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Absolution

Mark Keane

    Clare read the name on the doorplate: Professor S.B. West. She counted to five before knocking.
    “Yes. Come in.”
    She pushed open the door and entered the office. S.B. West looked up from his computer—late forties, thin-framed glasses, pasty complexion, carefully constructed comb-over. He wore a blue V-neck jumper and tightly knotted tie. His expression was hard to read. Weary or wary?
    “Yes?”
    “Sorry to bother you, Professor West. I’m one of your mentees. I don’t have an appointment.” Clare gave him her best apologetic smile. “Do you have a few minutes?”
    “Of course.” West gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Let me finish what I’m doing here.”
    “Will I shut the door?”
    “You can leave it ajar.”
    Clare sat and placed her bag under the chair.
    As West typed two-fingered, Clare examined a spike of hair sticking out above his ear. The hair could not be accommodated in the sweep of the comb-over, unwilling to go against the grain of its growth. She ran her eyes along the shelves of books. A framed poster commanded one wall, showing the wrinkled face of a man, piercing blue-eyed stare, and grey hair like the bristles on a brush. The title in large font read, Beckett’s Endgame.
    West sat back in his chair. “Sorry. I had to finish that paragraph. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork this university generates.” He lifted a folder from one pile and dropped it onto another pile. “Committee meetings and policy documents. Hardly what you’d call advancing the frontiers of knowledge.”
    Clare waited in case he had more to say.
    “So, what appears to be the problem?”
    “It’s just...”
    West adjusted the sleeve of his jumper, then raised a hand and touched his hair.
    “It’s just that I’m really stressed this semester. I’m behind with coursework, and I haven’t even started revising for the exams.”
    “I see.” West nodded, brow furrowed. “And your name is...? Apologies, I’m hopeless with names.” He turned back to the computer and pressed some keys.
    “Clare.”
    “Clare...and the surname?”
    “McAllister.”
    “Right, let’s see.” West typed, hit the return and stared at the screen. “Sorry, the system is so slow.” He blew out his cheeks. “Really quite hopeless.”
    Clare waited.
    “Clare McAllister, third year. Is that right?”
    “Yes.”
    He scrolled down the screen. “Well, your fees are paid. First thing to appear here. It’s all the university seems to care about.”
    West glanced over and Clare looked away. She’d heard him make snide remarks about the university before. He did it all the time during lectures.
    “So, after last semester’s exams you have an average of 58.6. Borderline 2:1.”
    Clare kept her eyes on his desk, on the pens, chunky stapler and pages covered in handwriting. “I have to get a 2:1,” she said, quietly.
    “And you’re on track.”
    On track wasn’t good enough—that was just a cop-out from West. Employers, particular the big companies, required a 2:1 at the very least.
    “I’m worried,” she said, “about being borderline.”
    “Well, let’s see.” West ran a finger down the computer screen. “You got a 65 in multiphase thermodynamics, and that’s the acid test. You’re clearly on the 2:1 track.”
    “But I’m still borderline, and the anxiety is affecting me. I can’t concentrate. I’m not taking in anything when I study.”
    Clare pulled at the tassels of her scarf. West stared at his computer screen.
    “And then there’s my flat-mates who party all the time. They don’t care about their grades. My parents have spent so much money on my education and, like you said, all the university wants is money.”
    West’s eyes narrowed. “I understand, it isn’t easy. Try talking to your flat-mates, get them to see how much it means to you and they’ll surely cooperate.”
    Clare hadn’t come here to be fobbed off. “I just broke up with my boyfriend. Last semester my grandmother died the week before the exams. Otherwise I’d have done better in thermodynamics.”
    “Well, yes, that must have been difficult.” West straightened his glasses. “Difficult to concentrate on exams in such circumstances.”
    “There are so few women in engineering...” She fixed her gaze on a box of paperclips.
    “No question, there is an imbalance. Rectifying the gender gap is a top priority for the university.” He tapped one of the folders. “At least that’s what it says in the policy documents.”
    “I don’t want to be treated differently.”
    “Of course not.”
    Clare looked up. “I know I’m not a special case.”
    “And it’s to your credit that you don’t want special treatment. There are...let’s see.” He checked something on the screen. “Seventy-two students in your year. Each one of them must be treated fairly.”
    “I’m not asking for preferential treatment.” She shifted in her seat. “You’re my mentor. I’m just asking that at the exam board, you represent me. Professor Ocampo explained to our year what happens at the exam board, how the mentor speaks up and represents their mentee. Professor Ocampo told us that she always stands up for her mentees.”
    “Professor Ocampo told you that?”
    “She said it was the responsibility of each mentor to make sure their mentees got the best marks.”
    “I see.” West picked up a pen, tapped it on the desk, and then flipped it between his fingers. “My responsibility that you get the best marks.”
    Clare nodded, bothered by the edge to his voice. “That’s what Professor Ocampo said.”
    He pointed his pen at the poster. “Do you know who that is?”
    “No,” she said, careful not to sound uninterested.
    “That is Samuel Beckett.”
    West looked back at Clare. She stayed silent.
    “A very interesting man.” West pursed his lips. “Beckett tried his hand at university teaching. Called it a grotesque comedy. He left the academic world, and dedicated himself to expressing the absurdity of existence. You may know one of his quotes. It’s very popular, even appears on fridge magnets. A quote about trying, and failing, and failing better. Does that sound familiar?”
    Clare shook her head, and wound the tassels tightly around her finger.
    West leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers forming a steeple. “In your case, I believe you’re at a very early stage of trying, but are concerned only about failing.”
    “Not failing. I can definitely do better. At least a 2:1.”
    “No, not failing. Of course not.” West smiled. “Success then, and you will succeed. In no small part thanks to the efforts of Professor Ocampo, the policy of the university and many other unseen influences.”
    “But I don’t want to be treated differently.”
    “And why should you?” West sat back in his chair. “You’re an individual in a class of seventy-two individuals. What if everyone in your class received a 2:1? Or a first, let everyone have a first. Seventy-two first class honours. That’s hardly cause for individual celebration or satisfaction.” He waved his hands like he did in lectures when he’d completed a calculation on the board. “Where’s the harm in failing? Failure is interesting. It allows for surprises, the unexpected, different possibilities. Success, on the other hand, is flat and dull. Success only leads to an impasse.”
    Clare examined the staring face in the poster. Failure was not an option. Just her luck to get West as a mentor.
    “What can I do to make sure of a 2:1? What do you suggest?”
    “What do I suggest?” West looked at the ceiling and sighed. “I sit here, up to my neck in soul-destroying paperwork, reading regurgitated coursework and university policies. And now it’s my responsibility that you get a 2:1.” He took off his glasses and squeezed his eyes. “Participating in a grotesque comedy when I should be using my brain and failing better. Why do you want advice from me?”
    “Because you’re my mentor.” West could be having a breakdown, but she didn’t think so. He had always seemed odd, sarcastic and stand-offish. “What should I do?”
    West patted down the unruly spike of hair. “Whatever you feel is right. Don’t look for advice from someone who’s stopped trying and failing. That’s the best advice I can offer.”
    “Maybe I should see Professor Ocampo?”
    “Maybe you should.”
    West went back to his computer.
    Clare stood and picked up her bag. “Should I close the door?”
    He began typing. “Is there anyone waiting?”
    Clare checked the corridor. “No.”
    “Close it then. I need to finish this document.”
    “Thank you for your time.”
    She took a final look at West, his comb-over, blue V-neck and tightly knotted tie. The fierce eyes in the poster watched her. She closed the door, walked down the corridor, stopped and counted to five before knocking on Professor Ocampo’s door.

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