Professor Miazga

I can't find Maneli anywhere. I think I know why.

After exhausting all of the usual apps and devices, I thought about going to the ornithology department to inquire about a carrier pigeon, then went to see Debbie, the department's administrative assistant, down the hall. Anyone who knows anything about academic departments knows that administrative assistants are the only ones who can keep the whole machine humming. If you have an urgent problem, with a printer or a form or a weeping student, you go to Debbie.

"I haven't heard from her at all today, Nisar," said Debbie. She is stout and strong and sure. Nothing ever perturbs Debbie, except being distracted from her reading. There is always a novel--an actual book, mind you, with covers and pages and a shelf waiting for it to return to its place--open on her desk. Whenever a quiet space appears between the swarm of tasks and projects that she has to manage, she turns her attention to her novel. She's an omnivorous reader: I've seen everything from Things Fall Apart to Anne of Green Gables sandwiched between her computer and her phone. She always looks like she has just returned from a swim at her cottage.

"I understand, but isn't today important? I mean, we've all got to get our final grades in today, don't we?" I try not to bother Debbie with nonsense and she knows that. I think I have a real problem.

"That's right, but she emailed her grades to me late last night, so there's no reason to panic, is there?" Her tone is not impatient or patronizing. Her smile is warm and solicitous. I think I see a seed between her teeth. She is fond of muffins that are decorated with them.

"No, I guess not. I'm sorry to bother you, Debbie," I mumble; I execute a sort of awkward bow, then shuffle out of her office. This is not at all like Maneli. We always text one another when we polish off the last of the exams at the end of a semester. She has all kinds of delicious metaphors at the ready for such occasions: "Nisar, my heart is a kite, despite the fact that none of these people seem to know of an adverb other than 'heavily.' Bring me a latte tomorrow morning, will you?" She always looks surprised and pleased to see me when I enter our tiny, shared office, especially when I come bearing caffeine. It is possible that I love her.

I want to confront Professor Miazga but I am afraid. Maneli treats him with reverential awe. He is not only a distinguished scholar, but an acclaimed novelist, which sets him apart from most of the people in our department. He can hold forth with sophisticated, stentorian seriousness about the history and theory of literature and he can make stories that work. Maneli thinks most of the others are frauds by comparison. "It is all well and good to publish articles about cooking, Nisar, but if you can't boil an egg, how seriously can I take you as a chef?" Miazga is formidable enough given his reputation and scholarly pedigree. Maneli's deference to him makes him scary. I think he's behind her disappearance, though. I'm not sure why.

His office is on the third floor. I take the stairs methodically, trying to come up with a way to broach the subject of my friend's disappearance that won't sound crazy or stupid. I try to remember what he's working on, so that I can make polite conversation and polish the statue of himself he seems always to be carving in his head. I think he's writing about Goethe. He gave a graduate seminar on Faust last semester. Maneli sat in now and then. She was dazzled, of course: "We all make a pact with some dark power to get things done, Nisar. Where would half of these students be without ChatGPT?" When she laughed, I could feel it ripple through me like a fresh breeze tickling a dying forest. I'll ask about Mephistopheles. What did Goethe think evil was? That will get him going, so that I can sneak in a question about Maneli without signaling that I'm on to him.

* * *

The first trial was elementary. Guy (what a banal, anodyne name for a human male! His parents obviously possessed the same intellectual and imaginative resources that he did) had been a janitor on this campus for the duration of my career. He was taciturn, competent without any special distinction, tedious. I struck up a conversation with him one night as he was emptying the waste basket in my office. Slowly, I managed to persuade him that he was prolonging a fruitless and absurd existence. When he vanished, it was not with grand, theatrical gestures or a moving, final soliloquy--he actually flatulated, then winked out of being altogether.

I can only describe the result as salutary. The gingivitis that had troubled me for a decade vanished. A knee injury that had lingered since I sustained it as a boy on the cricket pitch resolved, making my gait bolder and more robust. Rufus, my dog, greeted me like a conquering hero when I returned home that night and has subsequently watched over me as he might some sort of god of dogs. When a fellow from IT stopped by to repair my computer and started shouting at me about my eccentric search history, Rufus drove him out, snarling and snapping in the style of Cerberus himself.

The girl was more challenging, but the reward was so much greater that I find myself salivating at the prospect of her successor's arrival, which I expect in a few minutes. I began with desultory discussion of departmental politics (we agreed that Professor Robinson is certain to be the next chair of the department, probably because he is the sort of vacuous dullard whom everyone believes will be easy to push around) and then I shifted focus to her laughable publication record and the conflation of "canon" and "cannon" in her dissertation.

Her protestations were meek and ineffectual: "What about that poetry contest I won last month?!" She seemed not to recognize that the site where this contest took place is basically a mutual admiration society for vainglorious hacks whose works would never even be glanced at by a serious publisher. I emphasized these sad facts, and it was delicious to watch her shrink in their light. I rehearsed all of the insults and complaints in her most recent teaching evaluations. Contemporary undergraduates are invaluable allies for those of us who are eager to annihilate souls. They evaluate their experience with ruthless precision. Everything from the instructor's wardrobe to her haircut to her fondness for particular turns of phrase can be construed as a "micro-aggression" and held against her.

In fact, many students seem to take classes primarily in order to criticize and condemn their teachers! You should have seen her twist and dwindle under that avalanche of ugly ad hominems. I knew the end was close. I think I was actually able to smell her cold sweat, and the trembling of her hand on my desk blotter sent a frisson of excitement down my spine that was filthy.

"Professor, I'm not sure how this can possibly help me. Why are you reminding me of my failings? I want to improve, not dwell on my mistakes." She was beginning to understand my method, but too late.

"Maneli, I wish only to help you. Think of how difficult it will be for you to secure any kind of position in the contemporary academy. Competition is bitter and relentless. Resources are dwindling, especially with the tangerine tyrant back on the throne. You barely escaped your PhD defense in one piece, and you have only one, peer reviewed article--in a mediocre journal--to your credit. Most students dislike you. Would it really be such a terrible idea, simply to surrender?"

I actually felt myself grow stronger as she shriveled. It's a good thing that I was working late that night; she'd seen my light on after turning in the last of her grades. The sheer quantity of work they ask these contract lecturers to do for a salary that would have made poor Guy furious is absurd. What easy prey they are. At any rate, there was no one around, so the scream she let fly just before she vanished was audible only to me. It was music.

I can now read Farsi, my hemhorroids have vanished and I can actually commune telepathically with Rufus. Eavesdropping on a conversation between my gardener and my housekeeper through that loyal hound's ears alerted me to their clever scheme! To think that I kept them on the payroll because I thought they were both in possession of the proper paper work. A quick call to ICE saw to that!

“I am the spirit that negates.

And rightly so, for all that comes to be

Deserves to perish wretchedly;

'Twere better nothing would begin.

Thus everything that that your terms, sin,

Destruction, evil represent—

That is my proper element.”

Thus does Mephistopheles explain his nature to an astonished Faust in Goethe's tragedy. Goethe read widely in the occult realm. I did what I could to trace his mind's path. Imagine my surprise when my reading of Swedenborg's Arcana Coelestia turned my attention to more practical wisdom. His work led me to The Grimoire of Pope Honorius, which contains detailed instructions and a sort of "menu" of fiendish tutors ready to be summoned. A few incantations and a small sacrifice (my idiot neighbor will not mourn that annoying dog for long) were really the only requirements. Now, I have the power to actually aid the dark spirit of entropy whom Goethe conjured for the stage. I can only imagine what the next prize will be.

Ah, here's the lad now...