CHAPTER 7
Unauthorized Use of a Movable
The drinking hours at a symposium offer opportunities for scientists to boast of previous adventures at overseas conferences. Or rather, the associated entertainment options. But nothing grandstands an audience more than recounting the experience of a trip to Japan.
At these late night sessions, Agarwal has listened enviously to a description of bathing in an outdoor hot spring under falling snowflakes. Which necessitated getting naked with strangers (“I was nonchalantly swinging my way from the locker room to the pool, when my host raced after me with a washcloth. I hadn’t realized these were modesty towels. Ha! Ha!”). Agarwal covets an opportunity to celebrate with inebriated chants - Banzai! - on a rooftop bar. He has become jealous of jolly goings-on in a Bunny Club, or at a sex museum. He wonders if his palate would appreciate the nuance of century-old saki. Would he have the courage for Odorigui: eating live fish that are still twitching? The list of unique and challenging cultural opportunities can seem endless.
But how to get invited? Agarwal resents the Nick Robbins strategy. His second home is a lake house. Agarwal has seen it. That is, in a PowerPoint. Robbins tends to flaunt a photo at the beginning of a conference presentation. Usually, he is posing on the front porch in the company of a famous scientist (“my friend and colleague”). Wining and dining those with status and influence, at the edge of a watery vista, is a meal ticket to the international conference circuit.
Agarwal’s bargaining chips have less value. He has placed Riku Yamamoto on today’s schedule, and he can only hope this favor will be reciprocated. But he is obliged to honor the senpai-kohai system by which Japanese senior professors expect to be treated with deference and respect. This requires him to endure some discomfort – his bladder and prostate have been jostling for position for the previous twenty minutes (Damn that second coffee!). But he cannot leave to pee before the end of the presentation. It is likely that Yamamoto would take umbrage at his early departure, and not follow through on his half-promise to invite Agarwal to an upcoming conference in Osaka.
Yamamoto ignores two of Marie Beaumont’s warnings from the chairperson’s desk at stage left (“two minutes” and, five minutes later, an exasperated “just one more minute, please”). Agarwal has heard talk of a chairperson who had enforced a schedule with the assistance of a Super Soaker water pistol. Agarwal had found it hard to believe that such a threat would be acted upon. Neither had the first speaker, or so the story went. Following the consequences of that misconception, the remainder of the session had maintained perfect timing.
The frustration in the room grows from muted into blatant. Butts swish on seats, chairs creak, and pens click. Unperturbed, Yamamoto casually eases into “my last slide”. It is an extensive bullet-point summary that abandons every conceivable guideline for visual clarity. He reads those to his audience, and then he pulls up his actual last slide: an exhaustive list of financial sponsors, several of which he intends to illuminate with backstory.
Marie can take no more. She switches on the house lights and cuts off the speaker. “Thank you for your exciting talk,” she lies. The audience provides a hearty round of applause. More out of an acute sense of relief, not praise. “This presentation is now open for discussion.”
Agarwal sacrifices the opportunity to brown-nose the first question with: “Riku, absolutely wonderful talk, your new data offer considerable new insight. . .” He will make sure to congratulate him later in the day. For now, Agarwal hopes that Yamamoto’s view of scientific etiquette is that it is OK to skip the Q&A if one has good reason. So, he fakes being a very important professional who is juggling priorities. He urgently picks up his call-silenced phone and cups it to his ear using both hands – so that no-one can see the screen betrays the absence of an actual call. He deploys a stage whisper: “one moment”. Then he rushes to the exit with what he hopes is an air of legitimacy.
As Agarwal enters the lobby, he feels obliged to award a smile to the staff at the registration desk. It is important to recognize the value of their support. This is why he has made the effort to be on first name terms. That was how he learned that Stuart is a new employee. He is short and thin, like he might be a pushover to a puff of wind. He may have borrowed his suit from a guy with legs long enough to prevent bunching at the ankle. He represents the hotel’s concept of the required level of security. That is, not much. This relaxed situation allows Stuart to indulge his interest in crawfish, or rather, the lack them. Agarwal hears him explaining that the previous year’s exceptionally dry summer has crippled the Spring harvest, and substantially raised prices. Judi and Christine, the contingent from the Academy Office, appear to be feigning the appropriate interest.
The bathroom is situated to the right. As Agarwal enters, a motion sensor activates the lighting. He presents an appropriate stance to the nearest urinal, but it takes him a while to get started.
The enlargement of his prostate is benign, for which he is grateful. But he must still endure annual rectal exams. After the last one, he had conveyed his unease about this situation to his brother. “ . . and the weirdest part? After fingering your prostate, the urologist thinks it’s perfectly OK to begin a normal conversation.”
“I know what you mean,” Deepak had joked. “I would just want to roll over and go to sleep.”
There are certain circumstances that Agarwal knows will bring on shy bladder syndrome. One of them is the Dame Pipi system in France: the presence of a female toilet attendee. Nothing slows his stream down more than the feeling that its efficiency is being graded. His current drought has been brought on by being timed. It is the counterproductive fear that if he does not empty his bladder soon the lights might go off, along with his aim.
To avoid being plunged into darkness, he practices jiggling his hips, but the dodgy one complains. Instead, he rotates his free arm in a circle. He has the feeling that if he were in game of charades that called for an imitation of a watermill, it would be a great performance. He hopes no-one else enters the bathroom before he has finished.
After washing his hands, he wastes time on the paper towel dispenser before realizing it is one of the bathroom’s fixtures that is not motion activated. This really is one of those days. And it is one that becomes much more unpleasant as he leaves the restroom. He encounters the unexpected and alarming sight of Nick Robbins walking from the registration desk towards the ballroom doors. An irrational thought flutters by. Have I caused this by just thinking about him?
Knowing that Robbins is not registered to attend this meeting, Agarwal steps forward to block his progress. For a few seconds, they compete in a stare-down, like two boxers at a weigh-in. One in which an athletic heavyweight confronts a podgy middleweight. In the background, Agarwal hears that the second talk has now begun. He wishes for better soundproofing.
Robbins breaks the standoff. “Agarwal, good to see you.” But it is obviously not. Narrowed eyes and pursed lips betray the annoyance in his greeting.
“What are you doing here?” Agarwal blurts out. He studies the lanyard that dangles from the newcomer's neck and establishes that Professor Donald McDonald from Glasgow University is an unsuspecting victim of identity theft.
“I happened to be in town, I thought I’d drop by your conference.” Robbins’ posture is straight and tall, shoulders back, as if he were posing for his hubris and stature to be carved into marble.
Stuart offers a half-hearted query from the safety of his position at the registration table. “Is there a problem here?”
When Agarwal had agreed to organize this meeting, it had never occurred to him that he might inherit the role of excluding freeloaders. And apparently, neither did the staff at the registration desk. Agarwal accepts it is now his responsibility to maintain the integrity of the conference admission system. He lets Stuart off the hook, for now. “It’s OK, I’ve got this.”
Agarwal anticipates an argument, which he wishes to occur out of earshot of the conference room. He waves his arm towards the staircase. “Let’s discuss this downstairs, Nick.” He expects pushback, but Robbins surprises him by obligingly strolling to the stairway. Albeit with a swagger and an upturned lip of contempt. Agarwal suspects this is the mannerism of a person making a minor concession in the belief that he will shortly enjoy his rewards.
As they step down towards the first floor, Robbins removes his thick, black-rimmed spectacles and places them in his jacket’s hip pocket, but not before their tell-tale blinking LED catches Agarwal’s attention. It is a perceptive moment. Like he feels the instant he solves a puzzle in the New York Times. He recognizes the spyglasses. He also guesses their purpose, because he recalls the recent Texas meeting at which Robbins had indicated a desire to photograph Lydia, so he could stalk her on the internet. Supposedly to expose some animosity behind her motivation to write a biography of Chuck Standish. This is why he wants access to the meeting. Now he remembers Lydia’s apparent nervousness when she entered the ballroom. As if she knows Robbins is coming.
The flood of insight washes up more questions. Does Lydia fear Robbins because there actually is some incident in her past that she needs to keep hidden? Has Robbins flown down from Maryland simply to protect Standish’s reputation? There must be more to it. Is there actually something shady about Standish that Robbins needs to keep secret? Has Lydia uncovered it?
There are more urgent matters to resolve as they reach the bottom of the stairs, which require Agarwal to search for a modicum of privacy. On the left, the corridor ends at double doors with frosted glass. The outdoor foot traffic drifts by in out-of-focus, ghostly shapes, as if the doorway were a portal between two alternate universes that are slightly out of phase.
It is an emergency exit, guarded by stanchions and red, braided museum rope. Agarwal cannot readily maneuver the two of them outside. To his right is the giant table-top flower arrangement that marks the route back towards the lobby. Further down the corridor, several people putter about.
The best Agarwal can do is to maneuver the imminent confrontation into an alcove opposite the stairway. Hanging on the far wall is a black-and-white photograph of a black-gowned Greta Garbo acting as a melancholy Mati Hari; perhaps this is the movie scene that was set on the morning of her execution? Beneath this sad image there is a narrow, rectangular table served by two wingback chairs. But this is not an occasion for a happy, sit-down tête-à-tête. They remain standing.
“Nick. . .” Agarwal hopes to avoid sounding intimidated, despite having to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. “I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. This is a closed meeting. Only those who are registered can attend.”
The response that Agarwal receives is a familiar one. Myra does it too. The open palm up, hand-shrug thing. It is the body language that claims: I don’t see why this is a problem. “I thought the conference might appreciate the benefit of my expertise in the kinase field.”
Robbins half-moves his hand towards his inside breast pocket, as if he were about to extract his wallet. “I'll pay the entrance fee.” The arm movement causes the sleeve to retreat, exposing a gray wrist band without a watch face. Agarwal recognizes the controller for the glasses.
“What’s the real reason you are here?” Agarwal doubts that Robbins will straight out admit that he intends to invade Lydia’s privacy. But that is exactly what happens.
“I just need one quick photo. And then I’ll be gone. No-one will know.”
“Lydia will. That’s harassment. I can’t let that happen.”
Robbins’ stentorian response shatters Agarwal’s illusion that their argument might not be overheard throughout the entire hotel. “I don’t intend to waste my airfare.”
Agarwal tries his best to calm the situation. “Let’s take it down a notch. It will serve no purpose to get into a shouting match.”
Robbins issues a sly smirk. “There won’t be an argument, if you let me in. It’s in your best interests. It would be a pity if you underestimated me.
“Let me tell you something. Chuck Standish’s unfortunate demise . . .”. The sardonic intonation of “unfortunate” conveys Robbins’ insincerity. But at least, Agarwal thinks, his voice has dropped. Even if only to a few decibels short of bellowing.
“Such a sad event,” Robbins continues, through crocodile tears. “One that created an academic void. Committees that he once chaired were becoming headless chickens. It was my duty to offer myself as a replacement. You might be interested to know I am the new organizer of the next international kinase conference in 2026. Maybe you were hoping to receive a speaking invitation?” Robbins lets the threat fester, as if he were refusing to treat an infected wound.
Agarwal is shocked by the extent of this anger. He is sure most would view a position of authority on a committee as a responsibility to serve. But Robbins sees it as an opportunity to exploit.
The malice continues. “Are you also aware that that I now advise the extramural division of the FIB? I have replaced Standish as the chairman of the Study Section for Biochemistry and Cell Biology. Don’t you have a grant from them?”
This is very alarming information for Agarwal. His lab is generously supported by the FIB. It is a four-year, research project grant. Robbins would know this, because Agarwal is required to disclose his funding sources during presentations and in his research publications. The current award expires next year. He is about to begin an application for renewal. As chair of the awards committee, Robbins could exert considerable influence over the funding decision. A rejection would be a crippling loss of research funds for Agarwal’s lab. In addition, this income stream pays for two of his group’s staff. They would have to be let go. His own salary is supplemented from this grant. He cannot afford to lose that.
He doubts his ability to explain to Myra how making an enemy out of one person could have such a devastating effect. Failing to have this one grant renewed would substantially reduce his productivity. He would publish fewer papers and his reputation would falter, more so if his conference invites go away. Robbins is an influential figure – what if he starts a whispering campaign? All of this bad publicity would make other grants harder to procure.
Agarwal jabs an angry finger at the McDonald name tag. “Have you thought of the damage to your reputation if I spread the word about you barging into a conference with a stolen ID?”
“That’s also illegal.” A new voice has joined the conversation.
Robbins is displeased by the interruption. “What the fuck, Kojak?”
Agarwal concludes there is a background in policing for the muscular individual who appears from behind the massive floral artistry. There are several indications. One is his shaven head paired with Robbins’ exclamation. Another is the half-eaten donut, or at least, the New Orleans version. It is a beignet: dough that is deep-fried and then drowned in powdered sugar. It is an accompaniment to the coffee cup which is clasped in his other hand. Nevertheless, the most telling sign of a career in law enforcement is intimate knowledge of Louisiana statues that pertain to gatecrashing scientific symposia.
“You can be prosecuted for criminal trespass. And unauthorized use of a movable. . .”
Agarwal is intrigued but also doubtful about the application of “a movable” to a stolen conference pass. He makes a mental note to check into that on Wikipedia.
“. . . Theft of services is another. How about unauthorized entry of a place of business? That last one could cost you a thousand dollars and six years.” He turns towards Agarwal to explain. “I was a cop before I became a cab driver. I have previous with your colleague. I was his ride today. He’s an annoying bastard, isn’t he? And a voice like a chainsaw. Only one of my ears works, and I still heard him from the hotel coffee shop. I thought you might like some assistance.”
Agarwal offers thanks for the intervention, but his attention is directed elsewhere. He is disturbed that he cannot read Robbins. Well, he can see the anger. The cold eyes and the clenched jaw. But what does not make sense is that he has gone quiet. Is he silenced by the number and severity of his infractions? Or does it reflect the grim satisfaction that he will follow through on his threats?
Agarwal extends a hand. “I’ll take that badge back, please.” As the lanyard is reluctantly handed over, he observes Stuart in his peripheral vision, moving cautiously down the stairs.
“I know who to ask,” the ex-cop continues, “if you would like to file charges.”
“That won’t be necessary, provided he agrees to leave.” Now the badge has been returned, Agarwal feels he no longer has the upper hand, legally speaking. Yes, the ID was stolen, but it was never actually used for an illicit purpose, because he intervened. At least he can have him kicked out of the hotel for good, and the conference can proceed undisturbed.
The ex-cop nods in agreement. “That can be arranged.” He recruits Stuart for this task. “Can you escort this intruder off the premises?” He also issues a stern warning to Robbins. “Best you get out of town. I’ll make sure to alert the front desk. They will know to call the police if you make the mistake of returning.”
Robbins bends into Agarwal, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. His jugular vibrates with a savage pulse. “You will regret this.” Then he strides back down the corridor towards the hotel entrance. Behind him, Stuart pretends that he is trying to keep up.
“Have you tried these?” It is a reference to the remains of the beignet. Agarwal haplessly shakes his head. Only a few hours earlier, he had convinced himself he would try to shed some weight. But in any case, he has completely lost his appetite.
“You should. It’s a New Orleans special.” The cab driver persona returns: “Gotta leave. Another ride.”
Agarwal thanks him again, but he hears the hollow ring in his own words. He has saved Lydia, but from what, he does not know. He is not even aware if she deserves to be saved.
He curses being a victim of circumstance, the coincidence of encountering Robbins at the very moment he was heading into the meeting. That only happened because the temperamental podium delayed the schedule, and Yamamoto overran his time. And because a second coffee and an enlarged prostate drove him to the restroom. If timing had been different, Robbins could have sneaked into the meeting, snapped a picture of Lydia, and then retreated to Baltimore. Agarwal knows that scenario could have played out without his involvement.
He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like Mati Hari. The exotic dancer turned courtesan just happened to be in the Hotel Elysée Palace, at a point during World War One when the French government needed a scapegoat for its military shambles. It was convenient to have a spy to blame. She was never proven to have provided the enemy with anything more serious than gossip, but she died for it anyway.
He stands dejectedly in the company of his angst and Greta Garbo’s somber visage. Is there any way I can prevent Robbins from wrecking my life?
Return to Chapter 6 Chapter 8 will be posted soon.