Beneath The Ivory Tower by Warren Adler - Considering the Vetting of Men for High-Level Positions

 

He could actually mark in his memory the approximate moment when he finally put to rest both the torment and temptation of his infidelity. That was the moment when he knew in his soul that he had exorcised the devil inside of him, that his secret life was over, that his vow was irreversible. Was it the ambience of Venice? Was it the recognition that the absolute constancy, loyalty, and undying affection of his wife demanded a similar response from him? How had she conceived of the idea of this place being the perfect setting for the cure? The memory of Ellen, with all its anguish and depression, disappeared like an erasure on a chalkboard. The slate was wiped clean. His affairs with Rebecca and Gloria were relegated to barely a wisp of memory. It was a miracle, an epiphany. He was being granted a sense of renewal, a new beginning, a conversion. From that moment on, he knew he would be faithful to his marriage vows. He felt he had been forgiven. They had been sitting at a table in the first row of a café in the Piazza San Marco. The Venetian dusk was leisurely descending, blurring the contrast between the pink-and-white marble of the Doge’s Palace directly across the promenade. He could see the last gasp of the faltering light play on the bronze hide of the four horses over the central doorway of the basilica, the clock tower, and the boat traffic on the Grand Canal. Across the canal, the waning light caressed the Cathedral of San Giorgio and, of course, the most compelling exhibit of all, the human throng. Behind them, on a bandstand, a quartet of musicians in tuxedos played familiar lushly romantic selections from Mozart and Beethoven. As the people passed, some stopped to listen, their faces lit by smiles stimulated by the exquisitely joyful and mesmerizing ambience of this place. Had Alice imagined this effect when she conceived this anniversary vacation? In front of them, without embarrassment, couples kissed, squeezed, and hugged each other. Glee seemed catching here. Everyone was happy, he noted, filled with the contagion of the sensation. Alice squeezed his hand, and they leaned across the table and kissed. “Feeling better, baby?” she asked. Up to then, he had taken refuge in simulating a light case of flu, inventing just enough symptoms to maintain a kind of emotional and physical isolation. He had gone through the motions of touring the Doge’s Palace and other famous landmarks, offering only a modicum of vague interest. “What is it, Allen?” Alice had asked. “Something coming on,” he had replied, knowing where his indisposition lay. With genuine effort, he tried to shake it off but to no avail. “I hope I’m not spoiling things for you, Alice.” “You can’t spoil anything for me, Allen. I just want you up to par so you can enjoy the experience of this lovely place.” He was rarely ill, but when he did come down with something, Alice was always there with succor and sympathy. Her solicitousness reminded him again of her devotion and concern. She was sweet and kind and beautiful, and here he was pining for what he defined as a lost love. It was ludicrous. He was drowning in guilt. Then sitting there in San Marco’s square, sipping their Campari and sodas, he had had his epiphany. Looking at Alice in profile, her face showing only the barest hints of aging, he realized that she was in a real sense, his true mate, and his real destiny. As they say, he had come to his senses at last. Those others, all three lumped together now, were simply manifestations of mysterious longings that could hardly compete with the sincere comfort and intimacy of this enduring relationship with his spouse. 

Swans, he thought. Mated for life. At last, he had accepted the premise, her premise. It crossed his mind that she might have sensed his various infractions, his debasement of their marital vows, his cynical disloyalty, his absurd romantic notions, and what he perceived as his gargantuan sexual needs. But her air of innocence and her unflagging wifely devotion made such a possibility remote. He had been scrupulous in holding all suspicion at bay, had taken massive precautions to keep the savage wolf of revelation from her door. It shamed him to think of how far afield he had gone. The methods he had used to keep his secrets embarrassed him now. Good God, how could I, he cried to himself. His eyes welled with tears. Yes, he had escaped unscathed, and he was back forever where he belonged. He had polluted and defiled. He had given in to dark and destructive urges. He had betrayed someone whose unflagging loyalty and devotion were steady and pure. And he had come within a hair of soiling his nest beyond repair. By some miracle, he had avoided accountability, had been reprieved. Thank you, Lord, he told himself. 

“I’m ready,” he said suddenly turning to observe her expression, studying her air of mystified concern. “Ready for what?” she asked. “Renewal,” he said, caressing her thigh under the table. “It’s you who put the idea in my head.” “Did I? I don’t really need renewal, Allen. Nothing has changed for us.” “Why would you think otherwise?” “Even if one swan’s wings are clipped, they stay together,” she said smiling. “You’re my permanent cob.” “A what?” She giggled girlishly. “A male swan. And I’m called a pen, a female. And we have two cygnets. You see. I’ve done my research. Only when a cob or a pen dies do they look for another mate.” Talk of death seemed incongruous to the moment. But he let it pass. They ordered another two Campari and sodas. When the drinks came, they clinked glasses. “To another twenty-two,” he said, feeling suddenly that a great weight had been lifted from his psyche. “Four-four. For the dice rollers, that’s boxcars.” “Then let’s roll ’em.” They sipped their drinks and watched the lights of the vaporettos flicker as they plied their way along the darkened canal. “Has it been mostly happy for you?” he asked. Did this epiphany call for confession? He felt on the verge of it, wanting to unburden himself further. Clearing his throat, he started to speak but he could not form the words. “What is it, Allen?” “I just want to say…” He paused. “Yes?” She gazed into his eyes, waiting for him to speak. “Have I been a good husband?” he asked. “Do you have to ask that question? Of course, you have.” “Have you ever doubted my devotion?” “Don’t be silly.” “Or my loyalty?” “No way.” She shook her head, smiled and patted the hand that was caressing her thigh. Moving toward him, they kissed again deeply, their tongues touching. Then she disengaged. He watched her grow thoughtful. Again, he cleared his throat wanting to reveal everything. Second thoughts intervened. What was the point? There was no need for that, no need to inject pain into her life. It was over now. The curtain had descended on that other life. “Have I been a good wife, Allen?” she asked. It was a totally unexpected question. “Now, who’s silly?” he said. “I haven’t been a world-beater. Have I bored you ever?” “Never,” he said. Boredom hadn’t chased him into his secret life. Something else, something far outside her orbit, something inside him, something too powerful to resist. “I’ve done my best,” she said. “My world is my husband and my children.” “And my world is my wife and our children.” He was conscious of the lie but had established the rationale. Another person inside of him, like those Russian dolls that fitted one inside the other, had been the dissembler, the adulterer. He had finally dispatched this other person to oblivion, removed him from the sequence, beyond history and existence. There was a long pause as he felt the sense of renewal charge through him. Their gaze met. He noted that she was becoming reflective, as if searching for something inside of her to emerge. 

“Horas non numero nisi serenas,” she said haltingly, stumbling slightly. “I memorized that waiting for just this moment.” “What does it mean?” “I count only the happy hours.” He wondered about her intent. Did it mean she had had unhappy hours? He let it pass unnoticed. Nothing must mar the moment. They kissed again. She brought her hand down to his crotch. “I told you I was ready,” he said. She hunched her shoulders and laughed. “Let’s pretend we’re lovers having a secret affair.” He felt the blood drain from his face. “What?” He heard a distinct tremor in his voice, and his lips trembled. A knot formed in his stomach. “Why not? It will add some spice. Young lovers on a tear.” “Hardly young,” he said searching for a response that would calm him. “Not according to this,” she said, squeezing him there. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “Believe it. I think we should find a gondola,” she giggled. “You’re serious?” “Absolutely.” He paid for the drinks, and they walked arm in arm, through the narrow calles, searching for some off-the-beaten-path fondamento where the gondolas were moored. Finding one, he negotiated a price while she lounged in the gondola and waited, stretching out on the soft pillows, and partially covering herself with a light blanket. “Two hundred thousand lire,” he said, smiling as he got in beside her. 

“What are you smiling about?” “For what we have in mind, it’s double.” “How did he know what we had in mind? After all, we’re not exactly kids.” “Not by a long shot.” “Then how did he know?” “He’s a lascivious bastard. He winked to prove it.” “Good for him.” The gondolier pushed off, and the boat glided away from its mooring. “I like this,” she whispered, nestling close to him, looking up at patches of sky visible through the dark cliffs made by the villas that lined the rios. The gondolier moved the craft softly through the water away from the tourist routes, and soon they could hear only the lapping of the water against the stone siding. She had slipped off her panty hose, and he had pulled down his pants to midthigh. Taking it slow, they caressed each other. Nearby, people walked along the calles, talking softly, laughing. “This will gives us a memory for a lifetime,” she whispered. “A lifetime,” he repeated in agreement. “We’re twenty-two years into it,” she said, giggling again. “We’ll come back in twenty-two and do it again.” “You and me, kiddo,” she said, sliding under him, helping him enter her. Their change in position shifted the balance of the flat-bottomed boat. The gondolier deftly compensated for the changes. “Are we being illicit?” she asked. “Very.” “Good. I want to see how it feels.” The blanket partially hid their lower bodies as they maneuvered themselves into the missionary position. As they moved in tandem, he watched her expression, visible now that his eyes had grown used to the darkness. It did not take long. They held each other tightly, letting the pleasure roll over them in a simultaneous spasm. “That one hit the gong,” she said, when she had cooled. “Illicit works.” “Better yet. We gonged together.” “One big gong,” she said, giggling. He took the mutuality as a further sign of their renewal, their bonding. Tonight, he told himself, is the beginning of our new life together. The blanket had slipped revealing their nakedness. He heard nearby voices and the grunt of the gondolier as he tried to slow his craft’s course. Still, Alice held him in a tight embrace. Then just above them, on the higher elevation of the stone walk, she saw two faces peering down at them. They seemed colorless, almost ashen. An older couple, Italian faces. “Buon giorno,” she said aloud, slapping him on his exposed rump. Under them, they felt the surge of the gondolier’s thrust as his oar moved the boat swiftly out of range. Laughing, Harris scrambled to her side, and they both quickly rearranged their clothes, none too soon, because around the bend they could see the festooned lights of the Rialto Bridge. The gondolier docked the craft smoothly. “For good measure,” Harris said handing the gondolier additional lire as he stepped onto the fondamento. He saw Alice wink and the gondolier’s playful gesture of kissing his fingers and raising them to the sky. “Well worth it, my man,” Harris had said. They had crossed the bridge and got a canal-side table at a trattoria, where they toasted themselves with Valpolicella and ordered baccalà and anchovies and cicala di mare. It was part of the miracle, this recall of the smallest detail of those moments. Nothing escaped memory, the smell of the night air mingled with the aroma of cooking coming from the restaurants, the taste of the food and the wine. Every detail of that evening and their glorious time afterward in Venice was etched in his mind. When they returned after a week, he slipped easily into his regular routine. He no longer felt the pull of outside attachments. He was liberated. Not a stir of memory of his infidelities ruffled his thoughts. The image of Ellen Benton and the others quietly slipped out of sight. That part of his life had been laid to rest. Or so he believed. Until now.

~~~

Allen Harris provided legal counsel to a university when they were in the midst of a scandal which they hoped to keep within the authority of the Board. His negotiations were so effective that he gained the respective not only of the Board, but of the president who was asked to leave his position. Vetting of all potential employees or those to hold high-level positions had become even more important in this world of electronic mail, cell phones, et.al. And the board of trustees' members were extremely anxious to ensure that they thoroughly investigated the past for each of those who would be considered for the position of president. To do this, they hired a major security company to conduct the vetting process.

However, even at the beginning, the name of the lawyer, Allen Harris, was identified as one who should be considered, given his reputation and the fine work he had just done on behalf of the university.

Harris, of course, was gratified that he was even being considered and actually saw it as a perfect step out of the legal arena. His wife was thrilled and promised to become the perfect wife of the president. Only thing was, Harris had also participated in the same type of sexual scandal for which the past president was just fired--even if his indiscretions were in the past, the last one being about five years earlier.

When I was on campus and a question arose regarding a national politician's involvement, the Political Science Chair and I got into a discussion about what it meant for a politician. For him, he felt that anybody who had chosen to lead the country, giving up much of his own personal freedom, then the individual had an obligation to ensure he never crossed a line related to ethics or moral behavior. 

Harris was not too concerned, since he felt he had done an exceptional job in "hiding" his affairs. At least he was until he met the security investigator who would be vetting...HIM!  I diligently read about Harris' actions--how each meeting occurred and how he went about connecting with the woman with whom he was interested. Note that two were early in his career and he had not as much to lose professionally by being identified.

Bottom line, Allen Harris began to panic! Should he even say he was interested in the presidency? Should he feel secure that his early efforts for concealment were sufficient to prevent any discovery? Or, worse, what if, in its being announced that he was being considered for the president position, that one of his past lovers would see it as a way to get money or even to get back at him for being unwilling to divorce and marry that individual. By the way, there were three, the last affair having been at least 5 years ago.

Harris decided that the only way that he could consider actually accepting the position if he were chosen, was to feel totally secure that all three of the women would not reveal his past... So he set about hunting down each of his former paramours, hoping, by meeting them face to face to ensure he felt he could believe what they told him...

The majority of this book covers his searches, his internal memories of each woman, and the actual results of his searches... Frankly, I enjoyed reading how the man feels about this type of relationship. From that standpoint, ladies, this may be a very informative book for all of you.

And readers are so involved in his personal life, that when he learns that one of his lovers was now dead--and that another death occurred as well, then, just as I did, Allen's investigative juices started flowing and he started backtracking--adding up one clue versus another as to exactly what was going on...

Have to say, I personally didn't like how the book ended, although by that time I wasn't surprised. I prefer a happy ending, albeit, admittedly whatever I feel personally would make a happy ending...LOL

Still, Warren Adler was a brilliant writer who died at 91, in 2019. This book as will others, I am sure, will routinely be brought back for new readers who missed the book during earlier publications...

Some of you may remember one of Adler's more famous books, which received awards and was made into a movie... This book reminded me that I also didn't really like The War of the Roses... And yet, as I got past my personal issues* and sat back to really read and enjoy the book, I was surprised at just how "aware" Warren Adler is about people! In fact, in Beneath The Ivory Tower, his POV is by the main character, the lawyer who finds himself being considered for the presidency of a respected university. We watch as he moves through such a wide range of emotions that we almost feel like we are his friend and working with him to "clear his name..."

At the end, I was once again considering the culture of America...Sex meets us in music, on the television, in movies, even in advertisements... Allen never figures out what made him...stray...Perhaps it is all the sexy situations that surround most of us daily? No wonder, I wonder...Is Sex All That? Can a professional career be tarnished for some brief escapade, agreed upon by both individuals? Or do we have a right to blame all of those actions on writers, readers, and more that keeps sex on our minds, sometimes, most of the day?

This is an excellent book on which to ponder your thoughts and decide! Don't be surprised though if this is not an easy read, given the nature of the topic... You choose!

GABixlerReviews

*Having nearly 40 years on a university campus, as well as watching over the years of political sexual misconduct of one form or another, I've found that it is very difficult to deal with interpersonal relationships in today's world--where everybody is watching... And if they wonder about your success, for instance, they are quite willing to hypothesize that "she must have slept her way up..." as justification when a female peer gets promoted when they do not. I'm not saying that sexual activities do not occur. What I am saying is that, many times, reputations are affected where sexual affairs as described via gossip,  are actually, merely having lunch with your boss to discuss your next assignment... More at a later time... Re Open Memoir Sub-Title.