1
David
“This is crap.” David slumped in his chair.
If the manuscript had been written on paper, he would at least have the pleasure of crumpling the page and tossing it into the trash basket. But since it was digital, the only thing he could do was press delete.
Not nearly as satisfying.
The dialogue sounded stilted, and the long paragraphs of narrative read more like an academic paper than a fiction story.
Eight years had passed since he’d written and published his first and only science fiction novel, and he was obviously out of practice. The numerous papers he’d published since had all been well written, in part thanks to the skill he’d developed while working on that novel, but regrettably the effect was more harmful than helpful in the other direction.
The crisp and clear writing style he’d adopted had helped his papers get accepted into prestigious publications like The American Journal of Psychiatry and many others, but it didn’t lend itself to storytelling.
With a sigh, David deleted the chapter, closed his eyes, and imagined the conversation taking place in a movie. The characters were discussing the two-caste system their highly-regimented society was based on, and the challenge was making them sound like real people but still alien.
Perhaps he could model them on some of his British colleagues? Or maybe the Swedes?
Heinz Fransson was a hoot. His friend’s offbeat humor could liven up the stiff dialogue. Or maybe he could use Karen Shaffer as a model? Except the conversation was between two men. Besides, Karen’s humor was not the kind that lent itself to a book he hoped to market to young adults.
The publisher’s editor would cut it out.
He was just starting to get into the role play in his head when his cell phone rang. Irritated, David opened his eyes and glanced at the display.
The number on the screen was unknown, but he was used to getting calls from strangers, professors and post-docs asking for permission to use his research data or wishing to collaborate with him on a paper.
He answered in his professional tone. “This is Professor Levinson.”
“Hello, David. This is Kajeck Zolotovsky. We’ve met a couple of times to discuss your research on post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Oh, yes. I remember. How can I help you?”
It had been more than two years ago, but he remembered the Russian well. The guy had an incredibly sharp mind for someone with no formal education, and Zolotovsky had paid generously for David’s time.
“I apologize for calling you on your private line, but I called your office first and was told that you are on a sabbatical. The department’s secretary was kind enough to provide me with your cell number.”
“That’s okay. I’m always glad to hear from you, Mr. Zolotovsky.”
Tori shouldn’t have given his number out without consulting with him first, but in this case, David didn’t mind. If Zolotovsky wanted to have another two-hour talk with him in exchange for six thousand dollars in cash, he would gladly oblige him.
David’s pay during the sabbatical was reduced, and the extra money would come in handy.
Sadly, the novel he was working on wouldn’t bring in much as far as royalties were concerned, if at all. The prestige of being a Stanford professor and having written a novel before might help him get published again, and he might even get a nice advance from the publisher, but that was as much as he could expect. His first novel had been a moderate success, and he’d made close to fifteen thousand with it, which was not bad given that most writers didn’t make even a fraction of that. But it wasn’t nearly enough to justify the two years of sleep deprivation.
Except, David wrote science fiction not for financial gain but because he needed an outlet for his interests and ideas. Specifically, those he couldn’t address officially without becoming the laughingstock of the department, or worse, getting fired.
In academia, only a handful of brave souls dared to tackle controversial topics like memories of past lives and near-death experiences, and he wasn’t one of them.
Not officially.
His close friends knew about his fascination with the subjects, and he was okay with that, but he was never going to publish a paper about either topic or include them in his lectures when he returned to teaching.
“Are you spending your sabbatical here in the States or abroad?” Zolotovsky asked.
“This time, I opted not to accept a guest position abroad. I’m staying right here and using the sabbatical to write a novel. The idea for this story has been brewing in my head for the past seven years, and now I finally have time to sit down and write it.”
“A most worthy undertaking. I wish you the best of luck with it.”
“Thank you.”
“A sabbatical is also a good time to spend with the family. Do you have children, Professor Levinson?”
That was an oddly personal question.
During their prior conversations, Zolotovsky had only been interested in discussing David’s research. He hadn’t volunteered any personal details about himself and hadn’t asked for any in return.
Perhaps the reason for the inquiry was that Kajeck wanted to meet again. The other times they had talked it had been at David’s office in the university, but now that he was on a sabbatical, he would need to invite the Russian to his home, which could have been a problem if there was a bunch of children running around.
Regrettably, that wasn’t the case.
“I’m not married, and I don’t have children. My house is free of distractions.”
Kajeck chuckled. “Except for pesky admirers, I’m sure.”
Damn. David was well aware of his reputation as a womanizer, which was not entirely fabricated, but it was no doubt exaggerated. Still, it was surprising that someone outside of the university had heard the rumors.
It was flattering to be called the hottest professor on campus, but it was also a little embarrassing. He’d rather be called the best teacher, or the most brilliant researcher, but regrettably he was neither.
Still, he wasn’t breaking any laws.
David never hooked up with his own students. That would have been incredibly stupid and would have gotten him fired. But students who didn’t attend his lectures were not off-limits.
Besides, he’d never been the pursuer, he’d been pursued, and quite relentlessly. None of the ladies could claim that he’d seduced them or enticed them into his bed with anything other than his good looks.
David was a relatively young professor, single, and he was a handsome man if he said so himself. Fake modesty had never been his thing, and his good looks were not just the result of good genetics. His athletic physique took a lot of work. He was still rowing in Redwood Creek almost every morning, bicycling around the Stanford sprawling campus, and lifting weights regularly, either in the university’s gym or at home.
His admirers were not limited to faculty and students either. His Instagram profile picture drew a large, mostly female following, and David was sure that not all of them were fascinated by the factoids he was posting about psychology and psychiatry.
Shifting in his chair, he switched the phone to his other ear. “The rumors you must have heard are vastly exaggerated.”
Kajeck snorted. “I was referring to myself. As you know, I am a great admirer of your work. Would it be possible for us to have another lovely talk? Naturally, it will be at the same rate we have agreed upon previously.”