Barkley Bohner, Celebrity Philosopher

Chapter 32

"Barkley Bohner!"

"Not so loud." I hissed.

"Of course, Barkley Bohner!" 

I had just returned to my cabin. An earnest young man with a moth-eaten mustache, toting a backpack and water bottle, was waiting outside.

"Stay right there," I instructed, leaving him on the doorstep. 

I stepped inside and picked up my land line phone. "Moosh," I said. "What's going on?"

 "Harvey," he said. "How's it going? You like the quantum Bohnerologist?"

Quantum Bohnerologist, of course, right. "Where did you find him?" I asked. 

"MIT. Postgrad student. Couldn't find any PhDs on such short notice." 

"Thanks." I signed off and let my guest in. Charudutta  was his name – Chard, for short – from Mumbai. 

"Barkley Bohner!" he exclaimed, pumping my arm furiously. "Professor Bohner! I am so honored."

"Just call me Harvey," I said.

"Yes, of course, Professor Bohner. This is such a great honor, me, working with Barkley Bohner."

Yeh, right, right.

"My father, he will be so happy. My mother, she will be so happy. My uncle, he will be so happy. My older brother, he will be so happy …" 

"Well, I'm very glad …" 

"My fiancée, she will be so happy. My fiancee's father, he will be so happy …" 

"Right, right, got you."

"Maybe now, everything will be alright."

Huh? 

I directed Chard to the living room. Same rustic setup as my bedroom – exposed joists and rafters, slatted pitched ceiling. Chard set down his backpack and we both sat down at the table with my laptop and faux Ruthegonian doily. All this is normal, I told myself. Completely normal.

I gestured it was okay for Chard to have a drink from his water bottle. He gulped. I gave him the go-ahead to speak:

It was a familiar story: Smart Indian boy makes his family proud, wins a scholarship to MIT, makes his family even more proud, receives postgrad fellowship, his family is walking on air.

It's fairly obvious an Apple or Google will snap him up at a stratospheric starting salary, or maybe he will start up his own Apple or Google, or maybe he will go into academia and win a Nobel Prize. On the strength of all that, his parents have arranged a marriage to a certain Purnima, daughter of mercantile royalty.

"Do you love this woman?" I asked. 

"With my whole heart," he replied. 

"Is she still in India?" 

"Yes, Professor Bohner." 

"Do you see her often?" 

"I never met her. Oh, I miss her terribly." Suddenly he was sobbing a flood of tears into his moth-eaten mustache.

This was a bit awkward. "Let me see if I got this right," I said in a calm voice. "You never met Purnima, whom you love very much."

"That is right, Professor Bohner."

 "Harvey, please."

"Right, Professor Bohner."

HOO-HA! HOO-HA! 

I ran to the window. Just outside, along the path toward Aspen Lodge, eleven or twelve very fit men in olive drab tee shirts and fatigue pants were jogging in step, performing what looked like power lifts with their automatic weapons.