, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The following week I went to see the Dean of English. Tim knew me, since I was his student a year ago. He welcomed me with a cordial smile and proffered me a chair to sit down.

I said with anticipation, “The principal suggested me to have a conference with you.”

“Yes, I’ve been expecting you. As a matter of fact, the principal asked me to talk with your professor as well. Shogo, I remember when you were my student, you’re a very quiet and peaceful person. I was quite surprised to hear about your outburst. Shogo, tell me why do you think her teaching is wrong and also tell me what you exactly said to her?”

I told him everything down to the last details, including how she suddenly stood up and shrieked in unrecognizable voice.

He listened to me attentively, and his eyes sometimes glinted discordant behind his thick glasses. He lapsed into silence for a several minutes, appearing a problematic expression on his forehead. And he uttered with a solemn look, “Shogo, may I venture to ask you if you are an artist?”

I was astonished by the forthright question but tried to compose myself with all my might and replied gravely, “Yes, I am.”