Another time, another place (Chapter 1 – Part 1, the beginning of the end)

The End

Chapter One – Part one

It was the last day. The lecture hall was packed. It was not because the students were eager to say goodbye to their teacher. The last class the week before would have been enough for them. He hadn’t given them much of a choice. He had asked for a parting gift in the form of a few pieces of scribbled paper.

In a few minutes, their allotted time would be over. Soon, they would be free for a few months. The fastest were already leaving.

After three hours, the large auditorium had taken on a subtle student smell. It was also quite warm – no air conditioning in these old buildings. The teacher was a bit sleepy. He always was when he had to proctor an exam. Still, no one ever cheated under his watch. He had quite a reputation. There were talks of a secret technique that he had developed to keep a close eye on would-be cheaters. It involved showing a blatant lack of concern for what was going on. Some thought that he staged the whole thing, even the dozing, to fool them. It was an ambush. A predator, waiting for his prey’s second of inattention and then pouncing.

Indeed, he would sometimes come out of his torpor, always at the exact moment when a brave (or reckless) student tried to sneak out a cheat sheet. He wouldn’t say a word. He would just stare at the student with a blank face. And the wannabe scoundrel would put the little piece of paper back where it came from.

These little episodes reinforced the ambush theory. The truth was a little different. Every single time he noticed suspicious behavior, it was pure luck. It never ceased to surprise him. Of course, he never deemed it necessary to dispel the conspiracy theories that circulated about him on campus. He had grown to like this reputation of the stealth hunter that the student body had given him over the years.

This teacher is… me… Guillaume Trabarel, 48 years old, Associate Professor of Contemporary Literature at the Sorbonne. You may also know me from my bestselling novels, and I’m not exactly sure why I started talking about myself in the third person.

The chime rang. About time, I was actually starting to fall asleep. Most of the students barely acknowledged me as they turned in their essays. A few wished me the most wonderful things in the world. Not unusual at this time of the year, when I’m about to decide their final grades. A handful actually meant those kind words. Yes, sometimes it happens.

I was starting to pack when I noticed one last student in the room. I couldn’t remember seeing her before. And I pride myself on knowing the faces of my students. Yes, even the ones who only grace me with their presence a few times a semester.

She walked down the stairs in my direction, not in a hurry. As she got closer, I noticed, not the purple ends of her dark hair, but her chest. Uh. Sorry, that didn’t come out right. I meant the little badge on the lapel of her jacket. Round, black, without any writing on it whatsoever. I was still looking at it when she put her exam on the desk. Then, she walked out the door, but not before a wink and a smile.

“Um… Thanks…”

*****

Spring was coming to an end, and the sun was finally out. In the Luxembourg Gardens, flowers were blooming, children returning from school were running after each other, lovers were cuddling on public benches, and the birds were singing. It almost made you forget the crowded and noisy city that surrounded the park. Back at home, rue de Fleurus, I left my things on the kitchen counter, poured myself some orange juice, and opened the mail. My publisher confirmed that A Long Rest, my next novel, would be published in September. He also informed me of the sales figures for The End, the previous book, which had just been released in paperback. My bank statement confirmed his words.

Marie would be back soon with the kids. If I wanted to take a look at the exams in a quiet environment, the apartment would not be the best place. I vowed to spend the whole weekend with them to make up for this escapade.

Down the street, I ran into an old British rock star. He was quite famous in the ’90s before he left the spotlight and moved into the neighborhood. We met at a party at Fred’s. Unfortunately, we never became more than vague acquaintances. We nodded at each other and went our merry way without striking up a conversation. I’d like to get to know him better one of these days. I was a bit of a fan back in the day.

 

 

At the Café de Flore, I ordered an espresso and opened the newspaper. A minute later, François, my favorite waiter, brought the coffee and some chocolate.

“Anything important? I haven’t had the time to read it yet,” he asked.
“Nothing new, it’s all about the presidential election.”
“Do you think Schmidt is going to be re-elected?”
“Do you have any doubts?”
“No, not really. I got my nice raise three months ago, just like he promised. He’s getting my vote. You’d have to be insane not to want to keep him in power. Have things ever been better? I wasn’t even born the last time nobody had to worry about unemployment!”
“You’re right, I don’t remember such a time either. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wins without a runoff. Even most of Britain is ready to vote for him instead of Taylor.”
“What a whacko, that one! To build his entire political career on pushing his country to secede from the Union, and then run for President of the Union? What kind of nonsense is that?”
“Well, you know, the election is always a good opportunity for some fringe idiots to get more visibility.”
“Right. Anything in the international news?”
“Hmm… Let’s see… – I flipped through a few pages. – China has signed into law the reform allowing multiple political parties and greater regional autonomy. Some people are starting to talk about a ‘Great Leap Forward to Democracy’.”
“And in the US?”
“Nothing special. President Ramos has announced that her second term will focus on greater cooperation with the international community. She even talked about reparations to many of the countries that America has wronged in the past.”
“Does that sound realistic to you?”
“Could be. She’s already fixed a lot of her country’s structural problems in her first term. And the Republicans are caught up in so much infighting that they’ve basically been neutered.”
“Who would have thought that the United States could still surprise us, huh? OK, I gotta go, some new customers arrived.”
“Talk soon.”
“Yep.”

I sometimes wondered if I was the only one who was not quite used to hearing only good news these days. I doubted it. I didn’t hear anyone complaining.

Once the newspaper was read and closed, it was time to start looking at these exams. I wasn’t going to actually grade them for a few days. I just liked to peek at their contents when the ink was barely dry. Not sure why. It was a way of preparing myself for the extremely unpleasant task of grading the final essays.

The paper from the girl with the purple hair was at the top of the pile. It was written in purple ink. There was no name or student number. Usually, these are graded separately for administrative reasons, but I was curious to know who she was, or at least what she had to say.

The first page blew me away. Her phrasing! Her argument! Her style! She even cited sources, in an in-class essay! Most students have trouble doing that, even when writing at home and with the help of the Internet. She was without a doubt one of the best students I have ever had! Well, I still wasn’t sure if she really was my student.

On the second page, one big single sentence ran across the paper:

 

I AM BECOME DEATH

THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS

 

I sat up in my chair and put the essay back on the pile. A chill ran through my entire body.

How long had it been? Fifteen years? Twenty? More? No idea.

I never thought I’d see that sentence again.

I had done everything I could to make sure I never saw it again.

Something must have gone really wrong somewhere.

 

(to be continued)

 

 

Picture Sources : Sorbonne, Café de Flore