rhetorical--the uneasy listener had no time to answer. Incessant it was; then abruptly, as if on some small cue received via remote sensing, it would stop, and he would politely apologize and continue on his way. Always on his way somewhere. Sometimes he disappeared for a few hours. Or into the evening. He came and went frequently from the city, again by bus.
Other than the unexplained disappearances when not working, he seemed to like gatherings. Meeting his students in class. Departmental get-togethers. Mealtimes in the kitchen with other residents. But some gatherings didn't especially like him. So talkative was he, often about interesting but unrelated things, that the lesser and younger among us began to shun him. It is hard to piss off others in such a short time, but in confined spaces one can. And he did. Never impolite or offensive, it was only the ceaseless flow of words that got to people. He was soon the object for evasive action.
A larger gathering took place where the administration announced changes that affected those residing in H. He attended and observed without contributing. Afterwards, commenting on one of his countrymen, he told how he could imagine this one who claimed to be an insulted English gentleman. He said his indignation would have been more effective if he had slapped the rector with his lace glove after the perceived affront. We had a great laugh as he slipped into silence and left for somewhere.
I invited him to lunch to talk about managing what was hurting him. We worked out a system. If things got going in the wrong direction, I would signal and he would know what to do. But it was too late. The words continued to flow not ebb, and grate. And I was not always around to befriend a man in need of the compassion that perhaps only I could give.
The university found itself in a budgetary crisis. (Don't they all?) And something or someone had to go by the beginning of the next term in February. He volunteered. He said he had an offer in Prague. He mentioned a specific school or institute. No one tried to dissuade him. He donated his final salary back to the university, saying he didn't need it. And I guess he didn't.
A friend had bequeathed him a flat in the center of Prague. And an uncle was it?, had won a lottery, or he had, somewhere, perhaps Australia. There was plenty of money in a bank account he could use if he wanted to. His wife and child had been killed in a car accident.
Jim was a person, a subject made object by his own behavior. He didn't deserve it. And forgiveness for not treating him repeatedly as a person escapes those who behaved so, but for their own dis-eases. What this courtesy takes remains a mystery, though surely it takes empathy. But the subject human heart is frail; frailer still if trapped in the cacophony or silence that can mystify others who would have us be otherwise.
The second time I saw Jim after he left, he appeared older and frail. I have looked for him in Prague since, meaning to stop him and visit if he would like. I have yet to run into him.
