“Uncle,” Felicity’s voice ever so subtly shifted up from the easy unguarded tone only his favourite niece would use to assure him that all was as it should be to the higher plateau where more serious business is done. “Remember I had told you I was seeing someone,” she asked, waiting for his short grunt, “well he is quite a brilliant go-getter and will be applying to the local b-school here. You probably know it.”
“Of course I do,” he growled, “everyone knows it. We employ a whole bunch of their grads. We send recruiters there every year. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’m sure he could get in on his own merit, but I would feel a lot easier if you could write him a reference letter. I would really want him to get in this coming semester. I’ve a good chance of getting a position at the University of Montreal next year and if he finishes by then I could come back with him. What do you think?”
“You know I’ve always trusted your judgment. If you say he’s good, then that’s good enough for me. I’ll go one better and have my assistant telephone the Provost’s office to make a personal recommendation. I doubt there will be a problem. Hey, George W. Bush made it into Yale, anything’s possible.”
“Love you. Bye.”
It had been almost two years since the serendipitous run in with Jacques and in that time Abelard had acquired all the basics he would need for b-school. He had also spent every spare moment learning hand-to-hand combat techniques from Oliver. He had the instincts of a warrior and anything to do with fighting came easily and naturally to him. Discipline was second nature and he would undertake any task, arduous as it might be, if he felt that he needed to master it. And after watching Oliver in action he quickly understood he must have that talent. Practice meant receiving hard, injurious blows that made it appear as though Abelard was in a permanent state of physical abuse, fresh welts and cuts about his head a common sight. But Abelard did not seem troubled by the damage. Oliver was not surprised since somewhere in his past Abelard had been very regularly slashed, punctured and bludgeoned, as he recalled from the multiple disfiguring scars he had seen on much of his body.
Oliver had with little effort gotten quite accustomed to the rigors of life in a French Chateau town within an hour’s drive to Burgundy and Champagne. So much so that he extended his tenure at the local hospital for another year. As to satisfying the demands of the flesh, all his early anxieties were for naught. True, he could not say with certainty whether he actually acquired a mistress to tide him over or was himself the innocent plaything of the intensive care nurse whose husband was on the road much more often than on his wife. Who cares, he reasoned, the arrangement was to his liking and, apparently, traditionally French. Oliver was altogether too respectful to ever wish to tamper with local custom.
Towards the end of the fourth year, Abelard had successfully received his MBA and they made arrangements to return to Montreal where Felicity would be taking up a tenure track position at the University of Montreal. No one, except Abelard perhaps, could foresee the turmoil gathering like locusts around a fat land.
They would have to fly, which did not loom as a major issue. Abelard had a complete familiarity with air travel although, since waking up, he had actually never flown. He had listened to airline case studies at business school; seen countless aircraft of all shapes and sizes flying overhead; been to the airport to fetch Oliver and; visited an air show where he toured all manner of flying machine.
At Charles De Gaulle, they checked in, made their way to the gate and uneventfully passed through security with Abelard no less impassive than he would be in any other circumstance. Felicity had booked in business class, where she knew the engine noise and vibration, which could be very worrisome to a skittish traveler, were less apparent than in steerage. She did have some, albeit very small, concern for Abelard’s reaction first time flying. She recalled his initial unease with the automobile. She also thought it best that Abelard have the window seat, so that his brain would have the visual input to confirm the motion it would already be processing. Otherwise he might become air sick and throw up or, worse, panic and try to run.
Abelard heard the engines revving, felt the vibrating airframe as the noise grew louder. He was soon feeling control slipping away. Then the g-forces thrust him back into his seat as the huge, lumbering jet lurched forward and accelerated to speeds he had never before experienced. No matter how many times he had rehearsed in his mind for this moment, he had mostly failed to convince himself that something the size of a medium sized building, lying on its belly, would actually take to the air. As the aircraft sped down the runway, he was sure they would never become airborne. Felicity bit her lip to suppress the pain she felt in the hand Abelard was gripping with panic strength. She hoped that the small bones around her knuckles would come through this intact. Then it happened, the lumbering, creaking, whining craft took to the air. Abelard went completely pale and he clenched his eyes tightly shut. It was as though he was waiting to be struck by a killing blow, his head swiveled to the side and both his arms were raised to protect him. For Felicity this came as a relief since the pain in her all but mangled hand had by then long passed its threshold.
*
The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 40