Читать книгу The Serpent and the Eagle - Bruce Dow - Страница 3

He observed Dean Tichborne's pudgy face, as the Dean peered surreptitiously into the lecture hall. The thought that crossed his mind was that the old turd was checking up on him, and that was understandable. After all, it was Jonathon Bourque's wont to manufacture any excuse to avoid delivering these obligatory homiletics to disinterested Freshmen who, for the most part, had elected for Anthropology 101 because they figured it to be a snap course, which indeed it was. For Bourque didn't bother to read any of their papers in any detail. He graded the aspiring scholars indiscriminately from C- to B+ so that all passed, but none excelled. Thus for Jonathon Bourque the tedium of having to treat with dull minds was maintained at a tolerable level.

On this occasion, however, Dean Tichborne was about to interrupt a rather lively discussion. Bourque had posed a question to his class. In fact, it was a two part question:"Was the primate sub-species Australopithecus Africans a true hominid from whom man ultimately descended?" Secondly, and hypothetically, "If an Australopithecus were to appear among us today, could such a creature be bred with a modern man to produce a viable offspring?"

Bourque supposed that the unusually animated responses from his students stemmed not from any deep-seated concern over our human origins, but rather from the somewhat bizarre sexual overtones of his second question - a new twist to the Beauty and the Beast fantasy it was clear that further probing of the subject would have to wait. Dean Tichborne, through a series of furiously spastic hand movements, was summoning Bourque to meet with him outside the lecture theatre. Bourque shuffled reluctantly toward the hallway.

“You’re actually giving your lecture and on time too”, the Dean said.

“Where else would I be during a scheduled lecture hour."

"Well, of course," Dean Tichborne stammered. "I do apologize for taking you away from your students. But there is someone waiting in my office for you - a very distinguished gentleman I might add."

"That seems highly improbable," Bourque replied disinterestedly.

“You can imagine my own surprise. He showed up unannounced."

"I'm sure you handled the situation with aplomb."

Dean Tichborne hurried on." You can appreciate Jonathon that we must not keep our distinguished friend waiting. He charged me not to reveal his identity. He wishes to see you privately, and in the strictest of confidence. So let us not tarry."

'I wonder what Tichborne thinks. That by telling me the name of our distinguished visitor, I'm going to start running through the hallowed halls of Trinity College shouting it at the top of my lungs.'

Bourque despised Dean Tichborne. Perhaps despised is too strong a term, since it implies that one ascribes to that person a certain status, albeit a negative one. Bourque saw Dean Tichborne for what he was; a bumptious, fawning toady.

Tichborne's present eminence had much more to do with that seemingly inbred capacity of the mediocre to excel at back room camaraderie than with scholarly achievements.

As they walked along the ancient corridors towards the Dean's office, Bourque smiled to himself, recalling the first occasion on which he had met Dean Ridley Tichborne. It was a faculty cocktail party, one of those noxious "meet the new staff" get togethers.

Tichborne was the presiding Pooh Bah. He waddled from group to group, interjecting himself, and expecting, as always, to be received with the deference befitting his exalted position.

No sooner had Tichborne introduced himself to Bourque, then, from left field, he asked rhetorically, "Are you aware of the provenance of the surname Tichborne, Dr. Bourque?" as if possession of such an odd name were a National Treasure.

To his surprise, Bourque replied, "As a matter of fact, I am."

"Oh! How so?"

"Obscurities are a passion of mine." Following a well calculated pause, he continued, "If my memory serves me correctly, the Tichbornes were of the minor gentry residing in Southampton during the Tudor period. They traced their descent to one Roger de Tichborne, a Knight of dubious distinction, who served under Henry II. The one notable thing that I can recall concerning the Tichborne family is that a certain Chitiock Tichborne, a Catholic conspirator and poet of the Elizabethan period who was convicted of attempting to Assassinate the Queen. He was hanged, drawn and quartered. The year was 1586, I believe. Before he was disembowelled, he wrote a three stanza elegy, quite poignant. It goes something like this: (Bourque proceeded to quote word for word)

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,

The day is past and yet I saw no sun,

My glass is full and now my glass is run,

And now I live and now my life is done.

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green,

My youth is gone, and yet I am but young,

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,

I looked for life, and saw it was a shade,

I trod the earth, and new it was my tomb,

And now I die, and now I was but made,

My glass is full, and now my glass is run,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

To my knowledge, nothing of note has come from the Tichborne family since that day. Now, if you will excuse me, Dean Tichborne, my own glass which once was 'full' and now 'is run' must, perforce, be refilled."

Bourque was quite convinced that from that moment on, Dean Ridley Tichborne bore him the illest of will.

As soon as Dean Tichborne opened the door to his inner sanctum, Bourque knew why Dean Tichborne had been so agitated. The smell of money always agitated Tichborne. The huge man sitting in the Dean's big leather chair was known in all the capitals of the world. The question that flashed through his mind was why Joseph Brown, arguably the world's wealthiest individual would want to meet him for any reason. For Jonathon Bourque, 'enfant terrible' of the academic community, Anthropologist 'extraordinaire', master of a host of arcane and abstruse subjects would have nothing of practical value to offer a latter day Midas such as Joseph Brown. 'Hell,' he thought, 'I’m having trouble coming up with next month's rent.'

"Good morning Dr. Bourque. I'm Joseph Brown." Brown got up from Dean Tichborne's high backed leather chair. Bourque was 6'3" tall; yet, he felt dwarfed. He was standing in front of a monolith, at least 6'7" and 280 to 300 pounds; heavy bovine features were set within puffy, pocked marked cheeks, and bulbous nose. Brown was mid fifties, he guessed, with more than a suggestion of a mid-life corporation around his stomach. He suspected though, that beneath the gut and love handles was a rim of steel.

As if picking off his thought Brown offered, "Three hundred and twenty, give or take ten pounds; and this?" gripping his belly. "Mere window dressing. I stay in shape."

"I believe you," Bourque replied. His right hand continued to feel prickly from Brown's cursory hand shake, the force of which was merely implied.

Joseph Brown’s attire reeked of “conspicuous consumption.”

A custom tailored, saville row, double breasted, with matching silk, Diponi tie, handmade white linen dress shirt, featuring an high Edwardian collar. He was proud to flaunt a $ 40,000 pair of crocodile shoes. It pleased Joseph Brown to know that his feet were clad in the skin of an endangered species.

Bourque looked shabby by comparison: ill fitting cords, and baggy sweater, purchased from the LL Bean mail order catalogue; a picked over polyester jacket, procured at a bargain basement price from Marks and Spenser, was complemented by scuffed slip ons, that had rarely, if ever seen shoe polish.

Dean Tichborne, who had been rehearsing the introductions in his mind, was distinctly annoyed that Brown had pre-empted him. And when he began to stammer an interlocution, Brown deftly and swiftly ushered him to the door, thanked him for his assistance, and shut the door in his face.

“Take a seat, Dr. Bourque.”Joseph Brown picked up his gold embossed attaché case.

Brown strode back to the Dean's ornate Tudor style desk; the elegant casket was secured by a combo-cam electronic lock. Brown keyed in the current code. He snatched up a file folder, opened it, pretending to study the contents for an achingly long time.

The big man then sneezed, pulled out a monogrammed silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and blew noisily. “Dust and mould,” he grunted. “That’s England. An interesting country don’t y’ know. Weird people. Sort of an anachronism-livin' in the past; lost Empire; lost glory and all that shit. Hell, I could buy and sell this piss-assed little island ten times over. But, y’eh still got one thing goin' for y’eh; y’eh got real bright mouldy academics, who know their stuff, particularly when it comes to obscure research, that no practical person would give a “rat’s ass about”, which is where you come in Dr. Bourque. I got something that’s right up your alley; fits your peculiar talents to a tee. "I’m launching a new project. You are to head it up Dr. Bourque. It has already been cleared with the Dean and the Faculty. I may require your services for an extended period of time. Money will not be a problem. Your salary will be $120,000 a year, plus all expenses, of course. That's about four times what you are earning currently."

“I’m not interested,”

"Is that so," Brown replied bemusedly. "But of course you'll join me." Brown pretended to consult his files for a few moments. "You actually detest your lecture duties here. Correct? You want more than anything else to do original research. Right so far? and you are flat broke. Okay?"

“I don’t even bother to read the business pages Mr. Brown; but your activities always seem to make the front pages. So I’ve read about you. Let me see if I’ve got this right: drilling for dirty oil, hacking down great tracks of rain forest, selling asbestos to unsuspecting third world countries or is it fourth world failed states who don’t give a shit if their masses develop lung cancer.”

“You flatter me.”

“Hardly. I believe that you have been quoted as advocating cutting off all aid to developing countries- food, medicines, investment initiatives. In short, anything that would alleviate the suffering of their people. Winnowing the crop was how you phrased it. How very Malthusian of you. Tell me, do you keep a copy of Mein Kamp by your bedside?”

“Jonathon, you got to understand that there are too many diseased, and genetically denuded people on this planet. I simply believe in letting nature take its course.

“Let me enlighten you Dr. Bourque as to what I do for you and your fellow bleeding heart academics, safely hidden away in your ivory towers where nobody farts or shits. The Joseph Brown Foundation For The Preservation Of Antiquities has made possible the excavation of ancient sites from Tulun and Chichenitza in the Yucatan to the lost city of the Incas, Machu Piccho, eight thousand fucking feet up in the Andes. And Pompeii would still be buried under a million tons of ash. Without my largess your precious digs would wizen up like an old maid’s twat.”

“Goodbye Mr. Brown,” Bourque turned to leave.

Brown shook his massive Pit Bull-like head. “No, no, no. You’ve been seconded to me. Dean Tichborne is glad to be rid of you for awhile. It seems that you’re a bit of a shit disturber. I’ve bought your contract from the University. You’re booked to fly into Mexico City tomorrow.”

This final presumption caused Bourque to laugh out loud, a rude and raucous belly laugh. He moved back into the big man’s air space. "Mr. Brown, to suggest that I would get on a plane at any time, for any reason tells me that you know fuck all about Jonathon Bourque. I am absolutely terrified of flying. I don't mean nervous or edgy. I mean 'shit my pants' petrified. Nothing could entice me into an airplane, not even the chance to dig for the bones of Christ." It was Brown's turn to laugh.

"Jonathon." Please give me a moment. "Take a look at this document." He extracted a single rolled up leather bound document from a hermetically sealed container, and handed it to Bourque. "It will only take a few minutes of your time." His tone was placatory.

Bourque shrugged, but spread out the document and began to read.

The whining rev of the engines signalled the take-off. His bowels loosened. He was working on his fourth gin and tonic. His palms were so sweaty, and his hands so shaky that he put his face down to the glass so as not to spill the precious balm. The terror. The moment of lift off. The point of no return. He looked quickly out the window. 'The huge roaring engine seems to be attached to the underside of a long, thin oh so exposed wing by what? A couple of bolts, maybe only crazy glue, or silly putty. Don't think! Oh my God. If the engine falls off, the wing will snap like a twig.' The double gin and tonic disappeared in one gulp. 'How long will it take to die? Ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute. All dreams, hopes, pleasures disconnected; eternal oblivion, not a peaceful dignified exit from a comfortable, drug sated death bed, but a plunging coffin from 30,000 feet, a disintegrating tangle of white hot metal. If my body is recovered, everyone will know that I died of terror not the crash, for they will discover that I had shit my new flannel pants.'

If only I hadn't opened Brown's bloody document.

Tzitzlini begat Mixtli in the first days of 'The Weed People.'¹ It was the time of their tribulation when the Azteca huddled in the swamps by the shores of Lake Texcoco.

Mixtli became a mighty warrior and priest-servant to the Lord God

Huitzilopochtli.

Mixtli begat Nimztol

Nimztol begat Kurikauri

Kurikauri begat Zyana who became the first High Priest of the

Azteca people.

Zyana begat Xzimtzicha.

Xzimtzicha begat Uaxyacac.

Uaxyacac begat Canautli.

Canautli begat he who was named 'Zpitl' the 'Expected One."

It had been foretold from 'the before time' and set down in the sacred lists of 'The Weed People,' and it was written: "Quetzalcoatl, the plumbed serpent, will return in judgement in 'The Year of One Reed.' He will take upon His sacred person, Human form. His countenance will be of unearthly white, many shades paler than ordinary men."

Canautli died. His age was one hundred and twenty years. He died in the year of Lord 1519 - "The Year of One Reed." Zpitl became the new High Priest of the Azteca People - He was the perfect, galvanized instrument of the Lord god Huitzilopochtli. The Transcendent One; a man among men; high above all other man.

¹ Mexixin was the only edible plant which grew in the miserable swamp by the shores of Lake Texcoco where the Azteca were forced to live in the early years. It was a bitter tasting weed - A scraggly kind of crabgrass. Therefore, the lowly Azteca became known as Mexica, 'The Weed People'; this became the name of the great empire which the Azteca established.