Harry James played innocuously in the background, while the voices from the party merged into a steady murmur. Patrick took the martini from the hand of the bartender and dropped a quarter into the tip jar. He reached for the plate of olives, taking one that seemed to have extra toothpicks protruding from it. Puzzled, he looked at the plate more closely, thinking his was a mistake, but noticed they all had exactly four toothpicks protruding. “Sputnik martinis, they’re all the rage tonight,” the bartender said, pleased with the cleverness of the thing. Sure enough, the angle of the toothpicks resembled the photos that had been in circulation in the newspapers, claiming to be released from the Soviet News Agency. Patrick shook his head, smiled back at the bartender and turned to the room to survey its occupants looking for familiar faces, or barring that, a quiet corner.

He spotted some of his acquaintances from the Engineering Faculty not far away, in a tight clutch. In fact, the party seemed to be an array of tight clutches spaced evenly throughout the room. He didn’t even have to join them to know what the topic of conversation was going to be.

“But do they have wall-to-wall shag carpets, or Chevy convertibles with fins?”

“Oh Lord, no. I was recently in Leningrad on a conference; the rooms were all bare floors and light bulbs hanging from the ceiling.”

“How did we live before wall-to-wall?”

“One of the Deputy Ministers was saying his newly installed automatic garage door opens each time it passes overhead. The first time it happened he thought it was a burglar and rushed out with his forty-four.”  And so the conversation went on, drolly sighting examples of Soviet technical backwardness, as if the satellite were a fiction, or boastful threat, as opposed to something actually overhead. The conclusion from the conversation could only be that the Soviets were incapable of such an engineering feat.

Patrick’s eye was caught by a familiar figure on the dance floor. He turned his attention from the conversation, which had degenerated into alternate theories, such as the possibility the Americans already had a spy satellite in orbit, and that Eisenhower was just being tight-lipped, which explained his reluctance to answer questions from the press. On the dance floor, Tracy was dancing with one of the University Deans, one of the privileged inner sanctum of the old boys’ network. It was a slow Foxtrot and he had her almost trapped in a close hold. Patrick knew him, and his type well. For them, there were two types of dames in the world, who get one of two nicknames. Tracy was Tush. Alison was Toots. Being a Tush gave his hands license and Patrick could see Tracy struggling to keep his arms from straying lower on her back. He moved closer to their position on the dance floor, and catching her eye, waved. At the end of the dance, she extricated herself from the Dean’s arms, although not before his hand reached down for a familiar pat on her bum, with a few confidences whispered in her ear.

She made her way across the short space to where Patrick was leaning against the bar, nursing his Sputnik Martini. “You promised not to leave me to the wolves,” she said reproachfully, gathering up his arm and commandeering him towards the bar. “I need a fresh drink.”

Tracy motioned towards the bottles of white wine set out on the bar and waited for the bartender to pour her glass. “Why do you put up with guys like that?” Patrick asked.

“Have you any idea what someone like that can do for my career?  I could talk about Lucy Maud Montgomery at seminars till I’m blue in the face and still no one would take her seriously.”  She sipped at the glass now in her hand, “But one nod from him and I’m on tenure track, or not. Hey, I brought something for you.”  Once again, she commandeered his arm, leading him towards the cloakroom. She took her briefcase from the floor beside the rack and handed him a small hard-bound volume. “Emily of New Moon. It’s not a first edition, or anything. You read Anne of Green Gables, right?  Those two are her best.”

Patrick took the volume, not sure if he wanted to read it, but sensing a polite acquiescence was in order. “How come you have so much trouble convincing anyone?  She’s your thesis topic, right?”

“Oh, you know, she’s got three strikes against her. Most of these people” she said, as they surveyed the room, still divided into its recognizable cliques, “think if it’s not European, it’s not important. And then it’s children’s literature. And then she’s a woman. I mean, their eyes glaze over if I try to mention Lewis Carroll or Jane Austen. They know, theoretically that they’re supposed to take Canadian Literature seriously, only they don’t believe there is such a thing. Hey, I think Alison has arrived, that’s her over there, right?”

Patrick followed the direction Tracy had indicated to a small clutch of men, in the middle of which stood Alison, who was the focus of their rapt attention. When he closed his eyes, and thought of Alison, it was usually the image of a farm girl doing her chores. Since her return from Vancouver, he had learned to think of her more as a fully mature woman, someone in the full bloom of her beauty. But for all that, he was not quite prepared for the vision that awaited him. He had become used to meeting women with well-developed career ambitions; one fully aware that a dress can be more than simply a party dress, it could be an entrée to a completely different social circle. Alison was draped in her signature indigo, which complimented her dark hair quite obviously. But today was not just something off the rack from Eaton’s, it looked more like the images that graced the cover of Vogue magazine, the bare shoulders, carefully-accented décolletage, narrow waist – my girdle is killing me – and a long, widely-flaring bell skirt. The whole effect was consciously constructed to say to the viewer, there’s nothing else to look at besides me. And that’s exactly how the clutch of admirers was being held in thrall.

Tracy must have caught her eye and waved, because Alison was now looking back across the room, and waving. In a few short moments, she had made an excuse to her coterie, leaving them stopped in their tracks; having to put their anticipation, and competition, into check. And forced to think about whether it would be possible to come upon her alone later in the party. Fully aware of the disappointed silence and following gazes behind her, she made her way across the room to check in socially with Tracy and Patrick, in case she became more fully engaged later in the party and missed the opportunity.

“That’s quite a gown you’re wearing,” Tracy asked, obviously caught as unaware as Patrick.

“This old thing?” Alison shrugged with an ironic smile.

“I know taffeta when I see it.”

“Oh, Fairweather’s. Last time I was in Toronto.” She smoothed at the belled skirt as if it needed ironing.

“Well, you seem to have left that group of admirers looking like deer caught in headlights,” Tracy said with a note of admiration at the powerful statement her mentor was making.

“It’s surprising how easily the old boys can be reduced to children in a candy shop.”  The old boys, was one of Alison’s and Tracy’s recurring themes, as if there was some charmed circle that they were intractably barred from entering. She looked at the book Patrick was still holding in his hand. “Emily of New Moon. Better be careful, or she’ll have you loaded down with Gabriel Roy next.”  She motioned at her under-sized purse clutched in her hand, “Do you want me to hold on to it for you?  Otherwise, you’ll have to explain why you’re reading a children’s book all night.”  She slid it into the purse, which was just large enough for the pocketbook, and surprisingly empty compared to her usual purse. Alison wanted to make her way to the bar to see what was on offer as the white wine. Tracy made her apologies, noting a department head across the room she had been hoping to speak to. Alison looked resignedly at the white, a nondescript national brand, plonk her shrug seemed to say. “She’s got you in her sights,” Alison said, tapping her handbag with a discreet note of warning. Patrick nodded back. He had certainly been aware of Tracy’s interest in him, but hadn’t let the notion come fully to his conscious attention. Nor could he rationalize his own lack of reciprocal feelings. It’s not as if he was slavishly attracted to women who would be described as beautiful – not that Tracy was unattractive, but she was no one’s idea of a beauty. He also realized that their similar upbringings and shared social milieu would make them a suitable match. But whatever the mysterious chemical ingredient was required for mutual attraction, it was missing on his part. He also realized, perhaps as he was watching her dance with the Dean earlier, that he would eventually have to watch her become attached to someone else, married, and settle down with a family. In many ways, whoever that person was, he was going to be lucky as men go.

“How’s Andrei?”  Patrick had also become aware that Alison continued her interest in Andrei since he brought him to the farm.

“Grand. He has a line on a research grant.”

“Here in Ottawa?”

“Yes. Defence, I think. The details are vague. He asks about you,” which is not particularly true, but he thought it was what Alison wanted to hear.

“Really?”  She seemed to be held slightly in the force of thrall that her coterie had been in. “We should go out some time together, the three of us. You can be chaperone.”

“I don’t think I’d make a very good chaperone.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.” Alison sipped thoughtfully at her wine. “You guys play hockey on Sunday afternoons, right?”  They did in fact play pick-up games at the university arena. “Why don’t you tell him you and I are going to see a movie. I can stop by and pick you up at the arena. Invite him along.”  Patrick marvelled at the contrivance of her plan. Andrei was about to be offered the Queen’s pawn gambit and he was the pawn.

Patrick had found a quiet place in a small corridor, close to the main faculty lounge. He was feeling overburdened by the weight of the social network hanging over the party. Each clutch had a discernable hierarchy, and a palpable sense of jockeying for position, competing for recognition and the possibility of future favours. The music had become noticeably more sultry, someone having put a record of Peggy Lee onto the lounge’s showpiece high-fidelity player. He knew he shouldn’t be lurking in the shadows this way, but hadn’t quite worked up the courage to wade back into the steady murmur of voices. “Are you a Marlboro Man?” a voice asked, taking him by surprise by its closeness. He turned to see a dame, not one of the faculty that he recognized, offering him a cigarette from an opened package. He was about to say no thanks, but caught himself, thinking it would be boorish. He took the cigarette self-consciously, as the double entendre settled into his consciousness. She smiled, observing its calculated effect. The woman in front of him was striking in her own way – more mature and no longer in her bloom, but for all that still capable of making a distinctive fashion statement. Less sculpted, but no less conspicuous in the choice of colours, or how her jewellery had a way of drawing your eye around. “I see you like the Riopelle,” she said, looking at the painting over his shoulder.

“Riopelle?” Patrick asked, turning to see if he could make out a signature on the painting. He must have been looking vaguely in its direction for a while, but not particularly conscious of studying it.

“It’s a recent acquisition by the department. Do you like it?”

Patrick was tactful enough not to say something like “I don’t like abstracts.”  He looked with more focus at the mass of coloured blobs in front of him. “Abstracts certainly are colourful when you see them up close, like this.”

“What do you see?”

Patrick now felt himself on the hook, as if he were being subjected to some departmental initiation test. He was about to say Nothing, ’tis just an abstract, when he caught himself short. He had been having a recollection of the forest in the mountains across the Ottawa River from the farm. He now noticed that the impetus for the momentary reverie must have come from the painting. Amid the shapeless colours, now not seemingly random, but chosen to be forest hues, was the distinct impression of white birch bark. His interlocutor waited patiently for the impression to form; pleased with the flash of recognition when it came. “I was remembering trips to the forest when I was a boy.”

She smiled appreciatively. “My husband’s a collector.”  Patrick had now seen the small plaque saying the painting was on loan. “If you’re interested, you should come by to see our collection.”  She scooped up his arm and drew him back towards the main room. “Do you like the music?”

He hesitated a moment, regretting that he had. “Peggy Lee?  Yes.”

“But she’s not your favourite. Who is?”

“I’m not supposed to say Prokofiev. I’m told it’s a conversation-stopper in polite company.”

“Quite right,” she said, as they stopped and surveyed the room. It now seemed to be full, except for the dance floor, which had only a few couples dancing with a sultry closeness. “I can see someone is training you to be good husband material.”

Patrick let the phrase husband material settle into his brain, like something that needed to be comprehended more thoroughly. “How can you tell?”  Was he one of Alison’s projects and not aware of it till this moment?

“For one thing, your tie clip and cufflinks match.”  They had, in fact, been a present from Alison. “And for another thing, your collar is pressed.”  He now made a note to look more closely at the collars of his Engineering colleagues the next time he saw them together. “Do you dance?”  The song had changed, now accented with a Rhumba beat.

“I can try,” he said, finding himself led to the dance floor without much choice. He took up the Latin ballroom position and began to listen for the rhythm. His partner looked impatiently at him, as he hesitated while a few bars passed.

“Two three four,” she whispered.

“I got it,” and began to move her through a slow turning box, reviewing the little he had learned of Latin turns and breaks. She smiled approvingly as he raised his hand for an underarm turn, scooped her up for the syncopation, then moved her through a back break.

Despite his reluctant start, Patrick settled into a comfortable groove on the dance floor. His mind began to enjoy the mathematical transformations of the dance steps and how they changed with the new dance rhythm of a new song. Finally, when the side came to its end, his partner signaled that he was released from that part of his obligation, although, finding himself guided to a quiet spot beside one of the windows, he realized that his social obligation was now to enter another phase.

He waved off a second cigarette, but had to find his lighter while his new companion waited expectantly. “Let’s not stand on formal introductions,” she said. “I’m usually known around here as Mrs. O’Donnell. But you can call me Becky.”

“Patrick McGowan,” he said not knowing whether she would offer her hand. She seemed more interested in the darkness outside the window.

“Yes, I know. You’re a friend of Tracy.”  Patrick was a little confused. “I saw you earlier. She’s one of my pet causes.”

“Are you on staff?” He asked, trying to clarify the strands of the social web connecting them.

“No. You can think of my husband and I as benefactors. I’m on a few committees. But unless you’re concerned with fundraising…”

“And you know Tracy?”

“Yes. I follow her career with interest.”  Patrick hadn’t thought particularly of Tracy as having a career, let alone one worth following with interest. It was generally thought that women who moved in academic circles were angling for husbands with a higher stature – a code word, perhaps, for bigger salary. “If anyone can convince this set Canadian Literature is a worthy cause, it is she. So, did you say you were going to come to my do next month?”  Patrick looked a little surprised, as if he had forgotten some of the conversation they had been having. He remembered the invitation to see her husband’s Riopelle collection. “Just a small pre-Christmas gathering. Intimate friends, that sort of thing. We’re out by the Hunt Club.”  She took her purse, removed a social card and pen, scrawled a date and time on the back, and handed it to him.

“Is it okay if I cross-check my appointment calendar and call you back?”  The card was nicely printed, with an artistic spray of foliage to the right of embossed lettering.

“Please do.”  He slid the card into his breast pocket.