"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