Authors: Veronica Melan
He unwrapped the tea pack and a couple of minutes later a fine china cup appeared in front of me, painted with gold flowers on a dark green background and a saucer from the same set. The aroma of lemon balm and some exotic fruit floated in the air.
How lovely!
Once again, I plunged into a pleasant atmosphere of pseudo comfort, brought the cup up to my lips and almost groaned with pleasure, taking the first sip. This tea was fabulous! Pure delicious taste, which only the best quality tea can have, was supplemented by an exquisite collection of spices and sweetness of the tropical island delicacies.
I wish I had a tea like that at home.
I was ready to tell him any stories all night long in return for just one sip of this drink......
“Well, you’ve got your tea now and I want to know why you were winding Greg up today?”
“I needed him to beat me up.”
Now Hulk was looking at me as if I was completely nuts.
“I either misheard it or I didn’t understand something... Did you say “beat you up”?”
“Yes.” I was openly enjoying his confusion. Confused Hulk - that was a show not everyone had the opportunity to see. “Yes, so he’d beat me up.”
“Why?”
“I was trying to find a way to get into the infirmary.”
“Weren’t there any other ways to do that?”
“If there were, I would’ve used them. But this crafty doctor is always there during the day and at night time there are guards hanging around.”
Hulk almost imperceptibly shook his head, as though he still didn’t dare to believe to what he’d just heard.
No wonder. Only a complete moron like me could come up with such ludicrous ideas... Normal people would regard them a total madness...
Despite the late hour and exhaustion, I smiled again. This whole situation would be quite funny if it wasn’t so sad but at least I had the opportunity to enjoy some great tea and Greg still hasn’t made an appearance which was a fantastic achievement in my opinion.
Without saying a word Hulk got up, went to the bar and took out a bottle with a long neck - scotch. He poured some in a glass, added a few ice cubes and returned to his chair.
“OK, let's start all over again. You were spurring Greg on, expecting him to beat you up so you could get into the infirmary. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And do you realise that he could have killed you with one strike?”
“Yes.”
“Yet, you took some risk. So, is there a good reason behind that?”
“Yes.” saying this word for the third time, I recalled a story from a book where one guy would get rid of a vicious curse casted on him by a witch, saying "yes" three times in a row. I wish I was that lucky although there was no hope to get rid my own troubles that easily.
“So what would have happened once you’d got into the infirmary?”
“I would’ve taken plasters, bandages, peroxide or perhaps other appropriate medications.”
“Appropriate for what?”
“For the quarry workers’ palms.”
“What?” blurted out Hulk quicker than he intended.
“Uh-huh.” I confirmed unflappably, slowly sipping tea, “every day I deliver the food to them and every day I see how hungry, ragged and barely alive they are. Their hands are all bruised from the picks and carts, they have terrible coughs and the barracks where they sleep is really drafty. They are so skinny that a slight breeze will make them snap. Is it that hard to provide them with some gloves? Those horrible scars on their hands will probably never heal!”
Hulk seemed as taken aback by my monologue as I was. Whether I was too nervous before coming here or I really was becoming crazy but I didn’t care about being punished anymore. Somebody eventually had to tell to this well-fed owner that not everybody is like him having an easy life in this five-star paradise hotel called “Desert Ranch”, goddamn it...
Hulk was slowly drinking his scotch, staring into my eyes, and I instead of being embarrassed was returning his look with a complete lack of emotion on my face.
“Maybe you’ll teach me how to run my business then?” his voice sounded threatening and he made clear emphasis on the word "my", obviously not used to being lectured, especially being lectured by a “slave”.
“No.” there wasn’t any aggression or accusation in my tone, “I'm just trying to do what I can. I want to help them but I don’t always know how. That’s why I came up with this stupid idea about Greg and the infirmary.
I turned away, feeling Hulk’s scrutinizing look on my face. For a while there was silence in the office and only his mumbling, "I can’t believe this...” hung helplessly in the air.
I uncertainly shrugged my shoulders as if trying to justify my own stupidity.
My eyes suddenly caught a book lying on the bedside table. An unusually thick hardcover and an old-looking book, but... Oh! Is that really?... I suddenly forgot where I was and what we were talking about, I jumped briskly rom my chair and ran to the table, picked up a thick tome and not being able to believe my own eyes, reverently ran the tips of my fingers over the letters repressed on the spine of the book - the ornate letters with an ancient gold serif and tricky interweaving.
“Is that really...” I gasped in shock, “its Tueric!”
Hulk, who didn’t expect to see my leap from the sofa and therefore was a bit in awe, also got up from the chair and was now standing behind my back.
“Yes, how do you know that?”
"Fa-a-ar ... Fa-a-arrming and culti-vation" I slowly read out the name of the book title, syllable by syllable, “God, I haven’t seen this language for ages! But there was a time when I could speak it fluently, if there was anyone to speak with...”
I laughed happily and enthusiastically looked at the book without noticing the amazement in Hulk’s eyes. Only when I heard his voice I left the captivity of memories that flooded my mind and put the book back on the table.
“Well, that’s interesting.... How do you even know about this language? It was extinct thousands of years ago?”
We went back to our seats. I was carefully holding an old book not being able to shake off the delight that penetrated right through me as soon as I saw the familiar interlocking characters and Hulk, still tired but now also pretty intrigued. I knew that the book wasn’t mine and that my behaviour could be deemed as inadequate and almost schizophrenic like but at some point I completely forgot why I was in this office and that I am yet to hear about the punishment for the damaged whips. But at this very moment this folio in my hands was the only thing that mattered to me.
“I studied it. A long time ago...”
I put the book on my knees remembering the day when I first came to the chair at a business school to decide which language I was going to study...
Almost all of my fellow students did not hesitate with their choice in favour of the Vallie language - spoken by the entire northern coast and islands population. And no wonder why. After all, ninety per cent of the trade went to these countries and it would be silly not to business with these highly industrial.
Some students chose Lintian, intending to engage in the automotive industry, and those who seriously considered casting their efforts into the high technology, went with Kyo.
Unlike others I couldn’t make my choice so easily.
My common sense, of course, was telling me to follow the majority and apply for the Vallie course, especially because in addition to the agro-industrial areas there were hundreds of other profitable fields for the development. However, my feet were in no hurry to go where hundreds of other soles had been.
There were a few tables placed around the perimeter of the room, and behind each of them there was a professor surrounded by groups of students but I wasn’t in hurry to join them, since I couldn’t take my eyes off the ancient folios laid out on one of the desks.
Pushed almost into the farthest corner, this desk did not attract any students and the metal spike for pinning the application forms on was completely empty. Behind the desk, busy with reading and paying absolutely no attention to what was happening around him, sat a grey-haired elderly man. As he was reading his white eyebrows were either raising or dropping down and frowning; his moving lips were hidden in flimsy partially dark moustache and a wild and long bushy beard.
Enchanted by the gusto which was written all over his face as he was reading one of the books, I came closer and sat in front of him. I had cleared my throat a few times otherwise he would’ve never had noticed me. As soon as the professor realised that someone was sitting in front of him, he immediately put the book aside, adjusted his rimless glasses on the rather neat nose and politely introduced himself.
“I’m Ralph Wortinghem, a teacher of Tueric. How can I help you?”
His voice matched his appearance - neat, not very loud and somehow heartfelt-sounding.
“Hello, Mr Wortinghem. My name is Shereen and I'm studying at the business and finance faculty. Could you please tell me about what you are reading so passionately?”
“Of course, miss! With pleasure!” the old man gently coughed into his fist, “these books were written by a race which, to my greatest regret, passed away more than a thousand years ago. There is not a single living Tuer left which would now be capable of passing on the knowledge, culture and traditions of its people to the younger generation. And it is undoubtedly an incomparable loss of the heritage of one of the most educated and knowledgeable races ever lived on this planet. Leaving behind only architectural monuments those people were...”
Ralph continued talking enthusiastically for several more minutes and I was drowning more and more in the images my mind was presenting - images of peasants and farmers, great warriors, rulers, and fallen ingloriously in the many battles heroes. I was carried away in a whirlwind of fantasies by the professor’s voice, talking about the past events so vividly and emotionally.
In just a few minutes, I was totally captivated by the books lying on the table, by Mr Wortinghem and by everything that surrounded the mysterious myths he was talking about. From this moment on, I eagerly wanted to learn how to read and to understand each letter, each character that was left by the Tueric people to those who wanted to become the successor and the carrier of the great knowledge and the language.
“But miss...” Professor rushed to warn me, watching my eyes lit with excitement and anticipation, “think carefully and make your choice consciously because what you see now may never be useful and may never bring you any benefit in the future. And business is the area where you have to think about the profit first.”
“Mr Wortinghem” I said, lovingly touching the unknown ligature with my finger, “I dream of opening a women's clothing shop, so I do not need a huge profit to be happy, whereas spending hours studying this language will be a real pleasure for me.”
And without waiting for his answer, I pinned an application paper with my name on the spike.
The professor just blinked, and then he smiled warmly and shook my hand.
“Welcome, Shereen. You are my only student...” he said, looking around the empty room, “and I have to say, am glad about that, we’ll have distractions! And I will finally have the opportunity to pass on my knowledge to someone else, which is great, since I was starting to doubt that this will ever happen.”
After that we said our warm “goodbyes” and I left the room knowing I’d be back in a few days to start the first lesson.
And never, not even once during my study, despite the mocking and the tasteless jokes from my friends, I had ever regretted my choice.
After all, I had not only followed my heart, thus providing myself with a marvellous and exciting reading during the long evenings, but I also had made a real friend who was a well-educated and remarkably pleasant professor Wortinghem.
When I stopped the memory flow, I suddenly got all flustered as I’d found Hulk had been looking at me expectantly all this time. Damn it, I once again surprised myself - instead of providing the “slave owner” of this wonderful ranch with an explanation, I slipped into nostalgic memories. Perhaps it happened because it was very late at night now and I was worn out.