The Professor

59

Chapter 1

The last piece of the puzzle was finally about to fall into place. For the past three years, Professor Dumont had devoted every available minute of his life researching the many voyages of the great Chinese Admiral Zheng He and he was now ready to write the final chapter of his theory about the admiral’s extraordinary journeys. A map locating a long-forgotten lost settlement in Baja had recently surfaced and Professor Dumont was about to obtain it.

Did you bring it? he asked the shadowy figure entering the courtyard of the ancient Spanish-influenced church.

Yes Professor, I would not make you come all the way to Enseñada for no reason at all, replied the gruff but earnest Mexican. Do you have the money, señor?

Let me see it first, responded the professor, probably more abrupt and demanding than he should be in these surroundings. I want to be sure it’s genuine, he said, more politely.

But of course, Professor. Are you telling me you do not trust a humble priest? the man responded, trying to lighten the moment and calm the nervous gringo.

The two men moved their discussion to one of the tables lined up against the inner wall of the courtyard in the rundown church. The priest placed a leather tube on the tabletop, carefully pulled an ancient parchment from the tube, and slowly unrolled it.

The professor studied the map with controlled excitement. He studied the material the document was made from, trying to establish its age. He examined the Chinese characters on the borders and read text written in French and Spanish in the lower right half. He examined the topography represented on the map. Everything appeared to be authentic and from the period he hoped it was from. He struggled to control the thrill of actually seeing the significant artifact on the table before him.

It appears to be real, he said in a monotone voice meant to conceal his excitement.

Appears to be! the priest exclaimed. It is the only map of its kind known to exist. It was stored in our church for over three hundred years. The leaders of the church did their best to protect it from prying eyes; you can only imagine the journey this document has traveled and the story it tells. But we are a poor parish and if the proceeds from the sale of this icon can rebuild our church, we will be grateful.

Yes Father and I can only imagine the debate this map will initiate. We agreed on a price of one hundred thousand dollars; here is a cashier check made out to your church for that amount. You can call it a gift and I can write it off as a donation, he said jokingly.

Thank you Professor, the money will go a long way in rebuilding our little house of worship.

The professor had just turned over a significant portion of his life’s savings to a shady local priest to purchase a document he believed identified the spot on Mexican soil where Admiral Zheng He had landed and established the first colony in the New World, several decades before Columbus set sail for the Western Hemisphere. If his theory was correct, the history of the world would be rewritten and the professor would be the acclaimed author.

He took the prized map from the priest, tucked it under his arm, and said his goodbye. He did not feel comfortable being on the grounds of the church; he liked studying the architecture and history, but he did not regale in the thought of any religious conversations with the building’s proprietor. He quickly made his way to his car.

He opened a duffle bag, inserted the tube containing the map into it, and laid the bag on the passenger seat next to him. He was concerned about being stopped at the U.S, border and having the map confiscated by an overzealous border patrol deputy.

His plan was to leave everything in the car open to the gaze of a border guard; no drug smuggler in his right mind would leave the map lying on the seat while crossing the Tijuana border. If discovered, he would resort to claiming it was an artifact legally purchased from a local church; he did have a receipt from the priest. If necessary, he would resort to the age-old proven method of bribery to secure his treasured map.

He climbed into his little Toyota, fired up the engine, and headed north away from Enseñada. The car’s tires kicked up a large cloud of dust as it sped out of town.

Padre, can I have a word with you?

Yes. The priest responded as he turned to face the stranger who had just exited the dusty silver sedan parked next to the church entrance.

What did you give the American who was just here? the stranger asked.

Comfort my son, the man was troubled and searching for answers.

What form of comfort did you bestow on him?

Answers that would help his soul, like most of us seek in life.

I’ve come a long way to see you and I need to know what you two talked about. What was he looking for? Did you give him the map your church has possessed for all these years?

A conversation between a man and his priest is confidential, my son, I cannot tell a stranger our conversation, said the priest.

The American grabbed the priest by the front of his robe, lifted him onto the tips of his toes and pushed him up against the wall. Listen to me old man, if you don’t give me a straight answer you’re going to visit your God sooner than you expected to. Did you give the gringo the map?

I am telling you the truth. You are in a church, my son, and I ask that you calm down and act respectfully in this holy place.

The priest knew the man was serious. He had turned the money from the sale of the map over to the church elders just a few minutes before he was confronted by this loud-mouthed American and was confident that it was safely in the church vault; his work was done and the church would be rebuilt.

I will ask you one more time: What took place between you two? I don’t have all day to fool around with you, Padre. Phil Simone was about to lose patience with the stubborn priest.

I do not know what you... the priest did not finish the rest of his denial as he slumped motionless to the ground struck in the temple by the right fist of his interrogator.

You did sell him the document you fool and you don’t know what you’ve done! Simone ran to the silver sedan and climbed in, turned on the ignition, slammed the car in drive and depressed the accelerator in one frantic motion.

The professor was so preoccupied with thoughts of reaching the border crossing and how he would proceed to reenter the United States, he did not notice the late-model silver sedan following him for several miles. The sedan steadily gained on the professor’s Toyota and was now within a car length of the back bumper of his vehicle.

Smash! The sedan collided with his car with such impact the professor had all he could do to keep the Toyota on the road as he struggled to regain control of the vehicle.

What the hell just happened? he asked himself. Did I hit something in the road?

Smash! The next hit caused the professor’s neck to snap violently backwards, the fierce collision caused the professor to lose control of the car, which careened off the road and into a shallow ditch. He struggled to gain control of the skidding four thousand pound missile while watching dust and sage bush fly by the windshield.

He was no racecar driver but he knew enough not to rotate the steering wheel or he would certainly flip the car. He quickly recognized he had no choice in the matter because a huge boulder was in his path, he was heading right towards it, and he certainly did not want to hit it head on. He jerked the wheel sharply to the left. He tried to dive onto the front passenger seat as the roof of his car collapsed at a sharp angle, but his seatbelt held him in place. Broken glass filled the interior, dust surrounded him, and he found it difficult to catch his breath while bouncing against the discharging airbag. The car tumbled for what seemed like eternity but it finally came to rest on its wheels facing the direction it had come from in a matter of seconds, enclosed in a thick cocoon of desert dust.

He sat still for a moment trying to collect his thoughts, shocked and dazed from the collision. Dust and debris settled all around him; he could see steam rising from the front of his car and hear hissing sounds coming from the ruptured radiator.

The professor began to stir slowly as parts of his body hurt so badly he thought he might have broken several bones. As far as he could assess he had not sustained any serious injuries, still he knew he needed to be examined by a doctor. As he started to move cautiously, he looked at the empty passenger seat, searching for the duffle bag. That hurt, he said to himself, as he leaned over to grab the bag off the floor.

He pushed against the driver’s door but it would not open. He smelled the strong odor of gasoline and remembered he had filled the gas tank in Enseñada. He frantically pushed harder against the door with a renewed sense of urgency and it sprang open but only enough to make his exit difficult. He limped several yards to a large boulder clutching the bag and sat down with his back resting against the rock, staring at the mangled car.

The car exploded with a flash so intense it caused the professor to look away, the noise was loud enough to force him to cover his ears while he turned his body away from the explosion.

He looked up and saw the silver sedan with the damaged front bumper execute a 180-degree turn in the middle of the dusty road and hustle back towards Enseñada, its occupant certain no one could have survived the explosion.

Within minutes the local police, as well as a few spectators, arrived to assist the professor. He paid a local junk dealer seventy-five U.S. dollars to haul the charred remains of his car away. The authorities took his statement but apparently they did not believe his story about the silver car that rammed his Toyota and issued him a traffic ticket for failure to drive right. He paid a small fine at the police station along with a fifty-dollar bribe to the shift supervisor, an officer who looked like a five star general with too many medals and accessories on his uniform, to ensure he was released in a timely manner with no additional charges added to his case.

He was taken to the local clinic by two police officers and examined. He had bruised ribs, which were wrapped by the attending physician and various small cuts and bruises but otherwise he had come out of the accident in one piece, considering the bone-jarring crash.

The medical attendant gave him a small container of painkillers and instructed the professor to see his own physician when he returned to America.

He left the police station and walked a short distance to a rental agency to rent a car.

Could you recommend a motel? he asked the counter girl.

There is a nice motel just down the street about two blocks from here señor, which is very clean and reasonably priced, she replied.

She directed him to a two-story local version of a Comfort Inn not far from the rental agency.

He did not sleep very well; visions of the silver sedan haunted him all that night and pain radiated from almost every part of his body. He took two of the painkillers and fell back to sleep. He rose early to begin his journey home.

He passed through the Tijuana city limits heading north towards the border; the traffic grew heavier as he approached the border crossing between Mexico and the United States where his progress ground to a halt.

Sweat began to form on his brow as the number of lanes on the highway began to increase and traffic slowed down, eventually stopping. He could see several lines of vehicles waiting to cross into San Diego ahead of him.

He noticed various modes of transportation, including tourist busses, which were being directed to the right, to be processed separately. He saw day laborers, clutching their work papers as if they were gold, lined up on the sidewalk. Several people ahead of him were directed to a parking area and questioned further by the Mexican police; border guards walked between the rows of cars, stopping to ask questions of the occupants. The entire scene reminded him of a war zone.

His heart raced. Should he reach in his pocket and take out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead? Did he have enough time to perform this act without drawing attention? One thing working in his favor was that he was taking an artifact across the border and not drugs. His heart pounded as an officer led by a drug-sniffing dog walked up to his car window and signaled him to roll it down.

Do you have your identification papers, sir? the officer inquired in broken English.

The professor handed him his passport and driver’s license.

Good afternoon, Señor Dumont. Do you have anything to declare?

No officer, I just stopped in Enseñada to meet an old friend for a couple of days. I didn’t buy anything this trip except lunch, responded the professor.

Would you open the trunk, please?

He flipped the switch that opened the trunk; he felt the car’s suspension bounce under the weight of the dog as it jumped up into the car trunk, jostling the car ever so slightly. He listened as the dog nosed around in the confined space, sniffing for contraband.

He heard the trunk close and the officer approached his window again.

Please proceed, said the officer, as he handed the professor’s identification papers back to him and turned his attention to the next vehicle.

Meanwhile, back in Enseñada, Colonel Geraldo of the Mexican Army was receiving an important guest at his headquarters just north of the city.

Thank you for the use of the vehicle, Colonel, but unfortunately during my stay in Enseñada, I was involved in an accident and the car has some front-end damage. Please have the repair costs submitted to me at my office at the State Department and I will reimburse you fully, said Phil Simone.

I’m not worried about a little damage to one of my vehicles, Mr. Simone, I am glad you were not injured and everything is alright. We must talk again regarding the terrorist threat that you touched on, you know I am a friend of the United States and I will do everything in my power to assist you in fighting this threat to your country’s security.

Thank you, Colonel Geraldo, I will be in touch with you soon, replied Philip Simone, United States State Department public relations officer, as he turned to exit the building.

Chapter 2

Paul Dumont sat on the edge of his bed staring at the wall and remembered a long ago time when he was fresh out of college with a recently earned master’s degree in history, just embarking on his teaching career, while he worked towards his PhD. He stood six foot one inch tall, with a medium build, sporting brown wavy hair, and bright hazel eyes.

He kept active and although not considered a jock he could physically compete with many of the younger athletes on campus. The one passion he clung to after graduate school was his love of running; he would slip out and jog any opportunity he could, mostly between classes. At twenty-four years old, he could beat most runners several years his junior; he was known to work out with the university’s track team on occasion.

He enjoyed his new career and enjoyed campus life when he met the love of his life, Laura Giamatte. Laura was two years younger than Paul, five feet five inches tall, slender, a beautiful energetic brunette with gorgeous brown eyes. She was of English and Italian descent with an outgoing personality, liked by everyone she met. She had many friends both on and off campus. When Laura walked into a room, people stopped to gaze at her beauty and when she spoke they were totally captivated by her positive persona. Her large inviting smile was the first hint of the grand personality that bubbled within. She was a graduate student at Stanford pursuing a law degree and Paul used to kid her that she would win every case she tried by stacking the jury with men and just smiling a lot and wearing a low-cut blouse.

They met at a local pub one afternoon after class and became close friends immediately; they dated the entire fall and winter and married in the spring. The two young lovers were living the American dream and loving every moment of it.

He sometimes reflected on his marriage to Laura and could not recall one major fight. Sure, they disagreed at times, but he could not remember one angry exchange.

Laura was born in Philadelphia. Her mother was a warm, beautiful Italian woman who loved to hug people. Laura’s father was a very successful businessman, reserved but still approachable. Laura became pregnant soon into the marriage while she was working towards her law degree.

Paul taught at the university and gained a reputation as a young, intelligent, and engaging professor. The couple was ecstatic anticipating the birth of their child that fall when the unthinkable happened: Laura died giving birth to their son.

The child survived but the professor lost his heart as well as any desire to raise a child, when he lost the love of his life. Devastated, he went from being the happiest man on campus to the loneliest and most disheartened soul on the planet.

Paul's parents had died in a car accident when he was young. Because he was an only child, the state sent him to various foster homes until finally sending him to live with his aunt on her small rural farm in upstate New York. His Aunt May helped him start living again. She raised him the best she could and he lived with her until he entered college right after high school. After he moved to the west coast to attend college, he rarely saw his aunt or his cousin Becky, May’s only child.

There was no one on his side of the family that could take on the burden of raising his infant son.

Laura’s family was supportive for a short time after their daughter’s death but their grief overwhelmed them and they soon returned home to Philadelphia. Mr. Giamatte kept in touch for a while but soon contact with the family stopped entirely. He did not want anything more to do with Paul and the university for reasons known only to him. Laura’s parents would not even discuss helping raise their grandchild; they told the new widower the child reminded them too much of the loss of their daughter.

Paul Dumont found himself alone and feeling forsaken, he was far from a man competent to raise a child. The large quantities of alcohol he began to consume only complicated his problems and kept him from dealing with the reality of the situation. With much trepidation, he placed his young son for adoption and resigned himself to never seeing the boy again.

Thank god for his work at the university, the one constant in his life. His work was the one thing he knew would motivate him to move forward and live again.

He suffered through a prolonged time of depression and self-pity; he was lost in a fog of desperation and misery. Finally, after much soul searching and self-examination, his survival instincts kicked in and his love for his work replaced his need for alcohol. He dove into his teaching and research for comfort and escape. Soon he was winning the accolades of his fellow scholars and students for his knowledge of history; he was admired and at the same time pitied by some for his ruthless work ethic.

His work became the driving force behind his existence and the university emerged as his family, with one notable exception. Early in his career Paul Dumont made a trip to Oakland California to attend a colleague’s lecture at the University of Southern California at Berkley. He sat through the class and provided the feedback his fellow instructor requested and headed back to Palo Alto, or at least that was his intention. He became lost and after several wrong turns, he stopped at a small park near a middle school to review a road map.

The area surrounding the park was economically depressed and the school reflected years of neglect, yet the downtrodden condition of the field did not affect the enthusiasm of youths playing an intensely rough game of football. He put down his map, exited his beat-up Toyota next to the fence, and walked over to the rickety stands only daring to lean against them for support. He watched the coach drill the youths for over an hour teaching them the fundamentals of the sport. When the last child left for the evening, Professor Dumont approached the elderly Afro American coach.

Hi, that’s quite an enthusiastic group of athletes you have there, commented the professor.

The older gentleman kept picking up footballs and putting them in a mesh bag.

Are they any good? the professor tried again.

The man threw the bag over his shoulder and began walking towards the gate to the parking lot not bothering to answer the professor.

Listen, why won’t you answer me?

The man stopped, lowered the mesh bag, and turned to face the pushy stranger.

I don’t know what your angle is, mister, but stay away from my kids.

I was just watching them play ball and watching those kids brought back memories. My son is about the same age and I haven’t seen him since birth. Watching these young men play ball brought back some good memories, that’s all.

We all have our problems. I can reel off about twenty right now. Each kid you just saw practicing has a story probably a lot more heart wrenching than yours.

I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to bother you.

Each kid I coach is a product of a broken home. They are members of a Boys Club that has its headquarters in the school over there. If you want to talk to someone, go over there and ask for Reverend Davis. He’s probably still there; now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do.

Not the friendly sort, the professor remarked to himself. He turned to go back to his car when he saw a light go on in the school. Still, it was getting late and he needed to find his way back to the comfort of his condo in Palo Alto.

A couple weeks later, he found himself back in Oakland, drawn by the memory of the young football players running up and down the well-worn grass of the local school’s field.

He pulled his old Toyota into the middle school parking lot, walked up to the main door of the school and made his way to the office. The door was open and he walked in and addressed the lone figure filing paperwork behind the desk.

Reverend Davis?

Yes, I’m Reverend Davis, how can I help you?

My name is Paul Dumont. I was here a few weeks ago watching a youth team practice football and had a chance to talk to their coach.

The reverend looked up at the well-dressed stranger and examined him more closely with a critical eye.

Robert actually talked to you?

Well, I did most of the talking but he did mention your name.

What can I do for you Mr. Dumont?

I don’t know Reverend Davis, but I understand you are the head of the local Boys Club.

Yes I am.

Do you have a minute Reverend?

Sure, sit down Mr. Dumont and let’s talk. He pushed aside the papers he was reviewing and addressed the professor. Reverend Davis gave a brief history of the Boys Club located in the school and chatted with the professor for a while trying to discover the professor’s angle or establish if he even had one.

Reverend, watching those young boys play ball brought memories of my son back to me. I gave him up for adoption years ago. He would be in middle school now and I have been looking for something that would help me cope with not having him in my life. I would like to know if you could use some help here at the Boys Club.

Reverend Davis listened intently to the stranger and then replied, Mr. Dumont, perhaps we can help each other. I appreciate your offer to help but maybe we need to take it slow at first and forge a relationship that would benefit us both. Too often, people offer to volunteer but after a short period of time and raising the hope of a youngster they become scarce and walk away. Let me suggest that you come here next Tuesday after school around four o’clock and meet some of the kids in our program.

Thanks Reverend Davis, sounds like a good idea. I’ll be there.

Next Tuesday the professor showed up promptly at four o’clock. The reverend led him to the school gym where a rowdy yet officiated game of basketball was in progress.

They watched for a short time and during a break in the action Reverend Davis brought the professor over to the kids and introduced him.

Gentlemen, this is Mr. Dumont, please say hello to him.

The professor learned a few things in the first moments of his introduction. He had trouble understanding the group’s slang, he had no idea how to shake hands the way they were accustomed to, and he was no match for their energy and enthusiasm. He was completely out of touch with their music and how the hell could he answer questions about street life while living on campus at Stanford University. Yet they were kids and they were curious, they wanted to learn and god knows, they could teach him a lot. Soon it was time for the game to resume; he and Reverend Davis went back to their seats on the bleachers.

He sheepishly looked over at Reverend Davis.

Thanks Reverend, I needed that. I didn’t realize how out of touch I am and how much I need to learn.

Don’t be so hard on yourself, Paul, you know your limitations and are not phony about it, unlike so many other people wanting to come down here to the hood and save all these black and Hispanic kids in one week. It ain’t that easy. You learned the first lesson, patience, and I think there’s hope for you. I’ll see you next week.

Thanks Reverend, I’ll be here.

Please, call me James.

He felt invigorated by the contact with the kids and he was anxious to return to the school and see the kids again.

The professor came back the next week and every week after for the next year. He became fond of a young African-American youth, Ron Jones, and signed on to act as his big brother.

Ron was one of three children; he had two sisters and they did not know their father. His mother drank heavily and was away from home for days at a time. When she did return, it was not a pleasant time for the struggling family. The professor tried to supply some stability in the youth’s life as well as be a father figure. He brought Ron to the movies, showed him how to play chess, attended several professional baseball and football games, and he even became an Oakland Raiders fan with Ron’s prodding.

The professor remained the young man’s official big brother for years. The teenager was smart and with the help of the professor he excelled in his studies. He was a terrific athlete and the professor attended most of his games throughout middle school and high school. Ron was a frequent visitor to the Stanford campus and although not identified as worthy of a full scholarship, the professor did help him get admitted to the school and obtained some financial assistance for him as well as arranging a tryout with the head football coach of the Stanford Cardinals.

He worked as hard as he could to guide Ron’s mother away from alcohol and helped her fight her demons but he was unsuccessful; she sank deeper and deeper into the grasp of the bottle. Ron became more independent of her and spent more and more time with the professor; he moved onto campus the second semester of his freshman year, living in an on campus dormitory.

Ron was a good student; he worked at it and became an important member of the Stanford Cardinals’ very successful football team. He majored in history with a concentration in sociology. Ron’s relationship with the professor grew throughout the years and they remained close while Ron continued his college education.

Chapter 3

Professor Dumont hustled across the quad, breaking into a brisk walk scuffing his worn loafers on the cement walkway, oblivious to the scent of fresh cut grass emitting from the manicured lush green lawns bordering the walkway. He glided between the long shadows cast by the towering palm trees. Straight ahead of him stood his destination, the administration building, a large Spanish-styled structure on the campus of Stanford University that dominated the horizon.

He leaped up the expansive front steps and opened the large wooden doors to the building, turned right into the rotunda and proceeded down a wide, wood-paneled hall lined with bulletin boards announcing various activities taking place on campus as well as being the focal point for real estate opportunities on and off campus. He turned right again and with his free hand threw open the door to the great conference room, clutching several loose manila folders under his left arm.

He stumbled as he approached the podium and spilled his files on the slightly angled podium standing before him, dumping the contents of one of the folders on the marble floor. It wasn’t that he was unfamiliar with the process or unprepared, after all this was academia and this nervous semi-organized chaos was how the illustrious professor approached his work.

Good morning Dean Muller and members of the committee, he began in the most sincere tone he could muster knowing he was about to plead for thousands of dollars of assistance to allow his project to go forward.

He was well prepared for the presentation; he needed this request to be granted. It was imperative to publish another successful paper and this would be his greatest report to date. He had his eye on the department head position and the successful completion of this expedition would guarantee his promotion and secure his place among his peers as one of the