Student of Mine

Professor Patrick Nelson looked down on the sea of faces before him and sighed. The first day of his Philosophy class and his students were judging him, these vacant faces no different from the vacant faces the year before and the year before that. And now they expected words of wisdom from him to fill their empty minds. How he wished he could make them go away by magic, disappear forever from his presence and his sight.

 

He picked up a piece of chalk and wrote his name on the board.

“Is everybody present?” he asked, keeping the indifference out of his voice. “I hope you have your textbooks so we can start without delay.”

Rustling papers, scuffing shoes, clearing throats, and a few pencils scraping. Then the door flew open and a tall young man bolted into the room. Out of breath, he paused for a moment, his dark hair tousled.

“Is this Professor Nelson’s Philosophy class?” he asked, addressing no one in particular.

“You’re late,” the professor said in a cold voice. “I expect my students to be on time.”

The young man mumbled something and slid into one of the last rows. He put a pile of books on his desk and took off his jacket. The professor noted he carried an expensive, new, leather-briefcase. There was a smile of anticipation on the student’s face and his eyes were alert.

Is this young scamp mocking me? The professor wondered. 

“Does something amuse you Mister… Mister, what’s your name?” he asked.

“Baranov, sir, Anatol Baranov. I was smiling because I’m looking forward to your class. I was hoping to be a student of yours last year but I was…..occupied.”

Professor Nelson walked to his desk and retrieved his glasses. 

He peered at the newcomer and hesitated. “Any relation to 

Dr. Baranov, the Nobel Peace Prize winner?”

“He’s my father, Sir.”

Professor Nelson took a closer look at his student, continued with his lecture but found it difficult to concentrate.

“Julie de Laperouse,” he thought. “Oh, Julie…” His mind whirled. His voice went into automatic, giving his introductory lecture by rote.

He was relieved when at last he dismissed the class and slipped into his office where he could think. He sat down behind his desk and put his head into his hands. “Did you ever know how much I loved you, Julie?” he asked out loud. 

“Do you know how much I love you still? Not a day goes by that I don’t look at your photograph and wonder what it would have been like if you had married me. And now your son is in my class.”

********

Young Baranov proved to be a bright student. Always with a ready answer and intelligent questions. Under normal circumstances, such a student would have been a pleasure to teach and would have made the semester fly. But it pained and disturbed him to see this student every day. The same brown hair, the same dark eyes, the same quizzical smile. He resembled his mother so much professor Nelson couldn’t bear to look at him. 

One day when he was going through the class roster, his eyes fell on Anatol Baranov’s birth date and he paused. “Oh, God,” he thought. He relived those days by the seaside, the weekend before her wedding, when she said she loved him. 

What happened to us, Julie? How could you not tell me? “This is my son.”

********

Once, before Christmas, he ran into Anatol in the student’s cafeteria where he had dropped in for a cup of coffee.

“It’s good to see you, Professor. Will you sit down and join me? I’m just having my lunch.” 

Patrick Nelson hesitated. “Hmm, yes, I think I need a break.” 

Anatol smiled and pulled out a chair for him. They made idle conversation for a while and Anatol showed the professor the book he was reading. “It’s interesting,” he said. “So much I read in this book is true. At least I think so.”

“Oh, a book of quotations,” Patrick said and smiled. “Yes, many quotations are concise and say what we think or want to say ourselves.”

“My favorite so far is, ‘Of all Sad Words of Tongue or Pen, the Saddest are these, "It Might Have Been.’” Anatol paused. “Do you think it’s true, Professor? Did you pass up any opportunities in your life you now regret?”

Patrick shifted in his chair and glanced at the young man in front of him. “Regrets? I have a few.”

©Amy Thompson. Jan 11th 2011.