Before his first lecture, Professor Överlind had given him some advice about what to do if he got a question he couldn’t answer. ‘Just say, “I don’t know but I can find out and let you know during the next lecture if you want”.’ Professor Sturesson added, ‘Say, “you find out and tell us next time,” and then they’ll stop asking such questions!’
And that worked fine, as long as the student asked about the size of Peru’s GDP last year. Not even a university teacher could be a walking encyclopedia.
But the girl on crutches wanted something else. After his short capitulation, Peter looked up again. Her dark blue gaze passed through her irritatingly smudged glasses and forced its way right into his skull. She demanded that he understand what he was talking about. Peter was struck by a naked feeling that he didn’t.
Fortunately, endless hours hanging out in bars had taught him what to do if a girl asked an uncomfortable question. Deflect with a counter-question, preferably a charming one that got the girl talking about herself.
‘What do you mean?’ he managed to say. Maybe not the smartest riposte, but at least it was something.
‘Prosperity measured in terms of return on investment or how many people’s basic needs are met or what? What did Adam Smith mean?’ was her immediate response, and her gaze remained stubbornly focused on Peter’s.
The silence became embarrassing. The girl with crutches shifted in her seat. ‘How about I phrase it like this, instead: what is all this based on?’ She pointed at the book in front of her. Her voice was soft, but her eyes were unrelentingly penetrating. ‘Why is this a good idea?’
Are her eyes blue? Can she even see through those dirty glasses? Peter said something half coherent about how profit is presumably necessary in order to meet human needs, but that the pioneering economist from the 1700s perhaps wasn’t so precise on that point.
Sandra looked up from her French manicure, a shadow of worry on her attractive face. ‘Will this be in the test?’
Peter noticed the look that the girl with crutches gave Sandra. Fortunately the lecture was over – time was up. He wondered if she had done it on purpose when one of the crutches slid into the aisle just as Sandra passed. She tripped, and – damn! – succeeded in showing a little too much of the tattoo on her lower back.
Afterwards, Peter and Cissi Åström went for coffee. Cissi was the only one in the department on this fantastic summer day. She glanced at him. A critical observer might have seen a thoughtless youth with cocky posture and a slightly crooked mouth suggesting unreliability. But, like most people, Cissi only saw 184 centimeters of effortless beauty under his sun-bleached surfer hair.
‘Debriefing?’ The question came immediately. Apparently he was giving off stress vibes, and maybe Cissi remembered how a group of demanding students could annihilate you. Half numb, Peter followed his red-haired colleague.
‘Was it her, that Sandra?’ Cissi asked, smiling knowingly as they sat down at the table. Peter stiffened uncomfortably.
‘Do you know what she said to me? “I don’t have time for the test, because I have to write my blog!” Apparently she has thousands of readers just waiting to hear her creative twist on the fashion of the day, so I need to understand that she can’t prioritize a take-home test for one measly reader!’ Cissi snorted. ‘I mean, sure, I’m the first to agree that fashion is fun, but I wonder why some people even go to college!’
Peter was silent. He knew that starting an intimate relationship with a student was against the rules. It didn’t seem like a big deal if Sandra turned out to be uninterested in her summer class. It wouldn’t be the first time; girls often took circuitous routes to get close to Peter.
He wondered if Cissi had noticed anything, if this seemingly well-meaning pep talk was actually an effort to get him to admit, and end, his little adventure with the class’s curvaceous blonde.
‘But I’m only guessing! How did it go today?’ Cissi looked at him with interest.
‘Not so well. I was going to bike to the lake and swim, but I feel completely wiped out.’
Cissi supported her chin with her hand, and Peter saw that she thought she understood exactly what he meant.
‘It’s a strange feeling to stand in front of people your own age who are gawping like baby birds.’ She changed her voice, mimicking something Peter sensed was still Sandra. ‘Feed me knowledge! Give me my credits so I can get my grant! But, by the way, I only have time to study three hours a week!’
Peter looked out of the window at the fine summer weather. It didn’t really matter; a career in academia was nothing he had ever considered. He felt sorry for the poor bastards who spent their lives trying to get people to understand economics. He had only accepted the department’s job offer because Lennart was going to force him to spend his summer doing currency hedging and other administrative crap.
His father had a habit of making unpleasant demands on him, and lately it had increased. In June, just after Peter had come home from a party weekend in London with his cousin Charlie, Lennart had confronted him and given him a choice – no money or a job at the office. Peter didn’t like being dependent on his father and his company, so it had felt completely right to take an unpredictable path just to feel like he had a little freedom. He couldn’t help smiling in satisfaction when he thought about how he had been able to decline Lennart’s job proposal because he had been asked to teach a course at the university.
Not everybody thinks I’m a disappointment, was the satisfying underlying message. Of course, it was Professor Sturesson, an old acquaintance of his father, who had offered him the job. Like Peter’s dad, Åke Sturesson had come from humble but character-building circumstances. Both men had succeeded in making something of themselves, and they liked to congratulate each other for belonging to ‘Stockholm Business School’s most noble graduating class, the most successful class in history.’ Peter knew that the low status of teaching wasn’t something people in academic circles spoke openly about. In other words, there was very little risk that his dad would find out that summer teaching was shunned by exhausted assistant professors, that professors basically never bothered with undergraduate teaching, and that summer courses were taught by impoverished graduate students and semi-gifted undergraduates like himself.
‘Of course,’ Cissi continued, ‘fortunately, some students are interested. They’re the ones who give you an energy boost. Which reminds me! What do you think of her – Lundberg?’
Cissi’s round face radiated with something that most resembled enthusiasm. Not that he was in any way interested in Cissi. He looked at her, a well-dressed pencil pusher who couldn’t quite hide her hippie nature. Because he wasn’t opposed to making even ordinary, older women happier, Peter now turned on his charm offensive: ‘What do you think is so good about “her – Lundberg”?’
The answer was a crazy story more unbelievable than any pick-up line Peter had ever used. Peter didn’t really listen very carefully, so he didn’t know quite how it happened. Somehow, before he had finished his coffee he had promised Cissi that he would check with Kalle, who lived in his dormitory, whether the room he was looking to sublet was still available. Apparently Cissi knew some super-gifted but wretched Vera Lundberg who had a cosmic right to a bit of luck. And she – Lundberg – needed a place to live.
4
‘Are you starting to figure out how money works?’ Cissi asked. They were lunching on baguettes at the only campus coffee shop that was open during the summer.
Vera hesitated. In truth, Cissi was one of the best teachers Vera had ever had, but it felt weird to say so. Instead she said: ‘Definitely more than before, in any case. It’s really interesting.