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LINDEN BRIDGE IS FALLING DOWN
by Shon Dunbar

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​Shon Dunbar is the nom-de-plume of myself and a co-author, both retired academics.  The novel is a 'campus comedy' and is drawn from our experiences in various universities.​   This is the first chapter only;
if you enjoy it you can download the full novel, for e-reader, tablet or laptop, from Amazon. 
        
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It was early evening on the second and final day of the SAPIENS conference.   “Scientists Artists and Philosophers Interact to Encourage Noetic Synergy”, to give it its full ambitious title, was an annual event, held this year in Scarford University’s Lune House.    Scarford’s Bob Barrow, chair of the organising committee, felt the weight of responsibility slipping from his shoulders; the conference had gone well; there had been more than enough papers to fill out the proceedings and the quality had been high.  Next year’s event would be on someone else’s plate. Bob was ready to relax and let his hair down.
The first day and most of the second had been given over to the presentations of the papers and the subsequent discussions.  Now it was time for the cocktail party and dance.   On a slightly raised stage a string quartet in evening suits was playing in front of a small dance-floor.  Delegates and their wives and partners were sitting at tables set round the outer edge of the dance-floor chatting, drinking wine and eating savouries picked from a finger buffet near the door.  A few of the better dancers were on the floor showing off their skills to a Viennese medley.
Near the back of the room, Bob raised himself ono the tips of his toes and looked around the gathering. He felt a frisson of pride at the size and variety of the company. How wonderful!   So many talented people from so many different countries.  Coming together to promote knowledge and understanding.  His eyes sought out the green Paisley-patterned frock of his wife Louise at the other side of the room.  Almost telepathically she turned from the young man she was talking to and caught Bob’s eye.  They exchanged smiles.  “Love you”, he mouthed.  She smiled and blew him a kiss.
Just then, Bob’s reverie was interrupted by the lunging approach of a large dark woman dressed in what looked like a purple velvet curtain.  She grabbed his arm and with a “Come, Doctor Barrow, we will dance, you and me”, she yanked him onto the dance floor.   She enveloped him in a pair of white fleshy arms and began to lead him through a brisk quickstep as though he were a large limp rag doll sewn to the front of her dress.
“Doctor Barrow.  I am Elzbieta Sierpinska.  From Poland.  You do not know me I think, but I am working in the laboratory of Professor Kedzior.  I think you know him.”
Struggling to get his feet and breath under control, Bob gasped.  “Ah, yes, I know Cesary well.  You are a colleague of his?"
"Not colleague -  I am PhD student.  I am working on the semiotic psychology of texting.  It is related to your own work – after all, physics makes great use of symbolic abbreviations.  I am a co-author on a paper from our laboratory.  It was presented yesterday by my co-worker.”
“Yes, I was in the audience.  Very nice paper”, said Bob.  He was pleased that his own work had been referred to by a foreign researcher.  Often he felt he was working to very little purpose.  All the major breakthroughs came from groups in America and Japan with access to far more generous funding than he could get, or so it seemed.   People like himself just scrabbled after the crumbs that fell from the tables of these over-endowed academic trenchermen.
“So you work in Warsaw, do you, Dr Sierpinska?”
“Please Dr Barrow”, she smiled ingratiatingly. “Please call me Elly.  I am not doctor. I told you.  I am PhD student of Professor Cesary Kedzior.  Maybe I become doctor in two more years.  If I work very hard.”  She giggled and embraced him more tightly till he was crushed up against the purple velvet.  “And yes, I am from Warsaw.  Do you know Warsaw, Dr Barrow?”  He could smell a powerful cheap perfume and the unmistakeable pungency of gin.  His eyes wandered downwards and were rewarded with the sight of two enormous white mounds that quivered and bounced with the musical beat.   He looked away. “Not well, Miss ..er..Elly.  I’ve been to Warsaw only once and only for two days.  I would like to visit again some day.”
“That could be arranged easily, Doctor Barrow.  I could ask Professor Kedzior to invite you.  We could get you a small travelling bursary.  And I could show you round.  There are some lovely little dark cafes in the old town.”  At this she squeezed and shook him and rubbed her cheek on his.  He felt her belly pushing into his.  Just then, to his immense relief, the music stopped.   He was just about to lead Elzbieta off the floor when they were stopped by the voice of Professor Victor Orlovsky, self-appointed Master of Ceremonies.  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for the traditional SAPIENS prize dance.  This year we will have an elimination dance.”
Bob’s jaw dropped in dismay.  “Shit!  Oh, sorry.  But…Oh, I don’t believe it!”
“What is the matter, Dr. Barrow?”
“No one has elimination dances nowadays – well not outside Russia.  So..well..yesterday!  Nobody will know what to do.  I warned Victor about this.  He promised it would be a line dance – prizes for most authentic – or something like that.” 
“I know what to do”, said Elly excitedly, “we must stay for this dance.  I think you are lucky, Dr Barrow.  We will win a prize together.”  And before he could protest, she wrapped him again in the thick white rubber-clad cables, and held him captive till the music restarted.  Bob edged a look over her shoulder despairingly.  Beyond the crowded dance floor he saw Louise watching him.  She raised a hand to her mouth to half-hide a smile.  He made a clenched-teeth wide-eyed grimace.  Help!  Louise swiftly turned her head away and walked out of the room.
The music speeded up and he felt himself being pulled and pushed around the floor at an ever more frantic pace.  The tempo reached the resonant frequency of Elly’s breasts, which heaved up and down and began to pound on his chin like boxing gloves.    He began to feel groggy, but just as he thought he would have to protest, the music stopped and Orlovsky’s voice boomed out.  “The first prize will go to whoever is first to bring me -  a man’s right shoe!
Bob found Elly at his right foot pulling at his shoe laces and trying to take his shoe off.  He hopped about to stop falling over, but before she could loosen it completely another couple had won the prize and the music started again.  “This is very good fun, Dr Barrow”, she whispered into his ear.  I hope we can win. You know, I think this is going to be your lucky night.”  She winked at him in an unsettling way.
The music suddenly stopped again.  “This time, for the second of our four prizes, I want you to bring me……a lady’s brooch.”
Elly pushed her massive chest out towards him.  “There.  There.  Take it.  Quickly.”  She was pointing to a tiny brooch in the shape of a curled-up cat, pinned onto her dress exactly above where he imagined her left nipple would be.
With fumbling fingers he tried to unpin it, but the circular movements she was making with her breast didn’t help and before he could make much headway the sound of clapping told him that he was too late again.  Elly whispered to him again, “Do you like my little cat.  He was given to me by one of my lovers.  You remind me of him, Dr Barrow.”  Again she winked.
The dance took up once more, and Bob went whirling around the room, and again it stopped.  “This time I want…… a man’s belt." 
Elly’s hands were suddenly working at the top of his trousers, unbuckling his belt and trying to pull it through the loops.  He looked up and saw the returned Louise looking at him curiously.  Elly managed to get the belt free and brandished it above her head, but before she could claim the prize it went, again, to another couple.  “Oh, dear.  Too late again.  We have only one more chance, Dr Barrow.  Let us be very quick this time.” And she danced him away as he struggled to re-secure his trousers. 
The music stopped.  “For the fourth and last prize I want someone to bring me….."  Orlovsky was leering in a maniacal way.  "......dah dah….a lady’s brassiere.”
There was a shocked silence in the room and most of the dancers just stood looking at each other in embarrassment.  But not Elly.  She was like a fury. Her hands were working deep inside the top of her dress, which became pulled down in the process revealing first a slip and then the upper bulwarks of a vast dark mauve bra.  “Help me Dr Barrow.  Quickly.  Help me.”  She handed one end of a bra-strap to Bob and paid out the rest like a sail.  Then it was all out and Bob was left with the twin pods dangling from his fingers like a gigantic piece of bladderwrack.   Elly pushed him towards Orlovsky.  He ran with the bra waving out behind him, and handed it to Orlovsky for the prize.   He noticed the flash of a camera recording his victory and, red with embarrassment, he returned to Elly with the bra and a bottle of expensive toilet water.  There was a round of unsure clapping and it was time for Bob to leave the floor with Elly.
 “Thank you, Miss Sierpinska”, said Bob.  “That was – fun.”  
“Thank you Dr Barrow.  Would you like to come and help me to put this back on?”   She held the bra up and giggled at him.
“Er – no - thank you.  I’d better see what’s happened to my – eh - wife.  I’ll be seeing you.”
“Bye bye, Dr Barrow.  Bob.  She took hold of his head between two enormous hands and pulled it towards her pouting lips.  She held his mouth in contact with hers for several seconds then pushed him away with a ‘mmmm-smack’ sound.  “See you later, my darling”, she whispered then disappeared out of the back door.
Orlovsky strode up to the microphone, took it from its stand and, wearing a huge smile, spoke into it in a deep Russian-accented voice.   “Now, Ladies and Gentlemen.   I know that you are all enjoying yourselves and I do not want to spoil the evening, so I am not going to make a long speech.   At this, a few ironic cheers rang out and some delegates clapped audibly.  Bob winced, but Orlovsky seemed not to notice and smiled even more and stroked his long white beard.   “But I would like to make a few comments”, he continued, to some muted boos, “and then we’ll get right on to the main business which is to drink the conference toast in the usual way.”   More cheers.   “So please make sure that your glasses are full; the ladies with wine, the gentlemen with, of course, vodka!   Vodka from my country.  From Russia!”  At this he raised his own glass above his head.  There was a general scurrying as those with empty glasses sought out waiters for refill.
Bob turned to Louise, who was only just managing not to bring up the topic of Miss Sierpinska.  “This is a traditional part of the proceedings at these conferences”, he told her.  “the delegate who is going to host the following year’s conference says a few words then offers a toast to the countries attending.”  
Louise beckoned to a waiter who hurried across and refilled her glass with white wine.  Bob held out his own glass.  The waiter put the wine bottle down on his tray and picked up a bottle of Slukov Vodka and filled Bob’s glass to overflowing.   Bob noticed the label on the back of the bottle reading ‘Tsar’s Delight 47o proof spirit”
“Drinkle, drinkle, little Tsar”, he said with a sidelong glance at Louise, “This is the real McCoyski.  Orlovsky had a whole batch sent over for the occasion.   I hope nobody overdoes it and drinks too much.  We don’t want any unpleasantness to spoil the conference.”
“Oh stop worrying”, said Louise, “you’ve done nothing but worry since the conference began.  But nothing’s happened, it’s been fine.   Just relax and enjoy yourself.  You really are an old worrypuss.”  She bent towards him and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek, momentarily forgetting Miss Siepinska.  A loud dull tapping sound interrupted them.  Looking towards the front of the room they saw Orlovsky hitting the microphone with the palm of his hand.
“So now, ladies and gentlemen, we are ready”, he said, casting an imperious glance around the room.  “Let me begin by offering the sincere thanks of the International Organising Committee of the SAPIENS Conference to the UK National Committee for arranging this magnificent scientific event.  I am sure you will all agree that it has been one of the most interesting, fruitful and important events of this year’s calendar.”
This produced a round of clapping and several cries of ‘hear, hear’.   Daphne Entwhistle’s “Abso-LUTE-ly! Abso-LUTE-ly!” rang out above the rest.
“In particular, we would like to thank the chairman of the UK committee, Dr. Bob Barrow whose hard work and dedication has been an inspiration to us all.”
He looked around with his hand held out over his eyes as if shading them from the sun. “Where are you Bob?” he shouted.  “Ah, there you are”, he said, as Bob and Louise were propelled to the front of the crowd by their neighbours.  “And the beautiful Mrs Barrow, whom, I am sure you will agree, is the belle of the ball.”
This was met with prolonged clapping and a few wolf-whistles, which Bob would have disapproved of had he not been engulfed in self-conscious embarrassment.  Louise raised Bob’s hand in a gesture of acknowledgement and he was able to mumble “Thanks”, before moving quickly backwards into the crowd, face red as a beetroot.
“That was nice, darling”, said Louise, “they really appreciate all you’ve done.”  
“Next”, continued Orlovsky, “the IOC would like to thank all of the delegates whose papers have contributed so much to the success of the conference.”
He then went on to announce the prizes for the best paper, the best presentation, the best paper by a student and various other awards.  As each was announced, the recipient went to the front and was given their prize.   Orlovsky knew that this was a particularly important part of the proceedings – academics were desperate always to add to their cv’s.  He and his Prizes Subcommittee had been subjected to the usual lobbying, both with political and personal motivations.  None of the prize-winners came as a surprise.
When all prizes had been awarded, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please fill your glasses for the traditional SAPIENS ‘Toast to the Nations’.  It will be my very great pleasure to host the next conference in Russia, and so it is my happy duty now to lead the toasts to the nations that are represented here today.  Let us begin by toasting...” – he nodded to Stephan Georgiev – “Bulgaria!”  Glasses were raised and the delegates repeated in unison, “Bulgaria.”  Georgiev responded in halting English. Then it was “Denmark.”  Then, “France.”
Louise turned to Bob.  “Be careful, sweetie.  There are twenty nations represented here.  Just sip it.”
Bob hardly heard her.  He was caught up in the merry-making and he had just caught sight again of Elly, who was smiling seductively across at him from over to his left.  Mmm! Rather pretty, he thought, wondering why he had not noticed before.  Her bulbous white breasts looked wickedly sexy.  He turned to Louise.  “Don’t worry, darling.  I know what I’m doing.  And just look at old Orlovsky.  Looks like he’s drinking a full glass each time.  Hee hee!”  Bob grabbed another glass from one of the mingling waiters.
“Maybe so, darling, but he’s used to it.  He probably drinks a bottle for breakfast.  You’re not.  Just take it easy.”
            …. “Italy”…..”Japan”…
Orlovsky had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie.  His shirt was pulled out of the waistband of his trousers.  He was clambering up to stand on a desk amid cheers and shouts of encouragement.
….”Poland”…”RUSSIA”….
An especially loud cheer went up as Orlovsky announced his own country and started to perform the steps of a peasant dance.   Elzbieta Sierpinska shouldered her way through the crowd and lifted Bob off his feet and started to twirl him round and round shouting “Rossiya, Rossiya”, then bent to whisper in his ear “Fack bladdy Rossiya!”
Finally, Orlovsky got to the last country.  “United Kingdom”, he shouted.  “To our hosts.  Cheers rose in  crescendo.  Some over-exuberant delegates threw their glasses backwards over their shoulders to smash amongst their neighbours’ feet.
Bob’s head was spinning.  He disengaged himself roughly from Elly.  He had to get out of the room.  The buzz of conversation seemed far too loud and as he looked around the room it appeared bathed in a pulsing flashing light that dazzled and hurt his eyes.  Everyone seemed to be looking straight at him with dilated eyes and gawping goldfish mouths.  He located the door that led out to the garden at the back of the hall and set off for it.  Strangely, though he knew he was walking in a straight line, he bumped into several people on the way.  “Sorry”, he said.  “Sorry.  Excuse me.  Oops.”  Then he was through the door and out into the garden.
He was hit by a profusion of greens.  Light green flowers and trees around the edge of a mid-green lawn and all surrounded by a high dark green hedge.  The evening sun was shining down from a cloudless sky.  There was no wind.  He felt slightly sick.  He saw a wooden bench set underneath a chestnut tree and he went across to it and sat down.  There were a few others in the garden, wandering in small groups with their hands behind their backs and their heads leaning together, earnestly discussing conference matters.   Some, seeing Bob, waved and smiled at him.  He ignored them.  He was too interested in a large clump of purple flowers growing in the flowerbed just to his right.  They seemed so majestic to him, the royal purple blazing a message of nobility and truth.   He bent over and plucked a single flower.  He held it up till it was right in front of his face and, squinting at it, said “Ah, purple flower, noble purple flower.  Harbinger of beauty.”
His mind slipped a gear.  Harbinger?  Harbinger?  What the hell is a harbinger?  Such a lovely word. A lovely lovely word. What does it mean?  He knew that he knew what it meant but he couldn’t get his mind to grasp the idea that he wanted to know what it meant.  It kept slipping away. 
Harbinger.  Har. Binge. Err.  Har.  Binge. Err.  And he began singing to the flower, to the tune of The Blue Danube, Oh, Ha-ar Binge Err, Binge Err, Binge Err.  Oh Ha-ar Binge Err, Binge Err, Binge Err….  He was conducting himself with the flower, waving it from side to side in front of his face.  He felt absurdly happy.  Happy and sad.  Sad to be so happy.  Sappilly had.  Tears started to run down his cheeks as he sang on, changing the tune to the mournful Abide With Me, Ha-ar Binge Err, Oh Ha-ar Bi-inge Err…
He bent over again and plucked some more of the flowers.  He carefully inserted them into the breast pocket of his jacket.  They hung out like a frayed purple handkerchief.  He bent for more and pushed them into the neck of his shirt so that they stuck up round his neck like a tattered scarf.   “I am the king of Harbingland”, he said loudly.  He pushed some flowers into his hair.
He was startled to see in front of him, gazing down in amusement, the tall figure of the Swede, Jan Wilander.   He was holding a large full glass.  “You seem to be enjoying the conference, Dr Barrow”, he said.  “May I join you?”
“Sit down, Jan”, said Bob, making a grand gesture with his handful of flowers.  “Are you a harbinger?”
“Yes.  Of course.  I am arbeenger – of booze.”  He sat down and put his arms around Bob’s shoulders.  “Have a drink.”   He offered his glass to Bob, but Bob pushed it away.  “You have had plenty already I think, Dr Barrow.  It is ok – so have I - and I will have another myself.”  He raised the glass to Bob,  "Salut",   and downed it. 
Bob had got up and had stumbled across to another clump of flowers.  Enormous yellow ones.  He picked a bunch and brought them back to Wilander.  He pushed some into Wilander’s jacket pocket and pushed the remainder down the neck of his shirt and in his hair.  Wilander didn’t resist but started to giggle. “C’mon”, said Bob pulling Wilander to his feet, “Let’s go for a walk.”  With arms round each other’s neck they swayed off round the garden path.  They reached another bench.  On it was an open half-empty bottle of red wine – left over from a lunch party.  Wilander picked it up and examined the label closely.  “Aha!  Tesco.  2 for 1.  Excellent!”  He offered the bottle to Bob who pushed it away with an exaggerated grimace.  Wilander raised the bottle in the air.  “What do you say?  Bottoms up!” and he glugged the warm wine down.  Finished, he tossed the empty bottle backwards over his shoulder and it shattered on a kerb brick.
Bob had a sudden idea.  He took off his tie, already awry, and motioning to Wilander to hold still, he tied it tightly around their adjacent legs.  Wilander staggered, righted himself and looked sideways at Bob, surprised.  “What are you doing, Bob?” 
Bob said “Don’t you have the three legged race in Finland?  Let’s see how fast we can go. Come on!”   They set off stumbling and nearly falling.  Bob started to giggle in a high-pitched hyena-like way.  “What is the matter, Bob?” Wilander asked, joining in the laughter.  Bob said “That’s us, the Harbingers, it’s what sets us apart.  We’re a three-legged race!”  Their giggling rose to a hysterical peak.
As their crazy lurching dance progressed around the garden path Bob felt a growing sense of discomfort.  He analysed it with great care.  No doubt about it, he needed to pee.  “Got to unilate, Jan.  Unrinate.”  He pulled Wilander away from the path towards a hedge standing above a flower-bed and partly hidden from the rest of the garden by a number of shoulder-high shrubs.  “Come on.  No one’ll see us here.”  Still shackled to Wilander he began to fumble at his fly.
Wilander looked down and saw what Bob was doing.  “Ok”, he said, opening his own fly.  They extracted their equipment then, synchronised by need, they let loose simultaneously.  Two jets shot out, wavered, then rose to bridge the gap to the hedge.  Bob leaned backwards and aimed further and further up the hedge.  Wilander, giggling, followed suit.
“I can piss higher than you.”
“Uh uh!  No way. Watch this. I am pisser extraordinaire”
Each pulled, squeezed and twisted his penile geometry to achieve maximum exit velocity and the two arcs soon reached and exceeded the height of the hedge and looped over it.
Inside the hall, Orlovsky was coming to the end of yet another short speech.   He was standing in front of the large bay window that looked out over the garden and was hugging an uneasy-looking Louise Barrow and squeezing her shoulders in a too-familiar way.   She tried ineffectually to pull away.  Oh, where’s Bob, she thought.  I wish he would come back in.
“May I conclude”, Orlovsky declaimed, pulling Louise further into himself and pushing his face close enough to hers that she could feel that his beard was wet, “by repeating that, in my view, this lovely lady and her extraordinarily hard-working husband have made this conference one of the most…the most…”, he sought the right word…me-mor-i-able, I have ever attended.”   
He stopped, and waited for the expected applause.  But before it could begin, all eyes went to the window behind him.  To the sound of muffled splashing, two shimmering jets of pale liquid gushed onto the centre pane and streamed down it.  As the entire hall watched agape, the jets wandered from side to side across the glass, then slowly diminished and faded away.   Two giggling voices came through the open skylight.   Clearest and loudest was unmistakeably that of Bob Barrow.  “Hee hee, Jan.  You win.  Phew, I needed that.  Better get back in before my wife comes looking for me.  Lovely girl.  Wish she had tits like Elly Sierpinska.   Hee hee hee.”