The Incorrect Columns of Uncle Cosimo

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 1

Near the end of the sixth year of my service in the English department at The University of the West, I was told by my department head that I had not published enough scholarship to make me a strong candidate to be awarded tenure two years hence. That, of course, would mean my dismissal and burden me with additional difficulty in starting a career elsewhere because I had failed in a top ranked university. In my own defense, I asserted that it was not contempt for scholarship but a neophyte’s enthusiasm for teaching that had limited the amount of my published scholarship. Indeed, Dr. Reynolds commended my teaching performance while he emphasized the dim prospects for my long term employment at the prestigious west coast institution.

A solution to the ominous possibility of a career setback came to me shortly after my meeting with Dr. Reynolds. I had resolved during my graduate student days that I would one day write a literary biography of my uncle, the journalist turned novelist Cosimo Fortunato. I had intended to wait until I felt myself to be a seasoned enough scholar to do him justice. However, I could imagine no worthier or more enjoyable accomplishment to salvage my endangered academic career than to delay no further to write about my uncle’s career as a novelist. A study of my uncle’s fiction would be a perfect marriage of pragmatism and pleasure to rescue my academic career. I would make the book my task for the coming year, I concluded.

Of course, it would be impossible to complete the book in a year’s time unless I devoted myself exclusively to the effort. Therefore, I applied for a leave with pay to support my fulltime commitment to the research and writing. The administration of UW in due course approved my leave with pay for the coming university year. The reduced level of income would require a more Spartan existence than I had for sometime enjoyed, but the freedom to concentrate and write would more than make up for living more simply.

I attacked the completion of my teaching duties for the current academic year with heightened enthusiasm as I contemplated spending all my energy during the coming year on a project that I would have wanted to do even if it were not undertaken to save my career at the University of the West. I was anxious to continue at UW because I respected the caliber of the university’s students and the brilliance of my colleagues. I was proud to be a part of a lively environment in which young, able minds were nourished by mature and learned ones.

On the day when I came to the English department office to turn in my grades, my last obligation before beginning my leave, I received a nasty surprise. Dr. Reynolds called me into his office to give me the stunning news that the senior administration had cancelled my paid leave. I stared at him in disbelief as he, showing visible discomfort, told me that he would soon work out a teaching assignment for me for the coming year. When I was able to speak, I asked if there were some fiscal emergency that necessitated the cancellation of sabbatical leaves for the coming year. Reynolds replied that there was no fiscal difficulty that he was aware of. Furthermore, his phone calls to several other department heads had revealed that paid leaves in their departments had not been cancelled.

Reynolds eyed me warily and asked with reluctance, You haven’t done something I don’t know about to annoy the senior administration, have you, Dawson?

I responded that I was well enough acquainted with the culture of university life that I, as a probationary instructor, knew better than to jeopardize my survival by affronting the people whose prerogative it was to give final approval to my re-appointment each year. Besides, I pointed out, I was too busy to engage in faculty politics, for which I had little enthusiasm even if I had had time to be spent frivolously.

Well, Reynolds muttered as he shook his head perplexedly, if you’ve kept a low profile, I can’t imagine why you’re being singled out for adverse treatment. He stared at me thoughtfully some time before continuing.

It’s ironic, he began cautiously. When we hired you, the problem I expected to face would be frequent pressure to show favoritism toward you.

Why would you have expected that? I asked defensively. I had always made my own way professionally and resented a perception that I might progress through influence rather than ability.

Come on, Dawson, Reynolds chided. You are T. Chase Goldsmith’s grandson, after all. Your grandfather is one of the university’s biggest contributors. I’ve always appreciated that you have never once used that fact to get yourself special treatment.

You should have said something to me about this long ago, Dr. Reynolds, I said with regret. Except for sharing a surname, my grandfather Goldsmith and I have had nothing to do with each other for years. Although I did have occasional brief contact with him during the first twenty years of my life, I haven’t even seen my Grandfather Goldsmith for the last thirteen years, I explained. It made me angry to realize that anyone would think that T. Chase Goldsmith would exert influence on my behalf. There was no communication, let alone affection, between us, and I was angered that anyone inferred that I would use either his money or his influence to advance my professional fortunes.

Jason Reynolds had been fair and supportive of me during my six years at UW. Without being overt about his desire that I succeed, he had seen to my professional welfare in a number of ways. I trusted him and had faith in his truthfulness. I don’t see how my Grandfather Goldsmith could have any influence on my situation here one way or another, Dr. Reynolds, I stated candidly.

Surely you’d expect that any major sustained contributor to the institution, as your grandfather is, is going to exert influence occasionally? Reynolds asked with a broad smile. You are a true academic, Dawson. Most of our breed are oblivious to the fiscal realities of university life unless money is denied them personally. In private institutions such as this, significant donors are listened to very carefully. I wouldn’t have been surprised if your grandfather had spoken on behalf of your interests.

Dr. Reynolds was accurate about my ignorance of university financial realities. I had no idea who the university’s financial supporters were or what conditions they exacted for that support. I had never considered that the influence of contributors would be a factor in so minor a matter as the employment status of a junior faculty member. If contributors did intrude in such matters, a harsh realization occurred to me about the withdrawal of my leave. The sole reason I could speculate for my leave being the only one cancelled was that my grandfather did not want me to have it. I was accustomed to his indifference, but why he wanted to damage me was totally incomprehensible.

Assuming that the university administration had made T. Chase Goldsmith aware that I had no future on the faculty unless I improved my publication record, I would have expected his neutrality about a leave that was necessary to achieving my academic survival. That position would accord with his firm conviction that everyone should make his own way in the world. Why would a relative with whom I had had very little contact in over a decade want me to fail in my university teaching career? Obviously, Dr. Reynolds could not answer such a question for me. Assuring him that I would be happy with whatever teaching assignment he could arrange for me, I left the campus resolved not to let the matter rest without some explanation for the professional setback I was about to suffer.

Since I had no idea how or when I could reach my grandfather at any of his several residences scattered around the country, I called the San Francisco headquarters of Goldsmith Enterprises and, like any other mere mortal, requested an appointment with T. Chase. I worked my way through several levels of disbelieving staff who pushed me off to another extension after hearing my name and request. Finally, I reached an administrative assistant who was dimly aware that T. Chase Goldsmith did have a grandson. Perhaps he thought it might be in his interests to help the kin to meet and told me that he would work out an appointment and call me.

He called the next morning. In a tone that suggested that I was being uniquely blessed, he announced that Mr. Goldsmith would see me for lunch the following day. I said that was not possible. I did not reveal that I was available for the lunch, but that I had no tolerance for meeting T. Chase in what might possibly be construed as an amiable setting. We settled on a half hour, mid-morning appointment two days hence.

I planned thoroughly for my meeting with Grandfather Goldsmith. First of all, I reminded myself that my inference that he was responsible for the cancellation of my leave might be incorrect. Even if he revealed that the administration had acted on his dictate, I thought it unwise to express a hostile reaction. Perhaps he did not fully understand the gravity of the position in which he had placed me. I recalled reading a magazine piece about him in which he stressed his fervent belief in rugged individualism. Maybe he thought a paid leave was the kind of unearned advantage that would damage my spirit of independence. Perhaps I could convince him that leaves to assist scholars to advance their work were a common practice in the academy, and that universities considered such assistance in their own interest. I could point out that I still faced the considerable challenge of producing a publishable work; hence the leave itself was not a guarantee of my surviving at UW. If his intent had been to help mold my character, perhaps he would concede that I might become stronger by having a reasonable chance to compete for success in my chosen profession.

As I formulated my strategy, I realized that I was approaching the meeting as the task of persuading a stranger and not a dialogue with a blood relative. In fact, that seemed the realistic approach to take. I had seen very little of T. Chase Goldsmith in my thirty-three years. My mother had been married to T.Chase’s only son, Trevor, who died several months before I was born. He was killed in the violent consequence of a drug deal that had become violent. My mother tired of disagreeing with T. Chase over my rearing when I was an infant, and she and I went to live with my Uncle Cosimo, who was then separating from T. Chase’s daughter, my Aunt Victoria.

Until I was twenty, I was sent for infrequent, brief visits with my grandfather, with whom I spent less time than with his household staff. My mother and Uncle Cosimo, and later my Dawson grand parents, with whom I lived after mother and Uncle Cosimo died in a car crash, were never invited to accompany me on these frigid visits, which were long on advice and short on warmth and affection. I could never take seriously what my grandfather described as my great responsibility as the only male Goldsmith to carry on his name. When I was twenty, T. Chase laid down an ultimatum that he would not pay for my education unless I went to the college that he chose. My brashness and the remainder of my inheritance from my mother and uncle convinced me that I should no longer trouble my grandfather with maintaining a relationship; hence, for thirteen years we had had no contact.

It proved difficult to maintain a placid and persuasive frame of mind as I waited forty-five minutes past the scheduled start of our half-hour appointment for T. Chase Goldsmith to appear in the sumptuous conference room to which I had been directed for our meeting. As I waited impatiently, I could not suppress what I call pauper scholar thoughts that threatened to put me in a state of mind that would be far from benign. The cost of the huge crystal chandelier would nicely have funded my year of scholarly writing. The paintings, exclusive of the huge portrait of my grandfather, which dominated the wall behind the end of the forty foot long mahogany table where T. Chase no doubt sat to rule, would have underwritten my extending my research for several years without my having to deprive myself of my favorite little luxuries. I contrasted the opulence of the room with the less luxurious appointments of the president’s conference room in the University of the West administration building. While it did have a degree of grandeur, that smaller room was considerably less lavish, notwithstanding that the endowment of UW was among the three largest amounts supporting any of the nation’s prestige private universities.

My grandfather finally appeared while I was still mentally exchanging the room’s furnishing for the money to support my scholarly work. T. Chase did not look much older than his portrait. The same forcefulness that the artist had caught in my grandfather’s face was evident in the erect bearing and purposeful stride of the man now taking the command seat at the end of the table. Since I had randomly chosen a chair just inside the door from which I had entered, we were seated about thirty feet apart. There was a message in his not having taken a seat directly across the table from me.

I reminded myself that I was a supplicant. Good morning, sir, I said and moved to a chair about ten feet from him and re-seated myself. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.

At closer inspection, T. Chase looked a bit older that he had at a distance; yet he was still vigorous and formidable looking for a man in his mid-seventies. What remained from my recollections was the deceptively soft round face and the rimless glasses that concealed the iron will and imperiousness within the man. He inspected me for a minute and stated, So you are a college professor now.

Does that surprise you? I asked more to avoid getting to the burden of my visit too soon rather than having any interest in his response.

In fact it does, he answered bluntly, apparently not sharing my desire to avoid an adversarial mode immediately. You were hardly a promising child. I am not aware of any other child--let alone a Goldsmith--who was not ready for college until age twenty.

He had returned to a tiresomely familiar subject. I had been unusually slow in developing physically as a child. My mother and uncle decided that it would benefit me to hold me out of school until I was eight years of age and more mature physically. Their decision proved wise. My mother’s low keyed tutoring at home fed my mind as my undersized body developed. In fact, I led my class academically through elementary school, which I had just completed when my mother and uncle died.

The administration of the school system in which my Dawson grand parents enrolled me, based on testing, suggested that I skip two years of junior high school and graduate with my own age cohort. I resisted the suggestion because I wanted to participate in athletics. My Dawson grand parents acceded to my desire; consequently, I was twenty years old when I was ready to start college. T. Chase had made abundantly clear during my brief visits to one or another of his estates that my slow development and my mother’s accommodation to it were the mistaken coddling of an unlikely specimen to carry the Goldsmith name to further glory.

I have had my share of academic honors, I offered.

It’s something, T. Chase responded with a stone face that made clear he was conceding little. Of course, the ivory tower isn’t the test of manhood that one has to stand up to in the business world.

It can be more of a fight for survival than you might think, I offered. In fact, surviving in that world is what has brought me here to seek your help.

This is a departure, T. Chase responded wryly.

It’s also an indication of my desperation, I said frankly. I was scheduled for a leave with pay for the coming year to write a scholarly work of publishable quality. Without that book to my credit, I have little chance of being given tenure at The University of the West. I’m sure you understand that being denied tenure at a prestigious school like UW ends any chance of a position at a university of similar caliber. My professional future is at stake.

T. Chase looked at me diffidently. Everyone faces such obstacles --or worse.

I’m confident I can overcome this one if I can spend full time on the book for a year. All I need is a fair chance.

Why tell me all this? he asked with an air of detachment.

I hoped you might speak to the UW administration in support of restoring my leave. I’m under the impression that you, as a major donor, have some influence with them.

You want me to intrude into the operation of the university? he asked, furrowing his brow as though concerned at my suggesting an impropriety.

I wanted to say, Yes, do it. You, who have never parted with a dime without exacting value received and have undoubtedly caused this predicament for me. However, I opted to continue my supplicant’s role. There’s something peculiar about their canceling my leave. It was the only one of the usual number of leaves given each year to be withdrawn. I think that the unusual circumstances justify my asking you to intervene.

T. Chase fixed his most piercing boardroom expression on me. Has it occurred to you that I might not think your getting this paid leave is a good idea?

I can assure you that getting the leave is not going to weaken my moral fiber in the least. Universities often provide such leaves to their probationary faculty to encourage scholarship. A paid leave for someone in my circumstances has been the making of some long and illustrious scholarly careers. I’m only asking for a reasonable chance to succeed.

Maybe the world doesn’t need the book you want to do, he said dismissively.

I was completely surprised. You know the subject of my book?

President Drexell-Smith volunteered that information to me. He thought I’d be pleased to know of your opportunity and your plans.

So much for your reluctance to intrude into the operation of the university, I grumbled sarcastically.

T. Chase eyed me disdainfully. I didn’t approach him. He approached me.

And then what? He was independently inspired to change his mind about approving my leave? Obviously, my non-confrontational approach was slipping away. I wanted to call my grandfather several kinds of a meddling old fool. I had just enough clearheadedness left to recognize that venting my feelings would not help. I stared helplessly at his perfectly composed face, its deceptively soft roundness seeming to mock me. He exuded the air of one accustomed to victory.

Of course I suggested that he withdraw your leave. I told him that the university shouldn’t count on my support in the future if he didn’t. T. Chase looked not the least discomforted that he had undermined my professional future.

And Drexell-Smith just let himself be blackmailed, I mouthed contemptuously. I had respected UW’s president as a man with a reputation for integrity. I was bitterly disappointed in him.

T. Chase responded blandly. I think his resistance to my request and his efforts to persuade me to support your plans do him great credit, but he is a realist. His practicality ought to be an example to you.

Practicality is not the word I’d have chosen to describe his surrender to you, I scoffed.

T. Chase betrayed a small wry smile. Of course, your wanting me to change his decision again has nothing to do with blackmail, does it?

Don’t twist things, sir. I was awarded my leave on the merits of my proposal. I’m just asking you to get your damned nose out of my affairs. I’m not asking you to use your influence on my behalf; I’m just asking that you not use it against me. My