Having Professor Magdelinskas for Dinner - Part I
The idea for this short story first came to me almost 20 years ago. As it turns out, although the idea stuck with me through all those years, I now realize I needed to age about 20 years in order to actually write it. And now that I've started writing in a serious way, the concept came right back up to the top. The characters took shape and had a voice with very little effort on my part. I hope you enjoy it!
7/26/18: This has been revised. No sentences added, removed, or moved. The edits were simply word choice changes or copyediting.
Part I
Jonathan peered through his rain-streaked windshield as he approached the mansion of his old professor, a home he had not seen in almost six years at this point. Even in the dark and the rain, the enormous three-trunk maple behind the wrought-iron fence to the right of the gate was unmistakable. Now, in late fall, most of limbs were stripped bare of leaves. Still, he had no trouble remembering what it looked like on that warm spring day so long ago, when he was a college senior about to be thrust out into the world.
Driving through the two stone posts and the open iron gates, he hoped he’d find parking as close to the main entrance as possible; the relentless rain he’d been driving in had begun almost as soon as he crossed the border into Massachusetts and showed no signs of slowing. As he drove along the oval shaped drive, past the small portico, he saw that most of the first floor was lit up and several rooms on the second floor had lights on as well. Rounding the curve, away from the building, he saw three other cars parked off the gravel roadway at an angle. He drove just past the last one and parked next to it.
Shutting off the engine, he stayed in the car for a moment, just listening to the rain pinging off the roof. His mind started to race, with memories of Professor Magdelinskas, Prof Mag as most students called him, with questions about how he got this invitation, and of course curiosity about who else was here. The invitation, on expensive, embossed paper, had appeared in his mailbox several months before. He presumed this was to ensure all the invitees had time to make arrangements for this one evening. Jonathan recalled the instructions and, given their detail and their commanding tone, assumed they had to have been written by Prof Mag before he died.
You are cordially invited and your attendance is expected
at a final dinner in honor of Professor Jeremy S. Magdelinskas.
You are one of five invitees and discretion regarding this invitation is expected.
Anyone unable to attend will receive no other information.
Please RSVP Edward P. Salimbene, Esq. at your earliest convenience.
The flash of another set of headlights coming through the gate jolted him back to the present and Jonathan jumped out of the car and dashed across the small ellipse to the portico just as a cab started to approach the steps. Rather than risk any awkward introduction standing there in the rain, Jonathan rang the doorbell and hoped someone would answer right away. He hesitated, wondering if he should just let himself in, as he had so many times before when he came here as an undergraduate. Before he could act on the impulse, the door opened, revealing an older gentleman. And, ‘gentleman’ was the only appropriate word to describe him, given his suit and bearing.
“Mr. Thibodeaux, I presume,” the man said, more as a statement rather than a question. He gestured with one arm and stepped back to allow Jonathan to enter. “I shall wait here for our other guest. Please, go to the Parlor where Ms. Nugent will take your coat and you will find refreshment.”
Jonathan thanked the man, whom he now guessed had to be Mr. Salimbene, and without having to ask directions, turned to the right and went through the entryway from the foyer to the Parlor. It was well lit which kept the otherwise dark hunter green walls from feeling oppressive. Just as he’d said she would, a small portly woman dressed in the kind of faux tux common to banquet hall serving staff stepped forward, “Your coat, sir?” Jonathan nodded and wriggled his way out of his jacket, trying not to scatter water all over the rug, still ornate but more threadbare than he remembered it.
As he did so, he noticed two other people standing in front of the large roaring fire, both of whom were already holding a cocktail. They turned from their conversation to look at him. Although neither smiled, they didn’t appear to be hostile. The man had a trimmed beard and appeared to be in his 40s though that may have just been his tweed jacket and corduroy pants aging him more than he might be. The woman had an indeterminate age; she was more than 30 and less than 60. Her black knee-length dress, gray shawl, and what appeared to be a moonstone necklace gave her a sophistication that made Jonathan nervous.
“Beverages are available,” Ms. Nugent said, gesturing to the table that was situated against the wall to the left of the man and woman. She turned and exited through a door in the back of the room with his coat.
Approaching the table, Jonathan decided he might as well dive right in. “There has to be some ice-cold Bombay Sapphire gin here somewhere or it’s not a true Professor Mag party!” he said as he picked up a glass and laughed somewhat too loud. Although they gave him a wan smile, they didn’t show any interest in taking the bait. Sparing him any more awkwardness, the front door opened again, drawing their attention back to the front of the room. Jonathan took the opportunity to throw three olives into a martini glass and to find the bottle of gin he knew would be there. ‘No vermouth to even bother with of course,’ he muttered to himself as he poured. Taking a quick sip, he too turned around to see who the next arrival was.
A girl, well a woman but by just a few years, entered the room, also taking off a damp raincoat as Jonathan had. Jonathan was relieved to have someone closer to his own age now present. With perfect timing, Ms. Nugent re-entered the room to take her coat and gestured to the table, this time just saying, “Please, help yourself.” Smoothing her dark red dress, she approached the table.
“Please tell me there’s some Ardbeg here,” the young woman said, with the assurance of someone who knew, not only her Scotch whiskey, but could handle the serious stuff as well.
With that, Jonathan again felt like he was somewhat the odd one out but decided he didn’t want to miss the chance to ally himself with her. “There was Bombay Sapphire so I wouldn’t be surprised!”
She glanced in his direction and laughed. Jonathan felt his cheeks flush. Her laugh wasn’t friendly. It had a more dismissive tone to it. He glanced at the older man and woman to see if they’d picked up on this as well and caught the woman tightening her lips and the man arching a single eyebrow.
“There it is!” she chirped as though finding a lost earring. Jonathan took a gulp of his martini.
Speaking for the first time since Jonathan had arrived, the older man speculated, “Since I have no doubt Dr. Magdelinskas left precise instructions for this evening, and there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t have, I believe every guest is going to find exactly what he, or she, would prefer to drink tonight.”
The young woman dropped a single ice cube into a glass and started to pour. Having given herself a serious amount, she turned around to the group, raised her glass, and said, “To Dr. M.” They all raised their glass, but without saying anything else or touching glasses, everyone took a healthy swallow.
It crossed his mind that at this rate, Jonathan would be getting quite drunk and quite soon. As though she were the hostess who had arrived late to her own party, the young woman extended a hand first to the man saying, “So sorry, I’m Claudia. And you are…?”
“John. John Smith,” he said grasping her hand. “And this is…,” he began, turning to the woman next to him.
“Georgiana Charlton,” she cut in.
“Although Dr. Magdelinskas called her ‘Georgey’,” he added with a smirk. The glare she gave him was withering but he paid no attention to her. “And you are…?” he continued, turning to Jonathan.
Feeling on the spot after having felt like he’d been ignored since walking in, Jonathan stared back for a moment before stuttering, “Jon…Jonathan…Thibodeaux.” As soon as it left his mouth, he realized his accent slipped out. He now regretted drinking as much as he had in such a short period of time.
“Cajun, n’est-ce pas?” John asked.
Jonathan’s face flushed, and as the heat rose under his collar, he felt like he was back in Professor M’s office, a freshman just trying to get his advisor’s approval for his course selection but instead was getting the third degree from this intimidating, urbane, and well-known anthropology professor. “Yes,” he conceded at last.
“You’ve surely heard of this one then,” John said grinning. Affecting a Cajun accent, John starts, “Boudreaux tells Thibodeaux, ‘The car got water in the carburetor.’ Thibodeaux asks him, ‘How know that, you?’ Boudreaux says, ‘Cause it’s in the bayou!’,” John finished, laughing before taking another swig of his drink and then realizing his glass was now empty. Thankfully, he turned away from Jonathan to refill his glass.
Georgiana, still icy but now appearing more sympathetic, explained to Jonathan, “John fancies himself an amateur anthropologist having written his thesis on Cajun/Creole culture.”
John spun around, glass refilled, and said, “I did also do graduate work in anthropology, Georgiana.”
“Started graduate work. Started,” she clarified.
“I can’t help that I grew out of that delusional thinking. It was bound to happen once I was no longer under Professor M’s….Dr. Magdelinskas’ spell. How long did it take you, eh?” he snapped back.
“No need to re-live ancient history, John. And no need to bore the children here,” she fumed as though Jonathan and Claudia were young enough to be her own children. Jonathan, reappraising her, realized that might be possible.
Claudia, scowling at the insinuation that she was a child, said, “Oh no, believe me. I’m quite interested to hear more.”
Jonathan, not nearly as affronted at being referred to as a child, was also curious to see how this would play out but before the conversation could go any further, the front door opened again. This time a gust of wind made the draperies on the windows at the front of the room flutter and everyone felt the extra chill in the air which cooled the rising tempers.
From the foyer, they heard Mr. Salimbene speaking to the newest arrival and Ms. Nugent hurried through the room to meet them. When the next person walked into the room, Jonathan swore he could feel an electric charge crackle through the room. Handing just an umbrella to Ms. Nuget, the man turned toward the group and smiled. The word that flashed into Jonathan’s mind was ‘feline.’ He was of average height and thin. Combined with his thick, jet black hair and brown face, he gave the appearance of someone who was starting to settle into his body but was still on the young side. Jonathan glanced at the others and noticed they were just as transfixed as he was. In fact, Claudia’s mouth was agape.
“Good evening everyone. I guess I make five. I’m Joaquin Aguilar Benavides,” he announced walking towards them.
Jonathan had no idea what possessed him but he stepped forward first and with an outstretched hand, said “I’m Jonathan Thibodeaux.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Joaquin responded, smiling and shaking his hand. It was a firm but warm handshake, putting Jonathan at ease. As much as he wanted to dive straight into a conversation with him, he stood aside as Joaquin turned to each of the other guests. Introductions complete, he said, “I guess I should see what our dear Prof Mag has provided for social lubricant.”
John, repeating his earlier theory, suggested, “He seems to have ensured everyone had their favorite.”
“And so he has,” Joaquin breathed, as he lifted a large, white sculpted bottle with a silver domed top. A spiked plant in gold was affixed midway up the side with some kind of blue designs around it and on the wider base of the bottle. Other than this ornamentation, there was no label. “Sparing no expense…either,” Joaquin whispered as he took the top off the bottle. Jonathan wasn’t sure, but it sounded as though there was a catch in his throat.
Joaquin, putting his nose just above the opening, inhaled with his eyes closed. Then, as he started to pour into his glass, he explained to the other guests, “Clase Azul Añejo tequila.” His accent shifted with ease into Spanish. Lifting the glass up for the group to see the deep amber color, he added, “It can easily run you four to five hundred dollars a bottle in this country.”
Jonathan blinked several times and now thought better of his comments regarding Bombay Sapphire gin. Glancing at the others, he noticed he wasn’t the only one who seemed to feel a degree of unease at this sudden distinction that set Joaquin apart from them. As though to reinforce the point, Joaquin continued, gesturing to the bottle, “Each one of those is hand-crafted by the Mazahua Indians, an indigenous group in central México,” he commented, pronouncing it Mayheecoh.
“Are you from Mex…México, Joaquin?” John asked, correcting his own pronunciation midway. Jonathan caught an eyeroll from Georgiana.
“Haha, no, not me personally. My family is though. And I did some work down there trying to track down my ancestors,” he said with a smile. Again, Jonathan thought, feline. Before he could continue, they all started a little when Mr. Salimbene seemed to materialize out of thin air and coughed.
“Forgive the intrusion, but if you wouldn’t mind following me to the Drawing Room, we can begin the program for this evening,” he declared and without waiting for agreement, turned around and walked back to the entryway foyer. They all looked at one another and, becoming very serious to a person, they nodded and followed Mr. Salimbene.
